All Shall Be Well (12 page)

“Margaret Bellamy.”

“—that Margaret Bellamy was present and physically assisted your friend’s suicide in any way, we would have to press charges.”

“I can’t rule that out. She says she wasn’t there that evening, but she has no corroboration.” Kincaid shifted in his seat and the chair creaked alarmingly. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why mention the suicide pact? She need never have said anything, and I doubt I would have felt uneasy enough to order an autopsy.”

“Shock?” Childs suggested, lighting a Player’s from the pack on his desk and squinting at Kincaid through the smoke.

Kincaid shrugged in irritation. “She was shocked, yes, and probably not emotionally competent at the best of times, but she’s not stupid. She must know the law. And that,” he sat forward in the chair and gripped the arms, “is what really bothers me. Jasmine would have known the risk involved for Meg. I’ve read Exit’s literature—” Kincaid ignored his chief’s raised eyebrows at that “—and they recommend most strongly that one let friends and family know one’s intentions, and leave indemnifying documents in case of suspicion.”

“Suicide note?”

“Not necessarily … not if she wanted it to be thought a natural death. But Exit suggests a detailed statement of intent, signed and dated, in case the death is questioned. We’re not talking about a scrawled ‘just can’t cope anymore’ note. Jasmine left not a shred that I’ve been able to find.”

Childs sighed and gently swiveled his chair back and forth. “And you feel that’s not in character? When people are ill they don’t always behave—”

“You’re not the first to suggest that, but I doubt I ever met anyone more rational than Jasmine, and you could certainly consider suicide as a rational decision for someone terminally ill.”

“Have you spoken to her solicitor? She might have left the indemnifying documents with him.”

“First on my list,” Kincaid said, relieved at the interview’s direction. He knew how reluctantly his chief let go a problem once he started to worry at it.

“I’ll authorize a warrant to access the solicitor’s files. Anything left for the forensics lads?”

Kincaid snorted. “It’d take a miracle, would have even in the first place. The place is clean. There are a couple of nearly full vials of morphine in the fridge, very unlikely there’s enough missing to account for Jasmine’s death. I’ll bring them in, but I doubt very much we’ll find anyone’s prints who didn’t have normal access. If it was murder, it was done very carefully.” He chewed his thumb for a moment while he thought. “If Jasmine killed herself, what did she do with the empty morphine vial? I’ve done a fairly thorough search.”

Childs tilted his chair forward and ground out the stub of his cigarette. “I can spare you a few days, if nothing major comes in. I’ll put Sullivan on this morning’s lot, he’s due for a headache.” The wickedly benign smile accompanying the last comment made Kincaid glad not to be in Bill Sullivan’s shoes.

“Gemma?” Kincaid asked.

“The last time I assigned her to Sullivan I got a right bollicking. Two redheads do not a team make, at least not these two. You can have her for a couple of days, if she’ll put up with you—and mind you, this is only as long as I can spare you.”

“Right,” Kincaid said, standing up to go. “Thanks, guv.”

Kincaid found Gemma already in his office, ensconced in the chair behind his desk. When she started to rise, he waved her
back into the chair and propped himself on the edge of his battered desk. His office decor had never progressed beyond functional—he never seemed to get around to requisitioning more than bookcases from the Yard.

Every available inch of space in the small cubicle housed books. His mother’s book graveyard, Kincaid thought as he surveyed the volumes jammed into the shelves without rhyme or classification. They arrived regularly in the post from Cheshire, always something she had ‘just happened to come across’ in the shop. From do-it-yourself plumbing manuals to Russian sci-fi, they ran the gamut of his mother’s enthusiasms. In her battle for his continuing education Kincaid saw his mother’s disappointment in his refusal to attend university, and he could never quite bring himself to return the books or give them away. And although he teased his mum about her obsessions, one couldn’t grow up with books as he had and not love them for their own sakes.

Gemma closed the folder she’d been scanning and handed it to Kincaid. “Jasmine’s p.m. report. No evidence of puncture marks, so the morphine must have been administered through the catheter.”

“No surprise there.”

“And I’ve been on to the coroner’s office. The inquest is set for Wednesday.” Gemma stood up and brushed some crumbs off the blotter, then picked up a coffee mug bearing lipstick traces on its rim. She’d traded her usual tailored outfit for a long, navy cardigan and a printed skirt in some soft material.

“Quick off the mark this morning, aren’t you?” Kincaid grinned at her. “Second breakfast?”

Gemma ignored the dig. “I heard you’d gone straight in to see the boss. Did he okay it?”

Kincaid sobered. “We’ve a couple of days, if nothing comes in that Sullivan can’t handle. The rest are up to their eyeballs.”
He went around the desk and took the chair Gemma had vacated, leaning back and ticking items off on his fingers. “Jasmine’s solicitor first off—I’ll take that one. I’d like you to go round the borough planning office where Meg and Jasmine worked and see Meg. Find out what Jasmine told her about the legality of assisted suicide. Then interview whoever else seems likely. But first I want you to trace the lovely Roger Leveson-Gower. See what you make of him.” Smiling at the thought of pitting Gemma’s temper against Leveson-Gower’s snide sarcasm, Kincaid added, “Maybe he’ll tell you where he was on Thursday evening. He bloody well won’t tell me.”

Kincaid found the Bayswater address, a ground floor flat in a once-residential townhouse, without difficulty. To his surprise, the brass nameplate simply bore the legend ‘Antony Thomas, Solicitor’. Somehow he’d expected a high-powered string of names.

The receptionist took Kincaid’s name, her dark eyes widening as she looked at his warrant card. Very young, very pretty, very likely Pakistani, Kincaid thought. She glanced at him nervously every so often as he waited patiently in the straight-backed chair. When her intercom buzzed she ushered him into the inner office with obvious relief.

“What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Antony Thomas greeted Kincaid with a smile and a handshake. “Do have a seat. Though if it’s police business I can’t imagine how I could help.”

Kincaid sat in the wing chair angled comfortably in front of the desk and considered Thomas. Another preconception shattered, although why his knowledge of Jasmine should have led him to expect a gruff old family retainer, he didn’t know. Antony Thomas was slender, middle-aged, with a fringe of
dark hair surrounding a shiny, bald pate, and a trace of Welsh lilt in his voice.

“Not entirely official business, Mr. Thomas,” Kincaid began, and proceeded to tell him the circumstances of Jasmine Dent’s death.

Thomas absorbed the tale in silence, and when Kincaid had finished sat a few moments longer, pulling at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke his voice was soft, the lilt more pronounced. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Kincaid. I knew her situation, of course, but still one is never quite prepared. Had you known Jasmine long?”

The question surprised Kincaid. “Not long, no. Just since her illness forced her to leave work.”

Thomas sighed and looked down as he straightened the pens on his blotter. “I knew her a very long time, Mr. Kincaid. More than twenty years. My office was in the same street as the chartered accountant she worked for at the time—Jasmine always had a head for figures. She first came to me over the settlement of her aunt’s estate. What a lovely girl she was then, you should have seen her.” He raised his head, his brown eyes engaging Kincaid’s. “I was already married, with two small children,” he passed a hand over the top of his head and smiled, “and hair, if you can believe that, but I must admit I was sorely tempted. Not to give you the wrong impression—I’m sure the fantasy was strictly on my part. But we did become friends over the years.”

“Did she talk to you about suicide, Mr. Thomas? Or give you any documents stating her intent to commit suicide?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, she did not. I would have been very distressed.”

Kincaid crossed his foot over his knee and straightened the crease in his trouser leg, thinking how best to approach the
next bit. “I know it’s a delicate matter, Mr. Thomas, but I need to know how Jasmine left her affairs, and if she carried any life insurance. I found no copy of a will or insurance policy in the flat.” He pulled the warrant from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it across the desk to Thomas. “I think you’ll find everything in order.”

Thomas scanned the paper, then pushed his intercom. “Hareem, bring in the files for Jasmine Dent, would you please.” Clicking off, he spoke to Kincaid. “I don’t like it, but I’ll give you what I can.”

Hareem came in with the file, giving Kincaid another curious glance from under her lashes before shutting the door.

Thomas shuffled through the papers, nodding as he found the familiar drafts, then looked up at Kincaid with an expression of surprise. “She’s named you executor, Mr. Kincaid. I thought your name seemed familiar.”

“Me?” Kincaid said more loudly than he intended. “But why—” He stopped himself. There had been no one else she had trusted as competent and impartial. “Didn’t she have to inform me?”

“No. But you can refuse, if you want.”

Kincaid shook his head. “No. I’ll carry out her wishes, though it does complicate things a bit.”

Antony Thomas smiled. “Good. Let me give it to you as simply as I can, then.

“Jasmine made a new will in the autumn. She arranged to pay off the mortgage on her brother’s business. Except for a couple of small bequests, the remainder of her estate goes to Miss Margaret Bellamy.”

“Is there quite a bit?” Kincaid asked, a little surprised.

“Well, as I said, Jasmine had a knack for these things. It includes stocks and shares and the equity in the Carlingford Road flat. She and her brother both received a tidy nest egg
when their aunt died. Jasmine invested it well, and she made a good income from her work. I don’t believe she spent much on herself—in fact, except for the disbursements to her brother, I don’t think she spent much at all.”

Kincaid sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You mean financing Theo’s shop wasn’t the first time she’d lent him money?”

Thomas shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no. Not by any means. In fact, after I had helped her settle her aunt’s affairs, she retained me to salvage some of his investment in a psychedelic nightclub. In Chelsea, I think it was.”

“Theo? A psychedelic club?” Kincaid said, astonished.

“Nineteen sixty-seven or sixty-eight, that would have been. I had very little success, I’m afraid, and if I remember correctly, that was the last of a string of bad investments with his aunt’s money.” Thomas snapped his fingers. “All gone, and in a very short time, too. After that, Jasmine funded him in various schemes—he went to art school and she supported him for a while, but his painting wasn’t terribly successful.”

Kincaid found the idea of Theo painting less ludicrous than Theo running a trendy disco. “Have you ever met Theo?”

“A few times, when he came in with Jasmine to sign papers, but I haven’t seen him in several years.”

“Did Jasmine give you any idea how the shop was doing?”

Thomas shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I only saw her the one time after her illness was diagnosed, and she didn’t stay longer than necessary. I found her very … reticent.”

Not wanting to discuss her illness with an old friend, Kincaid wondered, or not wanting to explain the change in her will? “Did you not find it odd, Mr. Thomas, Jasmine not making better provision for Theo?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. She did say something rather
cryptic, now that I think about it. Something about it ‘being a bit late to cut the strings, but necessary all the same’. And then there was the life insur—”

“Jasmine carried life insurance?” Kincaid leaned forward, hands on the edge of the chair seat.

Shrinking back a bit, Thomas said, “Yes, she—”

“Theo the beneficiary?”

Thomas nodded. “But it wasn’t all that much, Mr. Kincaid, only twenty thousand pounds.”

Kincaid deliberately relaxed again, leaning back in the chair and resting his chin on his joined fingertips. “Mr. Thomas,” he said carefully, “does that policy carry a suicide exclusion clause?”

Frowning, Thomas turned the pages in the folder. “Here it is.” He read for a few minutes, then looked up at Kincaid. “Yes. A two-year exclusion clause. And the policy was issued two years ago last month.”

They looked at each other in silence until Thomas spoke, distress in his voice. “Surely Jasmine can’t have planned … she wouldn’t have known she was ill…”

“Perhaps she felt something wasn’t quite as it should be.” The first nagging symptoms, Kincaid thought, and the fear of seeing a doctor. “Did Theo know about the policy?” And, Kincaid wondered, did he know it carried an exclusion clause?

CHAPTER
9

As a child, Gemma had been intrigued by the idea of St. John’s Wood. Pop stars lived there, and television celebrities. The name itself had fairy-tale connotations, and made her think of dark, arching trees and hidden cottages.

The reality, as she discovered when she was a bit older, was quite a disappointment. Ordinary upper-middle-class homes in ordinary streets, rapidly encroached upon by complexes of luxury, high-rise flats. She found the address Kincaid had coaxed from Margaret Bellamy on the phone, and a not-too-distant parking space for her car.

The house, built of white stone with pseudo-Greek columns fronting it, looked expensive and not terribly well-kept. Close-up the whitewash revealed scaly, diseased patches and weeds flourished in the cracked walk. Gemma rang the bell and held her cardigan closed against the wind as she waited. The hollow echo of the bell died away and Gemma had raised her hand to ring again when she heard the staccato click of heels on a hard floor. The door flew open, revealing a thin woman with a helmet of bottle-blond hair. She wore a white denim jumpsuit, the front of which displayed a starburst pattern in gold brads.