“Tell me what happened,” said Gemma. “I only know what you told Denis.” She’d curled up in the corner of the sofa, feet beneath her, so that she could face him.
He took a sip of his drink, and while his throat still burned from it, he said harshly, “Kit found her in the kitchen when he came home from school. The medics said there was nothing they could do, probable heart attack.”
“Oh, no,” breathed Gemma, shaking her head. “It’s so hard to believe. She seemed so well on Sunday.”
“I
don’t
believe it, Gemma.” Sid put his ears back, affronted, and Kincaid made an effort to lower his voice. “It’s just too much bloody coincidence.”
Warily, Gemma said, “What are you talking about?”
“If you discount all the suicidal trappings, Lydia Brooke died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart failure, too.”
“But Lydia had a heart condition,” protested Gemma. “Her heart failure was brought on by an overdose of her own medication.”
“And what if the suicide was manufactured? What if someone
gave
Lydia an overdose of her medication? That’s what Vic suspected, even though she tiptoed round the obvious.”
“But why? Why would someone kill Lydia?”
“That’s what Vic was trying to discover. And I didn’t take her seriously.” Kincaid finally looked at Gemma, and saw the truth of it reflected in her eyes.
“You couldn’t have known,” Gemma said softly, but they both knew it didn’t absolve him. “This is all speculation. And Vic didn’t have a heart condition, did she?”
“Now you’re arguing against yourself. That makes it all the less likely that she would die of heart failure, and it wouldn’t keep an overdose of heart medication from doing the damage.”
“No, I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted. “But you can’t be sure of anything until the toxicology scans come back.”
“Bloody Alec isn’t even treating it as a crime scene.” Kincaid moved restlessly, causing Sid to stir in his lap.
“You can’t very well blame him, under the circumstanc—”
“I can and I will, if the PM results come back positive. It’s sloppy police work, and you know it.” He glared at her, then seeing her expression, said contritely, “I’m sorry, Gemma. I don’t mean to be churlish. It’s just that…”
“Do you want me to go?”
He stood up, dumping Sid unceremoniously to the floor, and went to the French windows. He looked out onto the darkened balcony, and after a moment said, “No. Stay. Please.” Turning to face her again, he asked, “What about Toby?”
“Hazel offered to keep him for the night,” she said, then frowned. “Duncan, what about Kit?”
“That’s another thing.” He came back to the sofa long enough to retrieve his glass, then began to pace. “No one seems to know how to contact his father, so he’s gone to his grandparents.”
“So?” said Gemma, sounding puzzled. “I’d think that would be the best thing.”
“You don’t know them,” he said vehemently, and felt surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “Oh, I suppose you’re right, and I’m letting my dislike of them color my judgment. But Kit was so… desolate.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have let them take him away.”
“Duncan, don’t be absurd. What else could you have done?”
“We keep coming back to that, don’t we? Nothing, nothing, and nothing! But I feel so bloody useless!”
They stared at each other for a long moment, then Gemma sighed. “I think I’ll go to bed. Leave you on your own for a bit. All right?”
He nodded. “Sorry, love. I’ll be along soon.”
She came to him and laid her hand lightly against his cheek, then she turned away and went into the bedroom.
Kincaid listened to the click of the door closing, and in the silence that followed he heard the cat begin to purr. Sid had jumped into Gemma’s spot on the sofa, and stood kneading his paws against the warm cushion, his eyes slitted in pleasure.
“You’re easy enough to comfort, aren’t you, mate?” Kincaid asked softly. “Maybe I should take lessons.”
Tipping Gemma’s untouched whisky into his own glass, he went to stand at the window again. He saw his own reflection, distorted by the lights in the house opposite, alien and unfamiliar.
CHAPTER
10
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there,
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dews and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.
R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from “The Charm”
Gemma woke suddenly, her heart thumping in the darkened room. It took her a moment to realize that she was in Duncan’s bed, rather than her own, and that she was alone. He had come to bed, though, for she had a faint memory of the warmth of his body, and she didn’t remember putting out the light.
She’d dreamt she was falling—not floating, but plummeting into some dark abyss, and even recalling the sensation brought a resurgence of panic. Sitting up, she focused on the clock’s glowing red numerals. Half past one. She slipped out of bed and groped for something to put on. Her fingers found his dressing gown, and when she’d fastened it round her and pushed her hair from her face, she went out to look for him.
Kincaid sat in the middle of the sitting room floor, amid a sea of
books and papers. He’d changed from his work clothes into jeans and a pullover, and his uncombed hair flopped down onto his forehead.
“What are you doing?” asked Gemma.
He looked up at the sound of her voice. “Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.” His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.
“But what’s all this?” Coming to sit on the edge of the coffee table, she leaned down to stroke Sid, who had made himself comfortable on the largest stack of paper.
Kincaid made a vague gesture at the things surrounding him. “Vic’s manuscript. And anything else I could find that seemed to be related to Lydia Brooke.”
“You took Vic’s papers?” said Gemma, shocked into full wakefulness. “But that’s—”
“Interfering with the evidence? Well, I suppose that’s true enough, and I’ll answer to Alec for it if I have to. But in the meantime, I don’t know where to start.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I can separate Vic’s handwriting from Lydia’s in the loose papers, but that’s about as far as I’ve managed. And it will take me days just to read the manuscript,” he added, his frustration evident in his voice.
“Then come to bed, please,” said Gemma. “There’s no point in any of this until you hear the results of the postmortem. You know that. And being exhausted won’t help you deal with whatever comes tomorrow.”
“You’re too sensible by half, Gemma darling,” he said, sighing. “I’ll be along in a minute. I promise.”
He was as good as his word, for Gemma was still awake when he came quietly into the room and undressed in the dark. His skin felt chill where it brushed hers as he slipped into bed beside her.
“You’re cold,” she said. She turned to him, pressing her body to his, and felt him stiffen against her embrace. Wondering if a sense of disloyalty lay behind his resistance, she said carefully, “I don’t imagine Vic would want you to be alone, love. Why don’t you let me hold you?”
He was silent for so long she thought he might not respond, but finally he said, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid to let go. I keep telling myself that I hadn’t seen her for years—that she had no place in my life
now—but it doesn’t help this terrible sense of loss.” He paused, then added quietly, “I hope I’m wrong about this, Gemma, about what happened to her. Because if someone killed her, and left her dead, or dying, for Kit to find, I swear I won’t rest until I find him.”
The certainty of his words frightened her. Ranting she could discount as hysteria, and offer soothing platitudes, but for this chill resolution she had no answer. And if she, who had only known Vic for a few hours, grieved for her, how could she hope to take away any of
his
pain?
Helplessly, she said, “Don’t think of it now, love. It will be all right,” knowing the words to be meaningless, knowing that things would never really be all right. She stroked his face, and blindly he turned his head until his mouth rested against her palm.
The warmth of his breath and the touch of his lips against her skin sent an unexpected shiver of desire through her, and she gasped a soft, “Oh.”
He took her hand in both of his and kissed it gently, and then again with a growing fierceness. When she moaned, he gathered her roughly into his arms and began to make love to her with passion of such intensity that it might have been anger, and she couldn’t be sure if he thought of her at all.
But Gemma let herself be carried away, and in the end it washed them both into the comfort of a deep and dreamless sleep.
All through Wednesday morning he tried to concentrate on preparing for the Crown Prosecution Service the evidence he and Gemma had gathered on their latest case. But whenever he blinked, images of Vic flickered on his closed lids like the silent home movies of his childhood, and whenever his phone rang he lunged for it in sickening anticipation.
At lunch in the canteen Gemma glared at him across the table until he forced himself to eat for the first time in twenty-four hours. Like Kit the night before, he found himself ravenous once he’d started, and he made short work of steak and kidney pie and chips.
He went back to his office feeling less hollow, but as the hours passed, he had an increasingly urgent sense that he should clear his desk of everything pending.
Gemma had stepped out to the photocopier and he was alone in his office when the call finally came, at half past four.
“Duncan, it’s Alec here.” Byrne’s voice came clearly this time, and Kincaid had an image of him sitting at his massive desk in Cambridge headquarters. “Do you, by any chance, know the name of your… of Dr. McClellan’s personal physician?”
Kincaid knew the truth of it then, and he felt the inexorable weight of his guilt. “What is it, Alec? What did you find?”
“Well, the postmortem is complete, and we put a rush of the tox scans. They showed rather large amounts of digitalis in her blood and tissue samples.” Byrne sounded uncomfortable, as if he found the results personally distasteful. “Was she on some sort of heart medication?” he added hopefully.
This time, thought Kincaid, it was not going to be so easy. “Not to my knowledge. She was a healthy, active woman, Alec, and I imagine her doctor will confirm it, although I don’t know who she used.”
“Damn. I was hoping you might save us a bit of time there. We’ve asked her department secretary, who didn’t know, so I suppose we’ll have to start through her personal records.”
“Alec, I have some of Vic’s papers,” said Kincaid, for he knew it was now or never. “Things relating to her biography of Lydia Brooke.”
“She gave them to you when you were looking into the case history for her?” said Alec, giving him an easy out.
“No, I took them last night, because it seemed possible to me that her office had been searched, and I didn’t think it a good idea to leave them unattended.” This was at least a partial truth, and had the advantage of putting Byrne on the spot. If he came down too hard on Kincaid, he’d have to defend his own negligence in what he could now have little doubt was a murder inquiry.
The silence at the other end of the line indicated Byrne’s awareness of his quandary. At last he cleared his throat and said, “Um, that’s rather irregular, but under the circumstances … I suppose it’s just as well. I’ll need you to return them, though, as soon as possible.”
Kincaid’s office door opened and Gemma came in, balancing a stack of files in one arm. She stopped when she saw that he was on
the phone, then quietly placed the files on his desk and sat down in the chair opposite.
“Tomorrow,” Kincaid said to Byrne. “But I’m not sure yet what time. Alec, about the digitalis—did the toxicologist hazard a guess as to origin? Natural or synthetic?”
“She said she couldn’t differentiate, as they break down the same way. It might have come from one of several different medications.” Byrne cleared his throat. “Listen, Duncan, I understand that this all must be very difficult for you, but you’re going to have to keep in mind that you have no jurisdiction, and no official standing in this case. And I’m afraid that your personal involvement may cause you to—”
“Overreact?” Kincaid felt his barely maintained control on his temper slipping. “Alec, surely you can’t think that now? You bloody well have proof that I’m not imagining things, and that Vic wasn’t imagining things about Lydia Brooke, either. Did your lads find anything at the bottom of the garden?”
Again, Byrne hesitated. “I’ve just now got a team on the way—”
“Bloody hell, Alec,” Kincaid exploded. “Everybody and their dog will have messed about round that gate by this time. What did you think you were playing at?”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Duncan. And don’t bully me. I’ll conduct this investigation as I see fit, and you are just going to have to live with it.” Byrne’s words were dangerously clipped.
Kincaid hadn’t meant to push him so far—he had nothing to gain by antagonizing the man, and much to lose. He took a breath and backpedaled. “I’m sorry, Alec. You’re quite right, and I’m out of line,” he said with genuine contrition. Then he added, “I’ll see you tomorrow, as soon as I can get to Cambridge,” and disconnected before Byrne could admonish him further. He realized suddenly that he was sweating, and in Gemma’s white and strained face he saw the mirror of his own tension.