“I’d better not. I promised my mum we’d visit—she says we don’t come often enough.”
Kincaid heard something in her voice, a shade of worry or aggravation, and remembered how she’d sounded on the phone that morning. Probably some bloke, he thought, and realized how little he knew about Gemma’s life. Only that she’d divorced shortly after Toby was born; she lived in a semidetached house in Leyton; she’d grown up and gone to school in North London. That was all. He’d never even been to Leyton—she always picked him up or met him at the Yard.
Suddenly the extent of his own myopia astounded him. He thought of her as reliable, attractive, intelligent, and often opinionated, with a special gift for putting people at ease in an interview—he’d looked no further than the qualities that made her valuable as an assistant. Did she date (this with a twinge of unidentified irritation)? Did she get on with her parents? What were her friends like?
He studied her as she walked beside him. She brushed a wisp of red hair from her face as she bent her head to answer Toby, but her expression was abstracted. “Gemma,” he said a little hesitantly, “is anything the matter?”
She looked up at him, startled, then smiled. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine.”
Somehow Kincaid felt unconvinced, but he let it go. Her manner didn’t invite further probing.
The blossom-laden branches of a plum tree overhung the walk, and as they passed beneath petals showered them like confetti. They laughed, the momentary awkwardness dissolved, and then they were saying good-bye before the flat.
Kincaid climbed the stairs alone, feeling the afternoon stretching before him like a desert. The red light on hisanswering machine flashed a greeting as he entered the flat and his spirits wilted even further. “Great,” he said under his breath, and punched playback.
The duty sergeant’s voice demanded to know just what the hell he thought he was playing at—hospital had called about a post mortem he’d requested—and if he didn’t put his paperwork through the proper channels there’d be hell to pay. The remainder of the message he added almost as an afterthought, before ringing off abruptly.
Jasmine Dent’s system had contained a lethal amount of morphine.
CHAPTER
5
Kincaid unsnapped the Midget’s tarp and folded it from front to back, then unlocked the boot and stowed it away. He accomplished the maneuver neatly and quickly, having perfected it with much practice. The car’s red paintwork gleamed cheerily at him, inviting dalliance in the midafternoon sun, but Kincaid shook his head and slid into the driver’s seat. An idle down country lanes was not what he had in mind, tourist-poster day or not. He fished his sunglasses out of the door pocket, and put the car in gear.
After he crossed Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid made his way through the back streets of South Hampstead until he came into Kilburn High Road, just north of Maida Vale. He found Margaret Bellamy’s address without difficulty, a dingy, terraced house in a block that had avoided gentrification. The front door was the dark red-brown of dried blood, but its peeling paint showed blotches of brighter colors beneath—lime-green, yellow, royal-blue—testimony to previous owners with more cheerful dispositions. He rang the bell and waited, wrinkling his nose against the odor drifting up from the rubbish bins below the basement railing.
The woman who opened the door wore polyester trousers stretched precariously over her bulky thighs, and a shiny jerseyendured equal punishment across her bosom. She eyed Kincaid disapprovingly.
“Margaret Bellamy?” Kincaid tried out his best smile, wondering if she could hear him over the canned laughter bellowing from the back of the house.
The woman studied him a bit longer, then jerked her head toward the stairs. “Top of the house. On the right.”
Kincaid thanked her and started up the steps, feeling her eyes on his
Kincaid heard something in her voice, a shade of worry or aggravation, and remembered how she’d sounded on the phone that morning. Probably some bloke, he thought, and realized how little he knew about Gemma’s life. Only that she’d divorced shortly after Toby was born; she lived in a semidetached house in Leyton; she’d grown up and gone to school in North London. That was all. He’d never even been to Leyton—she always picked him up or met him at the Yard.
Suddenly the extent of his own myopia astounded him. He thought of her as reliable, attractive, intelligent, and often opinionated, with a special gift for putting people at ease in an interview—he’d looked no further than the qualities that made her valuable as an assistant. Did she date (this with a twinge of unidentified irritation)? Did she get on with her parents? What were her friends like?
He studied her as she walked beside him. She brushed a wisp of red hair from her face as she bent her head to answer Toby, but her expression was abstracted. “Gemma,” he said a little hesitantly, “is anything the matter?”
She looked up at him, startled, then smiled. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine.”
Somehow Kincaid felt unconvinced, but he let it go. Her manner didn’t invite further probing.
The blossom-laden branches of a plum tree overhung the walk, and as they passed beneath petals showered them like confetti. They laughed, the momentary awkwardness dissolved, and then they were saying good-bye before the flat.
Kincaid climbed the stairs alone, feeling the afternoon stretching before him like a desert. The red light on hisanswering machine flashed a greeting as he entered the flat and his spirits wilted even further. “Great,” he said under his breath, and punched playback.
The duty sergeant’s voice demanded to know just what the hell he thought he was playing at—hospital had called about a post mortem he’d requested—and if he didn’t put his paperwork through the proper channels there’d be hell to pay. The remainder of the message he added almost as an afterthought, before ringing off abruptly.
Jasmine Dent’s system had contained a lethal amount of morphine.
CHAPTER
5
Kincaid unsnapped the Midget’s tarp and folded it from front to back, then unlocked the boot and stowed it away. He accomplished the maneuver neatly and quickly, having perfected it with much practice. The car’s red paintwork gleamed cheerily at him, inviting dalliance in the midafternoon sun, but Kincaid shook his head and slid into the driver’s seat. An idle down country lanes was not what he had in mind, tourist-poster day or not. He fished his sunglasses out of the door pocket, and put the car in gear.
After he crossed Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid made his way through the back streets of South Hampstead until he came into Kilburn High Road, just north of Maida Vale. He found Margaret Bellamy’s address without difficulty, a dingy, terraced house in a block that had avoided gentrification. The front door was the dark red-brown of dried blood, but its peeling paint showed blotches of brighter colors beneath—lime-green, yellow, royal-blue—testimony to previous owners with more cheerful dispositions. He rang the bell and waited, wrinkling his nose against the odor drifting up from the rubbish bins below the basement railing.
The woman who opened the door wore polyester trousers stretched precariously over her bulky thighs, and a shiny jerseyendured equal punishment across her bosom. She eyed Kincaid disapprovingly.
“Margaret Bellamy?” Kincaid tried out his best smile, wondering if she could hear him over the canned laughter bellowing from the back of the house.
The woman studied him a bit longer, then jerked her head toward the stairs. “Top of the house. On the right.”
Kincaid thanked her and started up the steps, feeling her eyes on his
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