Spiking the Girl by Gabrielle Lord Page A

fence around it to keep articles from sliding off. They had come from long-widowed Aunt Merle’s master mariner grandfather. Gemma filled the crystal jug with apple juice and carried the tray back out to the timber deck, remembering Aunt Merle who had raised Gemma and Kit after the loss of their parents.
    Despite the still summer day and the hazy blue of sky and ocean, Gemma felt storm-tossed. She bit into a cracker and cheese and went looking for Taxi, checking all his secret hideouts. Sure enough, she spied a lump under the cream and blue damask cover of her light summer doona. ‘There you are, you straight-tailed, orange-flavoured cat!’ She dragged him out and hugged him, wondering if a cat was all she’d be hugging for quite some time. She carried him out to the deck and put him down, watched him arch his back then roll over and stretch front and back legs into star paws.
    •
    Gemma made herself get back to work. She printed out her notes and information on the manufacture of synthetic diamonds and was reading them when she heard something. She glanced up at the CCTV monitor to see Spinner arriving. She let him in and went back to her chair. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come in,’ she said, swivelling round.
    ‘I’ve got that video to process,’ he said, patting the camera bag. ‘And I want to print out a couple of reports. Then they’re done.’
    It was Gemma’s policy to present the evidence and her account at the same time at her office. That way, there was a definite incentive for the client to pay up. No pay, no info. Normally, she’d be feeling pleased about these small successes. Today, however, her bruised heart could not rejoice.
    ‘And I remembered this.’ Spinner passed her a clipping. ‘It was in last weekend’s colour magazine.’
    Gemma opened it out and read. ‘Boyleford Brissett: the legend’. She glanced through it, then put it to one side and went back to finalising her notes and copying them onto the laptop. One day, she told herself, she’d practise doing everything straight onto it. But often a notebook was simpler and easier. She was aware of Spinner moving around in the office across the hall and the printer clicking and whirring. Later, he came to her door.
    ‘Boss, I’m getting some takeaway for tea. Want me to get you something while I’m out?’
    Gemma looked at her watch. The afternoon had flown in the end: it was after seven. She hadn’t shopped for days. She knew exactly what was left in the fridge—a half bag of carrots, the carcass of a chicken that needed burial and a packet of drying prunes. Even the cheese and biscuits were running out.
    •
    When Spinner returned with some takeaway Thai, Gemma smiled and said, ‘Come and eat with me if you like.’
    He followed her into the flat and she put a couple of place mats on the table with plates and cutlery. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the flavours of the food.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ she said halfway through the meal, jumping up from the table. ‘I’m supposed to be at my music lesson!’ She had completely forgotten.
    She flew round getting ready, cleaning her teeth, grabbing her music book. ‘Lock up behind you?’ Spinner nodded.
    Mrs Snellgrove, teacher of the pianoforte and president of the Paddington Historical Society, opened the door with a gentle scolding for Gemma’s tardiness. ‘You’re a naughty girl, Gemma,’ she said, ushering her in, the free-swinging diamond at the bottom of her fan brooch glittering as it moved. ‘That’s twice in a row you’ve been late now.’
    Gemma murmured an apology and walked through to Mrs Snellgrove’s living room, crowded with historic photographs from a hundred years ago, flat irons, kerosene lamps with delicate hand-painted shades and a collection of tin mechanical toys that had belonged to Mr Snellgrove when he was a boy.
    Mrs Snellgrove opened the piano lid, diamond rings sparkling as she patted the piano stool, her late husband’s watch