A Share in Death (20 page)

“A dangerous combination,” said Gemma.

“Oh yes,” answered Helen, “it was.”

“Was?”

“You don’t know about the accident?” Gemma’s blank expression answered her question. “Tragic.” Helen clucked a little and shook her head. “The old woman took Janet’s car one day when Janet had walked to the shops. Smashed herself to Kingdom Come. She was tanked up with booze and pills, they discovered afterwards.”

“How terrible.” Gemma leaned forward in her chair, ready sympathy in her voice. “Janet must have felt awful.”

“She was sick with guilt. She should have done this, she should have done that. As if she could have watched the old woman every minute of the day. And didn’t he carry on, the grief-stricken son. He never had the time of day for her when she was alive. I went to the funeral, for Janet’s sake. He stood at the graveside, all dignified and proper with a little tear trickling down his cheek. Made me sick, I can tell you.” Helen drew her brows together in consternation. “Why does she put up with him, can you tell me that?”

The question seemed rhetorical, but Gemma shook her head. “No. I wish I could. Has it been long since old Mrs. Lyle died?”

“Last winter. And it wasn’t long after that he came up
with this holiday scheme. Said it was to cheer Janet up, but she wasn’t a bit keen. More likely he meant to impress his boss. Janet said he had to borrow the money to buy their week, and then he couldn’t get a time when their Chloe was out of school and could come with them.”

The little boy began to fuss and pull at his mother’s shirt, having suffered inattention long enough. Gemma finished her tea and began to make leave-taking motions. “Thanks for the tea, and your time.”

Helen North suddenly became embarrassed, the aftermath of too much confession. “I shouldn’t have said … it’s not really fair to Janet …”

Gemma reassured her. “You haven’t said a thing I wouldn’t have said myself. I have a neighbor who looks after her husband’s mum—you wouldn’t believe the things she puts up with from the old lady …” By the time she’d finished her anecdote Helen had recovered her equilibrium, and Gemma took her leave as smoothly as a surgeon removing a knife.

*   *   *

Kincaid stood on his balcony, as had become his habit when he needed to think. He turned up his shirt collar against the chill little wind that played around his ears. The weather, damp and formless, suited his mood.

He was finding it very difficult to accept the idea that Hannah could be Patrick’s mother. He’d never have thought her old enough to have a grown son. And he had seen them together, seen some spark kindled, even felt a faint stirring of envy. Had Hannah seen it as well? No wonder she had been so distraught.

Dear god, what had he driven Hannah to do? He’d
meant to shock her into giving him evidence she might be withholding, not to send her off into some rash confrontation with Patrick. For they were both gone, he’d made sure of that. Hannah had bundled him out of her suite with such urgency that he’d had no choice but to go. When he’d returned a few minutes later to try once more to persuade her to talk, he’d seen from the landing window the flash of tail lights as her car turned into the road.

Marta Rennie, sober and sullen, didn’t know where Patrick had gone and didn’t seem to care. “Sightseeing,” she said with derision. “God, it makes me ill.” She’d shut the door on anything else Kincaid might have asked her.

It seemed to Kincaid that everything he had done from the beginning of this affair had gone wrong. Every turn and feint he made came up blank, shadow boxing with an unseen enemy. He should have listened to Penny. He should have kept his ideas about Patrick Rennie to himself.

He should never have let Hannah out of his sight.

The burr of the telephone sounded through the French door, interrupting his recriminations. He dived to answer it, his life line to the outside world. Gemma’s voice came over the line. “Just what sort of a wild goose chase have you sent me on?”

Kincaid laughed, cheered by the asperity in her voice. “I wish I knew. What’s up?”

“My backside’s welded to the car, that’s what.”

“Angling for sympathy again, are you? Well, you won’t get it from me. At least you’re doing something.”

“True. I paid a call on Mrs. Marjorie Frazer at her office in Finchley, bright and early this morning. She was
not pleased to see me, I can tell you. Very on-her-dignity solicitorish to begin with. Then she seemed to think about it and decide she didn’t mind painting her ex-husband black. Says she had custody of the daughter, Angela, in the beginning, but got tired of playing the villain. Decided that if Angela had to live with Graham she might decide the sun didn’t rise and set over him.”

“I’d say it’s certainly had that effect. I’m surprised Angela ever did feel that way.”

“It seems Mrs. Frazer has changed her mind. Angela got herself expelled from her fancy boarding school last term. Drugs, I’d say, though Mrs. Frazer didn’t specifically say so. Well, enough is enough, she says. She’s determined now to get full custody, deny him access.” Gemma paused a moment. “I didn’t get the impression that Mrs. Frazer particularly cared for her daughter. More angry at him, and irritated with her.” Gemma sounded both puzzled and incensed at such lack of maternal feeling.

“Poor Angela,” said Kincaid. “So that’s how it is. No wonder she’s desperate for any kindness.”

“He doesn’t sound a very savory character. I’ve done some checking with some contacts in insurance. He’s not well liked. A bit heavy-handed, I take it. And there are whispers—nothing concrete—about fraud, some deals that just skate the line.” She paused for effect, and Kincaid waited patiently, having learned that it was best to let Gemma tell a story in her own way. “He also has a reputation for being pretty heavily into cocaine. Do you suppose Angela borrowed Daddy’s stash?”

“Could be,” Kincaid answered, running over the idea in his mind.

Gemma spoke hesitantly. “Do you think there could be sexual abuse involved as well?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” It certainly was, considering the unhealthy nature of what he had seen of Graham and Angela’s relationship. What if Angela had confided in Sebastian? That would account for Sebastian’s venomous dislike of the man. What if Sebastian had threatened Graham with exposure, either to Cassie or his ex-wife? Gemma cleared her throat and he realized he’d left her hanging. “Sorry, Gemma. What else?”

Gemma recounted her interview with Helen North, then added, “I’d say that unless Mr. Lyle has an awfully good job, he might be a bit financially overextended—what with his mortgage and his wife not working and a daughter away at some posh boarding school. Sounds a right prig to me, besides,” she finished.

“Another model husband and father?”

“And devoted son.” Kincaid heard paper rustling as Gemma thumbed through her notebook.

“Where are you?”

“Call box in St. Albans. I haven’t been able to get on to Miles Sterrett at Hannah Alcock’s clinic. They say he’s ill …”

“Hang on, Gemma. I thought I heard someone at the door.” A ghost of a knock, so faint he thought he’d imagined it. When he opened the door there was no one in the hall. He returned to the phone. “Gemma? Must be hearing things. Listen, finish up what you can today and get up here as soon as possible. I feel uneasy about this whole business, melodramatic as it sounds.”

They rang off and Kincaid stood for a moment, debating.
He decided it was about time he had another little talk with Angela Frazer.

*   *   *

Kincaid was halfway down the first flight of stairs when he saw a foot, a woman’s foot in a peach-colored sock, outstretched on the flight below him. A flat leather shoe lay overturned nearby. He skidded to a stop, then rounded the landing as his body began to function again.

Hannah Alcock lay crumpled beneath him.

Hannah lay sprawled head down, half on her back, her arms flung out as if she had tried to break her fall. While part of Kincaid’s mind reeled with shock, another part noted details—her sweater, the same soft peach as her socks, had ridden up and exposed a wide, pale slice of skin. Her ribs, so ungracefully bared, rose and fell rhythmically.

Relief rushed through Kincaid in a sickening wave. He closed his eyes and breathed a moment, steadying himself, then maneuvered into a kneeling position beside her. Although her head seemed twisted at an awkward angle, her color looked healthy and he didn’t think she was deeply unconscious. He touched her shoulder gently. “Hannah.” She made a soft sound and her eyelids fluttered. He tried again, more urgently. “Hannah.” Her eyes opened and she looked fuzzily at him, her expression blank. “Hannah. Hannah!”

A flicker of recognition moved in Hannah’s eyes. She turned her head a little and winced. “What …” She shifted again, feeling and cognizance returning together. “My head. Oh, my god. What hap—” She tried to lift herself and pain shot through her face.

“Careful, careful. Take it easy. What hurts?”

“My head … the back of it.”

“Not your neck?”

Tentatively, she rolled her head a little each way. “No. It seems okay.”

“Good. Can you move your legs?” She flexed each leg and nodded. “Okay. That’s good. No, wait,” Kincaid said as she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position. “Let’s do this a stage at a time.” He slid his arm beneath her head and supported it level with her shoulders. “Better?”

“Yes. I think I’m all right, really. I can feel everything, and move everything.” Hannah drew up her arms and legs again, demonstrating. “God, I feel like Humpty Dumpty.” She gave a ghost of a smile.

“I’m just glad you don’t look it,” Kincaid said with feeling. He hesitated to move her, but after a few more minutes of Hannah complaining about the blood running to her head, he temporized. Slipping his arm under her shoulders, he lifted and turned her so that she sat across the step with her back against the wall.

Hannah moved her head fretfully. “I’m all right. Let me get—”

“Wait.” Kincaid interrupted her. “Let’s assess the damage first.” He ran his fingers lightly over the back of her head. Near the crown a lump was already rising. “You’re definitely going to have an egg, but the skin’s not broken. What else?”

She clasped her right wrist in her left hand. “My wrist hurts like hell, but I can move it.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. I imagine you’re going to have some bruising.”
As he straightened up he found his hands were trembling, and his fingertips seemed to retain an imprint of the texture of her hair and the swelling of the lump beneath it. The reaction would pass, he knew, and he pushed away that first image etched in his brain—Hannah lying still and broken beneath him.

“Now, tell me what happened.”

For the first time Hannah looked afraid. “I was standing at the top of the stairs. The landing door opened—I remember wondering in a vague sort of way why I didn’t hear footsteps or the normal jingly noises people make when they walk. Then I felt a hand at my back.”

“Did you see—”

“No. There wasn’t time. Just a hard shove and that’s really all I remember.” She felt her wrist gingerly. “I must have tried to stop myself falling.”

Kincaid touched her arm. “Hannah, are you sure you don’t know who it was? Not even an impression?”

She shook her head. “No. Why would—”

The front door slammed and they heard quick footsteps crossing the porch. Patrick Rennie came into the hall, his color high as if with anger or excitement. He stopped when he saw them and looked from one to the other, puzzled. “Hannah? Why … what happened?” His tone shifted from bewilderment to concern as he took in Kincaid’s protective posture. “Are you all right?”

Kincaid, his hand still on Hannah’s arm, felt her stiffen. When she didn’t speak he answered for her. “She’s quite bruised and shaken.” He paused, studying Rennie’s face. “Someone pushed her down the stairs.”

Rennie looked at them incredulously for a moment. When he managed to speak he stumbled and stammered like a schoolboy. “Wh—Pushed? Pushed, did you say?
Why in hell’s name would anyone want to push Hannah? She could have been …”

Kincaid thought nastily that for once Rennie’s aplomb had deserted him. “I thought you might be able to—” he began, when Rennie interrupted him.

“Have you phoned for the doctor? What about the police? They’ve been hanging about all day and now when they could be doing something useful—”

“Calm down, man. I hadn’t time to ring anyone. Perhaps—” Kincaid felt Hannah jerk beside him and she said softly, urgently, “Don’t Don’t leave me.”

“Perhaps,” he continued to Rennie, without looking at her, “you could go and ring them now.”

*   *   *

“You seem to be forever making me cups of tea.” Hannah gave a wan attempt at a smile.

“My lot in life,” answered Kincaid from the kitchen. “Born into the wrong era. I’m sure I would have made an excellent ‘gentleman’s gentleman’.”

“You as Jeeves? I don’t think so.” This time her smile was genuine, and it relieved Kincaid to see the lines in her face relax. With Rennie’s help he’d walked her up the stairs and into her suite, where they’d settled her on the sofa.

Rennie hovered around Hannah, obviously wanting to speak to her without Kincaid’s watchdog presence. Hannah seemed to have relaxed since her earlier, almost instinctive recoil from her son, but she hadn’t looked at or spoken to him directly. Kincaid had no intention of leaving as yet.

Rennie gave in, finally, with a return of some of his habitual grace. “Look, I can see I’m not wanted just now. But you will let me know if I can do anything?” He
spoke to Hannah, not Kincaid, and when he reached the door he turned and addressed her once more. “I’m sorry, Hannah.” Kincaid had the impression he had not been referring to her fall.

Kincaid returned from the kitchen bearing a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits. “Teatime.”

“Is it?” Hannah took a biscuit tentatively. “Do you know, I don’t think I had any lunch. No wonder I feel so weak.” Kincaid pulled the armchair across and sat near enough to hand her tea and biscuits. He searched her face as she accepted the cup.