A Share in Death (8 page)

She pressed her lips against his stomach and blew hard. Toby squealed and giggled with delight as she swung him down and slapped his bottom. He took off around the house, roaring like a freight train, chubby legs pumping, and Gemma followed him more slowly.

Fortified with a glass of Spanish plonk from the fridge, she put away her shopping and picked up the sitting room, tossing Toby’s toys and books in baskets. She had
tried to brighten the place up. White, rice-paper globes from Habitat to cover the bare lightbulbs, rice-paper shades on the windows, printed cotton cushions on the dull three-piece suite, colorful travel posters on the walls—but the damp still seeped through the wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling spread like ivy.

The dull thud of heavy metal rock started up next door and the walls began to vibrate. Gemma fetched a broom from the kitchen and banged the handle smartly against the connecting wall. The noise abated a fraction of a decibel. “If you don’t turn down that bloody racket I’ll phone in a complaint,” she shouted at the wall, even though she knew they couldn’t hear a word.

Then the absurdity of it struck her and she started to laugh. Just look at her—standing there screeching like a fishwife, red hair flying, broom in hand—a proper witch. Still smiling, she rescued her wine from the kitchen, sat down on the sofa and propped her feet on the trunk that served as a coffee table. Toby, unperturbed by the noise, pushed a plush teddy bear along the floor and made zooming noises.

She should be as tolerant, Gemma thought wryly. Ten years ago she would have been right in there with the kids next door—but then again, maybe she wouldn’t. At eighteen she’d been much more concerned with making a different life for herself than in having a good time. She’d stayed at school and done her A levels, watching her friends drift away to take sales clerk’s and cashier’s jobs, or get married. On her nineteenth birthday she applied to the Metropolitan Police. Two years later she opted into the CID, her career advancement laid out in her mind like a map.

She hadn’t counted on ending up in a neighborhood
like the one she’d left. But then she hadn’t counted on Rob James, either.

Toby climbed up beside her and opened a picture book. “Ball,” he said, jabbing his finger at the page. “Car.”

“Yes, you’re a clever boy, love.” Gemma stroked his straight, fair hair. She really couldn’t complain. She’d done well enough for herself so far, in spite of the obstacles. And tomorrow she had a half-day off, free to spend with Toby.

Perhaps some of her bad temper, she admitted grudgingly, was due to the fact that she’d become very quickly accustomed to working with Duncan Kincaid, and the day had soured a bit without his presence.

And that, Gemma told herself firmly, was a tendency to be kept very well in hand.

*   *   *

Kincaid woke late on Tuesday morning, with that sense of malaise that results from oversleeping. The bedclothes were rumpled and askew. His tongue felt furry—the residue of too much wine the night before.

An unpleasant dream lingered on the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with tattered scraps of images. A child in a well—the small voice calling to him … he couldn’t find a rope … descending into the well, moss coating the palms of his hands like gelatinous glue … to find only bones, small bones that crumbled to dust as he touched them. Ugh! He shook himself and groped his way to the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his head.

Kincaid emerged feeling ravenously hungry. He carried his makeshift breakfast of buttered bread, cheese and a cup of tea out to the balcony, and leaned on the rail as
he chewed and thought about his day. He found he’d lost his enthusiasm for playing the tourist. All his plans seemed uninspired, deflated, a reflection of the dull, overcast day. Even the thought of walking the Dales alone, a prospect which had seemed glorious two days ago, failed to please him.

His conscience was nagging him. All these dreams of things left undone, or not done soon enough. His subconscious was throwing little poisoned darts at him, and some appeasement would have to be offered. Official action was difficult, but he felt a need to take some assertive step.

He’d visit Sebastian’s mum. A condolence call. An old-fashioned custom, traditional, respectable, and often mere empty etiquette, but it would at least give him the sense that Sebastian’s death had not passed unmarked.

Cassie would have the address.

*   *   *

As Kincaid turned from locking his suite door behind him, he found Penny MacKenzie hovering uncertainly in the hall. She was dressed this morning in slacks, sweater and sensible lace-up walking shoes, and seemed in some way diminished, as if she had shed some dimension of her personality along with her eccentricities. A lady, past middle-age, a little frail perhaps, but ordinary. Her enthusiasm was missing, Kincaid realized, her bubbling manner replaced by hesitancy.

“Morning, Miss MacKenzie.”

“Oh, Mr. Kincaid. I was hoping … I mean, I thought if you were … I’d just wait …” The words ran down and she stood silent, looking at him helplessly.

“Did you want to talk to me about something?”

“I didn’t want to speak to that man, Inspector Nash,
because if it weren’t important, I’d feel such a fool. And Emma said you were a policeman, too, so I thought you might be able … I didn’t want Emma to know, you see … I told Inspector Nash I’d been asleep, but it wasn’t quite true, really. Emma gets so upset when I forget things, so I waited until she’d gone to sleep …”

“Did you forget something, then?” Kincaid leaned against the wall, patient and relaxed, his professional manner slipping over him. He took care not to hurry her.

“My handbag. In the lounge. I had such a good time at the party. I had a sherry. I don’t usually, it must have made me forgetful …”

Penny’s voice trailed off again, and Kincaid dared to prompt her. “Did you go out to look for it, after Emma fell asleep?”

“I waited until she started snoring. She never wakes after that.” A faint trace of her impish grin appeared. “The house was so quiet. I felt a little … skittish. An unfamiliar place, and dark. I didn’t expect—” She broke off, the momentary ease vanishing as swiftly as it had come. “It probably didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t stand to cause anyone distress. To be fair, I think perhaps I ought to speak—”

“Penny, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Emma MacKenzie’s head appeared at the top of the stairwell, followed by her body as she puffed her way up the last few steps. “What are you doing skulking up here?”

“I just wanted a word with Mr. Kincaid, Emma.” Penny was apologetic and flustered, and, Kincaid thought, a tiny bit relieved. He cursed under his breath.
He’d get nothing more now, whatever she’d steeled herself to say would have to wait.

“Miss MacKenzie’s just been telling me what I should see—

“Well, for goodness sake, let Mr. Kincaid get on with it, then, and come along or we’ll miss the best birding of the day. It’s already late.” Emma turned, and muttered “A whole morning wasted …” as she stomped back down the stairs.

Kincaid winked at Penny behind Emma’s back as they followed obediently behind.

*   *   *

Cassie, as far as Kincaid could see, had not been one to suffer an uncomfortable night. He found her in her office, serene among the clutter, looking rested, sleek and so self-satisfied he almost expected her to purr. She smiled brightly at him, and gave him his rank—letting him know, thought Kincaid, that they weren’t going to get too chummy.

“What can I do for you, Superintendent?”

“Sleep well, Cassie?” She only smiled and waited, as if expecting greater things from him. “I thought you might be able to give me Sebastian’s address.”

“Playing the good Samaritan?” Cassie mocked him.

“I thought someone should. You said he lived with his mum. What about his dad?” Kincaid propped himself on the edge of her desk, riffling his fingers through the loose papers scattered on its top. He leaned toward her, encroaching on the deliberate distance she had placed between them.

“Died years ago, or at least that’s what he always said. Mummy raised her boy alone.” Cassie crossed her
arms under her breasts and tilted her head to look up at him.

“Cassie, did you see Sebastian after the party that night? He seemed perfectly all right earlier.”

“I went over to my cottage about ten. He was tidying up in the lounge. He said he’d lock up—he usually did. Liked to play lord of the manor, padding around the house at night arranging everything just so. Then, last thing, he’d use the Jacuzzi. If I were awake I’d hear his motorbike start up when he left—he parked it right alongside the cottages.” Cassie seemed to be talking as much to herself as to Kincaid, her voice quiet and touched with what might almost have been a trace of regret. “I don’t remember hearing it that night, though I wasn’t conscious of missing anything at the time.”

“And did you see or hear anything else after you’d turned in that night?”

“Don’t cross-examine me, Superintendent,” Cassie said nastily. “Your Inspector Nash has already done enough for the two of you.” She flipped through a Rolodex on her desk and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s your address. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

He’d blown it. All Cassie’s armor had fallen back into place with a clang.

*   *   *

Eddie Lyle sat in the sitting room armchair, a newspaper spread open on his lap.

Kincaid, retreating from Cassie’s office, paused in the doorway. Could he escape with a nod and a greeting? His hesitation proved his undoing.

Lyle looked up and spoke. “Mr. Kincaid.” He rattled the paper. “We’ve made the local rag this morning. I do
hope the nationals don’t pick it up. I don’t want my daughter distressed by reading some sensational account.”

Caught between going and staying and not wanting to commit himself to a prolonged conversation, Kincaid wandered over to the sofa opposite Lyle and leaned against its rolled, velvet back. The tufted buttons dug into his thigh. “Your daughter’s the same age as Angela Frazer?”

“Yes, she’s fifteen, but—”

“Most fifteen-year-olds don’t read the papers, Mr. Lyle. I wouldn’t worry.”

“Chloe’s not a bit like Angela Frazer, Mr. Kincaid. She’s a very good student, and I’ve always encouraged her to keep up with world affairs.”

“She’s away at school, then?”

“Yes, but close enough that we can have her home most weekends.” Lyle took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “My daughter’s going to have all the advantages, Mr. Kincaid. She won’t need to scrape and struggle for things the way I did.”

Finding Lyle almost bearable now that he wasn’t spouting pompous grievances, Kincaid refrained from saying that few children seemed to appreciate being given advantages their parents lacked—they saw such benefits as their due.

Lyle must have done well enough for himself, though—a daughter away at school, clothes which looked expensive even if ill-fitting, and timeshare holidays didn’t come cheaply. “I understand you were in the army?”

“They educated me, but I got no free ride, if that’s
what you’re thinking. I paid my dues, Mr. Kincaid, I paid my dues.” Lyle looked back at his paper, folding it and snapping the crease in sharply.

Having a conversation with Eddie Lyle was a bit like treading on eggshells, thought Kincaid, no matter how carefully you stepped, you made a mess of it.

*   *   *

The address was a narrow, terraced house in one of the winding alleys behind Thirsk’s market square. A brass knocker shone and a few defiant petunias still brightened the window boxes. Before he could ring, the door opened and he faced a middle-aged woman with faded, fair hair.

“Mrs. Wade?” The woman nodded. “May I come in? My name’s Kincaid.” He handed her his I.D. card and she examined it carefully, then stepped back in silent acquiescence. She wore what appeared to be her Sunday best, a navy, serge shirtwaist with white cuffs and collar. The pale hair was carefully combed, but her eyes were red and swollen with weeping and her face sagged as if gravity had become an unbearable burden. Even her lipstick seemed to be slipping from her lips, a slow, red avalanche of grief.

“I knew he was dead.” Her voice, when it came, was flat, uninflected, and directed somewhere beyond him.

“Mrs. Wade.” Kincaid’s gentle tone recalled her, and her eyes focused on his face for the first time. “I don’t want to mislead you. I’m not really here on police business. The local C.I.D. is officially investigating your son’s death. I had met Sebastian at Followdale, where I’m staying as a guest, and I wanted to offer my condolences.”

“She said, that nice policewoman who came yesterday,
that a policeman staying in the house had found him. Was that you?”

“Yes, more or less,” Kincaid said, afraid the knowledge that the children had actually discovered her son’s body would only add to her distress.

“Did you … how …” She abandoned whatever she had been going to ask, finding, Kincaid felt, that hearing a physical description of the circumstances of her son’s death was beyond her present level of endurance. Instead she looked at him again, and asked, “Did you like him?”

“Yes, I did. He was kind to me, and very amusing.”

She nodded, and some tension in her relaxed. “I’m glad it was you. No one’s come. Not even that Cassie.” She turned from him abruptly and led the way into the sitting room. “Would you like some tea? I’ll just put the kettle on.

The room in which she left him was cold, clean, well-kept and utterly devoid of charm or comfort. The air had the stale odor of an old steamer trunk. The wallpaper had once been rose. The furniture might have belonged to Mrs. Wade’s parents, new and dubiously respectable fifty years ago. There were no books, no television or radio. She must live in the kitchen, Kincaid thought, or a back parlour. This room had surely not been used since the last death in the family.

The tea things were carefully arranged on an old tin tray, with mismatched, faded china cups and saucers. “Mrs. Wade,” Kincaid, began, when she had settled herself in one of the horsehair chairs and was occupied pouring the tea, “how did you know, yesterday, that your son was dead? Did someone tell you?”