Leave the Grave Green (32 page)

“Don’t talk to me about Matty’s memory. I’m the only one who really grieved for Matty, the little boy who could be rude and silly, and sometimes had to sleep with his light on because he was frightened of his dreams. You only lost what you wanted him to be.” Julia looked at Plummy, who still sat quietly on the edge of her seat, her back straight as a staff. “I’m sorry, Plummy, that’s unfair to you. You loved him—you loved both of us, and honestly.

“And Tommy—as ill as I was I remember Tommy coming to the house, and now I can understand what I only sensed then. He sat with me, offering what solace he could, but you were the only one who might have comforted him, Mummy, and you wouldn’t see him. You were too busy making high drama of your grief. He deserved better.”

In two lightning steps, Caroline crossed the space that separated her from Julia. She raised her open hand and slapped her daughter across the face. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. You don’t know anything. You’re making a fool of yourself with this ridiculous scene. You’re making fools of us all, and I won’t have it in my house.”

Julia stood her ground. Even though her eyes filled with tears, she neither spoke nor lifted a hand to touch the white imprint on her cheek.

Vivian Plumley went to her and put an arm gently around her shoulders. She said, “Maybe it’s time someone made a scene, Caro. Who knows what might have been avoided if some of these things had been said long ago?”

Caroline stepped back. “I only meant to protect you, Julia, always. And you, Gerald,” she added, turning to him.

Wearily, Julia said, “You’ve protected yourself, from the very beginning.”

“We were all right as we were,” said Caroline. “Why should anything change?”

“It’s too late, Mummy,” said Julia, and Kincaid heard an unexpected note of compassion. “Can’t you see that?”

Caroline turned to her husband, hand out in a gesture of supplication. “Gerald—”

He looked away.

In the silence that followed, a gust of wind blew a spatter of rain against the window, and the fire flared up in response. Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes. He nodded slightly and she came to stand beside him. He said, “I’m sorry, Dame Caroline, but I’m afraid you’ll need to come with us to High Wycombe and make a formal statement. You can come in your own car, if you like, Sir Gerald, and wait for her.”

Julia looked at her parents. What judgment would she pass on them, wondered Kincaid, now that they had revealed themselves as all too fallibly human, and flawed?

For the first time Julia’s hand strayed to her cheek. She went to Gerald and briefly touched his arm. “I’ll wait for you here, Daddy,” she said, then she turned away and left the room without another glance at her mother.

When they had rung High Wycombe and organized the preliminaries, Kincaid excused himself and slipped out of the sitting room. By the time he reached the top landing he had to catch his breath, and he felt a welcome ache in his calves. He tapped lightly on the door of Julia’s studio and opened it.

She stood in the center of the room, holding an open box in her arms and looking about her. “Plummy’s cleaned up after me, can you tell?” she said as he came in.

It did look uncharacteristically clean and lifeless, as if the removal of Julia’s attendant clutter had stripped it of its heart.

“There’s nothing left I need, really. I suppose what I wanted was to say good-bye.” She gestured around the room with her
chin. The mark of her mother’s hand stood out clearly now, fiery against the pale skin of her cheek. “I won’t be back here again. Not in the same way. This was a child’s refuge.”

“Yes,” said Kincaid. She would move on now, into her own life. “You’ll be all right.”

“I know.” They looked at one another and he understood that he would not see her again, that their coming together had served its purpose. He would move on now as well, perhaps take a leaf from Gemma’s book—she had been hurt, as he had, but she had put it behind her with the forthright practicality he so admired.

After a moment, Julia said, “What will happen to my mother?”

“I don’t know. It depends on the forensic evidence, but even if we turned up something fairly concrete, I doubt we’ll make anything stiffer than involuntary manslaughter stick.”

She nodded.

Near to the eaves as they were, the sound of the rain beating against the roof came clearly, and the wind rattled the windows like a beast seeking entrance. “Julia, I’m sorry.”

“You mustn’t be. You only did your job, and what you knew was right. You couldn’t violate your integrity to protect me, or my family. There’s been enough of that in this house,” she said firmly. “Are you sorry about what happened with us, as well?” she added, with a trace of a smile.

Was he sorry? For ten years he had kept his emotions safely, tightly reined, until he had almost forgotten how it felt to give another person access. Julia had forced his hand, made him see himself in the mirror of her isolation, and what he found frightened him. But probing beyond the fear, he felt a new and unexpected sense of freedom, even of anticipation.

He smiled back at Julia. “No.”

“We should have taken the Midget,” Kincaid said testily as Gemma pulled the Escort up in front of the Carlingford Road flat.

“You know as well as I do that the bloody thing leaks in the rain,” she retorted, glaring at him. She felt as miserable and bedraggled as a cat forced into the bath, and he wasn’t much of an improvement. As she watched, a rivulet of water trickled down his forehead from his matted hair.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand, then burst out laughing. “Gemma, look at us. How can you be so stubborn?”

After what seemed an interminable session at High Wycombe, they had started back to London on the M40, only to have a puncture before they reached the North Circular Road. Gemma had pulled over to the verge and plunged out into the driving rain, refusing his help in changing the tire. He had stood in the rain, arguing with her while she worked, so that in the end they were both soaked to the skin.

“It’s too late to collect Toby tonight,” he said. “Come in and get some dry things on before you catch your death, and have something proper to eat. Please.”

After a moment, she said, “All right,” but the words she’d meant to be acquiescent came out grudging and sullen. Her bad temper seemed to be out of control, feeding on itself, and she didn’t know how to break the cycle.

They didn’t bother with umbrellas as they crossed the road to Kincaid’s building—how could they get any more wet, after all?—and the pellets of water stung against her skin.

When they reached the flat, Kincaid went straight to the kitchen, leaving a dripping trail on the carpet. He pulled an already uncorked bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. Handing her one, he said, “Start on this. It will warm you up from the inside. Sorry I haven’t anything stronger. And in the meantime I’ll get you something dry to put on.”

He left her standing in the sitting room holding her glass, too wet to sit down, too exhausted to sort out her own feelings. Was she angry with him because of Julia? She had felt a communion between them, an understanding that excluded her, and the strength of her reaction dismayed her.

She tasted the wine, then drank half the glass. Chill in her mouth, it did seem to generate some warmth in her middle.

Or was she angry with Caroline Stowe for having taken her in, and Kincaid merely happened to be the nearest available target?

Perhaps it was just the waste of it all that made her feel like chucking something.

Sid uncurled himself from his nest on the sofa, stretching, and came to her. He elongated his sleek body as he rubbed around her ankles and butted his head against her legs. She bent to scratch him in the soft spot under his chin, and his throat began to vibrate under her fingertips. “Hullo, Sid. You’ve got the right idea tonight—warm and dry. We should all be so lucky.”

She looked around the familiar and comfortable room. Light from the lamps Kincaid had switched on spilled out in warm pools, illuminating his collection of brightly colored London transport posters. The coffee table held a haphazard pile of books and an empty mug, and the sofa a crumpled afghan rug. Gemma felt a sudden pang of longing. She wanted to feel at home here, wanted to feel safe.

“I didn’t know about underthings,” said Kincaid, returning from the bedroom carrying a stack of folded clothes with a big fluffy towel on the top. “I suppose you’ll have to make do.” He deposited the jeans and sweatshirt on the sofa and draped the towel around her shoulders. “Oh, and socks. I forgot socks.”

Wiping her face with one end of the towel, Gemma began fumbling
with her sodden braid. Her fingers were too numb with cold to work properly, and she felt tears of frustration smart behind her eyelids.

“Let me help,” he said gently. He turned her around and deftly worked loose the braid, combing her hair out with his fingers. “Now.” Rotating her until she faced him again, he began rubbing her head with the towel. His hair stood on end where he had scrubbed at it, and his skin smelled warm and damp.

The weight of his hands against her head seemed to physically crumble her defenses, and she felt her legs go limp and boneless, as if they could no longer support her weight. She closed her eyes against the faintness, thinking
too much wine, too quickly
, but the sensation didn’t pass. Reaching up, she put a hand over his, and a buzz ran through her like electric current as their skin made contact.

He stopped his toweling of her hair, looking at her with concern. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I get carried away?”

When she managed to shake her head, he let the towel slide to her shoulders and began gently rubbing her neck and the back of her head. She thought disjointedly of Rob—he had never looked after her like this. No one had. And nowhere in her calculations had she reckoned with the power of tenderness, irresistible as gravity.

The pressure of his hand on the back of her head brought her a stumbling step forward, against him, and she gasped with shock as his weight pressed her icy clothes to her skin. She turned her face up, and of its own volition her hand reached for him, cupping the back of his damp head, pulling his mouth down to meet hers.

Drowsily, Gemma raised herself on one elbow and looked at him, realizing she’d never seen him asleep. His relaxed face seemed younger, softer, and the fan of his eyelashes made dark shadows on his cheeks. His eyelids fluttered for an instant, as if he were dreaming, and the corners of his mouth turned up in the hint of a smile.

She reached out to smooth the unruly chestnut hair from his brow and froze. Suddenly, in that small act of intimacy, she saw the enormity, the absurdity, of what she had done.

She drew her hand back as if stung. Oh dear God, what had she been thinking of? What on earth had possessed her? How could she face him at work in the morning, say, “Yes, guv, no, guv, right-oh, guv,” as if nothing had happened between them?

Her heart racing, she slid carefully from the bed. They’d left a trail of wet clothes across the bedroom, and as she disentangled hers from the jumble she felt tears fill her eyes. She swore under her breath.
Silly, bloody fool
. She never cried. Even when Rob had left her, she hadn’t cried. Shivering, she pulled on damp panties, slipped her soggy jumper over her head.

She had done what she’d sworn she’d never do. As hard as she’d worked to earn her position, to be considered an equal, a colleague, she’d shown herself no better than any tart who slept her way up the ladder. A wave of dizziness swept over her as she stepped into her skirt and she swayed.

What could she do now? Ask for a transfer? Everyone would know why—she might as well wear a sign and save them speculating. Resign? Give up her dreams, let all her hard work turn to dust in her fingers? How could she bear it? Oh, she would have sympathy and a plausible excuse—too hard a life for a single mum, a need to spend more time with her son—but she would know how badly she had failed.

Kincaid stirred and turned, freeing an arm from the covers. Staring at him, she tried to memorize the curve of his shoulder, the angle of his cheek, and her heart contracted with longing and desire. She turned away, afraid of her own weakness.

In the sitting room she squelched her bare feet into her shoes and gathered up her coat and bag. The dry jeans and sweater he’d brought her still lay neatly folded on the sofa, and the towel he’d used to dry her hair lay crumpled on the floor. She picked it up and held its soft nap against her cheek, imagining that it smelled faintly of shaving soap. With exaggerated care she folded it and placed it beside the clothes, then let herself quietly out of the flat.

When Gemma reached the street door, she found the rain still coming down in relentless sheets, a solid wall of water. She stood for a moment, watching it. In her traitorous mind she imagined
running back up the stairs and into the flat, shedding her clothes and climbing back into bed beside his sleeping form.

She pushed open the door, stepped slowly out into the rain and crossed the road, making no effort to shield herself. The dim outline of the Escort was familiar, comforting even. Scrabbling for the handle like one blind, she wrenched the door open and half fell into the driver’s seat. She wiped her streaming face with her hands and started the engine.

The radio blared into life and instead of hitting the off switch, she reflexively jammed a tape into the player. Caroline Stowe’s voice filled the car as Violetta sang her last aria, begging for life, for love, for the physical strength to match her courageous will.

Gemma put her head down against the steering wheel and wept.

After a moment she mopped her face with some tissues and put the car into gear, and when the music finished the only sound was the drumming of the rain against the roof.

The soft click of a door penetrated Kincaid’s consciousness. He struggled toward the surface of sleep, but it clung to him tenaciously, dragging him down again into its cotton-wool depths. His body felt boneless, warmly lethargic, and his eyelids seemed to have acquired surplus weight. Rousing himself enough to tuck his exposed arm under the covers, he felt the sheet cool and empty beside him. He blinked. Gemma. She must have gone to the loo—women always had to go to the loo—or perhaps to the kitchen for a glass of water.