When she peered out the French doors, the children were farther away from the house than she liked. Charlotte was in the tree swing, with Geordie running in excited circles around her, his ears flapping. For a moment, Gemma didn’t see Toby and her heart gave a little skip. Then she spied him, crouching down and digging at something in the ground.
“Charlotte, be careful,” she called. “Toby, stop whatever it is you’re doing. And stay on the patio where I can see you. Both of you. I mean it.”
Melody had come up behind her. “Practicing my fishwife,” Gemma told her, a little embarrassed to have been heard shouting at them. “But I’m feeling a bit overprotective today. If you don’t mind, we’ll bring our tea back in here where I can keep an eye on them.” She thought it better not to talk on the patio where the children could overhear them, and it was cooler in the house.
Gemma made the tea quickly, splashing hot water onto Yorkshire Gold tea bags and adding milk as she dunked the bags in the mugs. Melody, usually so helpfully capable, stood silently, watching. By the time Gemma carried the mugs into the sitting room, she was feeling awkward as well as concerned. She checked on the children again, then sat in the armchair and tucked her feet up under her. Melody took the sofa and perched on the edge, as stiff-backed as a child called to the head’s office, her tea untouched on the side table.
“I’m sorry about today,” Gemma said. “It was—”
“Krueger called me into her office for a bollocking,” Melody broke in. “Because you weren’t there. She said you’d been seconded to another team.”
“Not exactly,” Gemma began, but Melody interrupted.
“And what about the chief super?”
Gemma realized that she hadn’t spoken to Melody since Duncan’s visit to hospital. “Duncan went to the London yesterday, after you called. They’ve put Denis in a coma, to reduce the swelling from the head injury. And they’re worried about his liver.”
“His liver? Why?”
“Because of the transpla—” Too late, Gemma remembered that they only knew about the transplant because Denis had told Duncan when they’d met on Saturday night. And that Duncan didn’t want anyone knowing he’d seen Denis just a few minutes before he was attacked.
But surely other people knew about the transplant, like Chief Superintendent Faith. They must have talked about it at the hospital.
“What?” Melody demanded. “What are you talking about?”
Gemma couldn’t take it back, so there was nothing for it but to go forward. She took a breath and said, “Denis Childs had a liver transplant. That’s why he was away, apparently.”
“But— But that’s bonkers.” Melody frowned. “Although I can believe he was ill. He hasn’t looked great, the last year or two. But why all the cloak-and-dagger?”
“I suppose he didn’t want people knowing he was ill.” Gemma hated not telling Melody everything. Trying to mask her discomfort, she shifted in her chair and said, “Have you heard anything about his condition today?”
Picking up her mug at last, Melody shook her head without meeting Gemma’s eyes. “No, nothing. But you’d know better than I. Surely Duncan’s heard—”
“Duncan’s not here,” Gemma blurted out. “He’s gone to Cheshire. His dad had chest pains last night.” She’d been composed for the children, but now, talking about it to a friend, her eyes filled with unexpected tears.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Melody sat forward, instantly contrite. Drops of tea sloshed onto her red skirt, but she didn’t seem to notice. “It’s Hugh, isn’t it, your father-in-law? Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. Duncan hasn’t rung since he left this morning. And he should have been there hours ago.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s just caught up in family stuff. And here I’ve shown up on your doorstep acting an absolute cow, when you’ve this on your plate. I really am sorry.”
“No, you couldn’t have known. And I didn’t know this morning. That’s not why I wasn’t in today.”
This time, Gemma did tell Melody everything. About meeting Jess at the dance class, about MacKenzie asking her to meet Reagan Keating’s mother at the Cusicks’ yesterday, about the call from Marc Lamb on her way into work that morning. She told her about the meeting with Kerry Boatman, the postmortem, and about visiting the scene of the girl’s death.
Melody listened with widening eyes. “Crikey,” she said when Gemma had finished. “You have been a busy bee. This DCI—Boatman—you said you’d met her before. Is she okay? Or is she just covering her arse?”
“I think . . .” Gemma said, considering, “I think she’s a good detective. I don’t envy her being pressured by Lamb and the Williamses. But on the other hand, Bill and MacKenzie were right to push for a thorough investigation. They knew Reagan, and their instincts were right. She didn’t die of natural causes.”
“So you have a locked-garden mystery,” Melody mused.
“I don’t see anyone getting in that gate,” Gemma agreed.
“It all sounds quite creepy, with the white dress, and the candle wax in the grass. Some kind of ritual gone wrong, do you think?”
Gemma frowned. “From what I’ve learned about Reagan Keating so far, I can’t imagine her being involved in anything like that. And it wouldn’t explain her missing phone.”
“Did she have a computer?”
“There was a photo printer on her desk, but no desktop or laptop. If she had either, it’s missing, too. We’ll find out tomorrow.”
Melody looked suddenly stricken, as if realizing that the “we” didn’t include her. “Good luck, then,” she said, glancing at her watch, then giving Gemma a bright smile and gulping what must now be stone-cold tea. “But I’ve got to run—”
“Boatman is obviously short-staffed,” broke in Gemma. “If there’s any way I can swing getting you a temporary assignment—”
But Melody was already shaking her head. “You didn’t see the guv’nor’s face today. She was livid. I think I’d like to keep my job. And besides, I’m in charge in your stead.” This time her smile seemed more genuine.
“Stay for dinner,” Gemma offered as Melody stood, not wanting her to go.
Melody hesitated for just a moment, then made a little rueful face and said, “Can’t. Meeting someone. But thanks.”
“A date? I thought Andy was in—where, Germany?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Melody’s shrug seemed deliberately offhand. “And, no, it’s not a date. Unless you count meeting Doug at the Jolly Gardeners for a drink. Which I certainly do not.”
After Melody left, Gemma had brought the children in from the garden, settling them in the dining room with a game of Jenga and hoping to hold off the pre-dinner demands for telly or video games. The game of stacking tiles was too hard for Charlotte, so Gemma anticipated a meltdown any moment. And she’d already had to scoop the kittens off the table when they tried to bat at the tiles.
Rose, the tortoiseshell and white kitten, came into the kitchen as if summoned by the thought, wrapping herself around Gemma’s ankles. She was an affectionate little thing, not as much of a troublemaker as her brother Jack, and Gemma was developing a decided preference. Stooping, she picked the kitten up for a cuddle. “Girls,” she murmured, stroking the soft little head, “should stick together, yeah? But don’t say I said so.” Rose had black patches over her eyes and one was larger than the other, giving her a piratical look. In between the black patches her fur was ginger, and then white around her very pink nose. Kit had given Gemma more than one lecture on the genetics of cat coloration, but she had to admit it had gone in one ear and out the other. All she remembered was that only females were tortoiseshell.
The kitten apparently decided she was more interested in prawns than adoration and squirmed towards the work top. “No, you don’t,” Gemma told her firmly and set her down. She’d just begun chopping shallots when there was a crash of Jenga tiles from the dining room and the rising sound of a s
quabble. It was a relief when the doorbell rang.
“Pick those up,” she admonished the children as she crossed the hall. She was already preparing to say, “Changed your mind, then?” to Melody as she opened the door.
But it wasn’t Melody, it was MacKenzie Williams, with Oliver, who was holding tightly to his mother’s hand and leaning his curly head against her leg. “Gemma,” said MacKenzie, “I’m so sorry to barge in again like this. But I needed to talk to you.”
Oliver tugged on MacKenzie’s hand. “Mummy, I want to go in.”
“Not unless you’re invited, darling,” MacKenzie admonished.
“Of course he is.” Gemma gave Oliver a pat. “Go on, then. Charlotte and Toby are playing a game in the dining room. The grown-ups can talk in the kitchen,” she added quietly to MacKenzie.
“We can’t stay long,” MacKenzie murmured as Oliver ran inside. “I told Bill we were going to the shops for something I forgot.”
As her friend followed her into the kitchen, Gemma saw that there were dark hollows under her eyes, and that the mass of her dark hair was drawn back haphazardly with a clip, as if she hadn’t bothered to brush it.
“Could I have one of those?” MacKenzie asked when she spied Gemma’s glass of wine.
“Of course.” Gemma filled a glass for MacKenzie, glad she’d had a full bottle on hand. Joining MacKenzie at the kitchen table, she raised her own topped-up glass and tapped it to MacKenzie’s. “Cheers.”
MacKenzie took an obligatory sip but then set her glass on the table and leaned forward. Her shoulders looked tight with tension. “Listen, Gemma. I didn’t mean to drop you in the shit today. Bill told me he called your boss this morning and asked that you be included in the investigation into Reagan’s death. He can be a bit overbearing when he gets the bit between his teeth, and he was very fond of Reagan. But he had no right to demand that you be put on the case. Or to cause any awkwardness for you at work.”
From what Melody had told Gemma about Detective Superintendent Krueger’s mood that morning, Gemma suspected it would be more than awkwardness. But she said, “Don’t worry about that, it’s not your—”
MacKenzie waved a hand to stop her. “No, really, hear me out. I feel like I presumed on our friendship. I had no idea, when I asked you to go with me yesterday, that it would be so . . . so complicated. And I’m sure I overreacted, that Reagan was just ill, or maybe took too much of something she didn’t realize would hurt her. And now I feel a complete fool—”
“MacKenzie,” Gemma said softly, aware of the little voices—and little ears—across the hall. “I’m sorry. But you weren’t wrong. The pathologist did the postmortem this morning. I’m afraid Reagan was murdered.”
MacKenzie stared at her, gaping, then whispered, “Oh, Christ.” She touched her glass with a trembling hand but didn’t pick it up. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. It will take time for the labs to come back, but the postmortem results were pretty conclusive. We have enough to go on with.”
“But— How?” MacKenzie whispered.
Gemma hesitated. The information would come out soon enough. She’d like to keep the advantage of that knowledge in interviews for as long as possible, but she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t tell MacKenzie. “Please don’t share this with anyone except Bill,” she cautioned. “Reagan was suffocated.”
“Suffocated?” MacKenzie sat back, blinking, her white skin like parchment against her black hair. “Oh, my God. Why . . . Why would someone do that to her? Was she—” She didn’t seem able to finish the thought.
“No, no.” Gemma grasped her friend’s hand. “Reagan wasn’t sexually assaulted.” MacKenzie was so pale now Gemma was afraid she might faint. “Are you all right, MacKenzie? I know this is a shock.”
“I just can’t imagine . . .”
“Nobody can. And when you know someone, well, nobody can be prepared for something like this.” Gemma pushed MacKenzie’s wineglass towards her. “Here. Have a good sip. Or I can get you some water. Or a cup of tea.”
Shaking her head, MacKenzie lifted the glass and took an obedient sip. Then she made a face and pushed her glass away. “I don’t think I can . . . I’m sorry. I feel a little ill. I keep thinking . . .”
Rising, Gemma filled the kettle. “You have a cuppa before you go. It will help with the shock.” Another crash of tiles and a high-pitched shriek came from the dining room. Gemma wasn’t sure if it had come from Charlotte or Oliver, but in either case she predicted impending chaos.
MacKenzie recognized the signs as well. “No, I’m fine. Really. We’d better go. I will tell Bill I spoke to you—although I still don’t think he should have put you on the spot like that. But Gemma, do you . . . Do you have any idea who might have . . . done this to her?”
“We’ve heard she wasn’t getting on with her boyfriend, that’s all. But we only have a first name for him—Hugo.”
MacKenzie stared at her. “Hugo?”
“Blond. Pretty. At least I think that must be him. Reagan had photos on the corkboard in her room.”
“I don’t believe it.” MacKenzie’s eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth.
“What?” Gemma stared at her. “Don’t tell me you know him?”
“Hair like this?” MacKenzie brushed a hand just below her jawline.
“Yes.”
“But— She never— I had no idea . . .”
“MacKenzie. Look at me.” Gemma reached across the table and patted her friend’s hand. She understood shock, but she was impatient now. “Do you know him?”
MacKenzie nodded, slowly. “It has to be Hugo. Hugo Gold. But I had no idea they were seeing each other.”
“How do you know him?” Gemma asked, trying to keep her voice level.
“He modeled for us.”
As Kincaid drove north, the clouds moved in from the Atlantic like a blanket flung across the sky. With a shiver, he cranked up the heater in the Astra. Even though he’d known not to count on the fine London weather holding, the chill made his spirits sink. He tried to concentrate on the rolling Cotswold landscape—at least what he could see of it from the motorway. The spring fields looked a shockingly brilliant green against the flat gray horizon.
The rain set in in earnest at Birmingham. But by the time he took the turnoff for Nantwich, the downpour had ceased and patches of blue were appearing in the western sky. He told himself it was a good omen. Not, of course, that he usually thought of himself as superstitious, but the last few days had set him grasping at titbits.
Leighton Hospital sat north of Nantwich, on the A530. It seemed small, provincial even, compared to the warren of the London, and he found the cardiac unit easily enough. His mother was the only person in the waiting area. He stopped for a moment, just on the other side of the glass door, observing her. Rosemary Kincaid was a handsome woman, with the fine bone structure that grew more defined with age. Usually, she dressed well if not elegantly—Nantwich was, after all, a country town and a bookshop didn’t call for much in the way of finery—and she was always careful of her appearance. Today, however, she was in what she referred to as “farm clothes”—jeans, a cardigan that he recognized as his father’s, and the pair of old brogues she wore for gardening. He thought she must have put on whatever came to hand.
Glancing up, she saw him and sprang to her feet. “Darling,” she said as he pushed open the door, and the exhaustion was momentarily smoothed from her face by a smile. When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. It surprised him still that his mother’s head fit into the hollow of his chest, as if the memory of looking up at her was imprinted on his consciousness.
“Mum.” He stepped back to look at her but kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. “How are you? How is he?”
“I was just trying to decide whether to ring you, but I thought I’d wait a bit longer. He’s had a stent put in, just one, and he’s still a bit groggy from the procedure.”
“But he’s okay
?”
“They say he’s fine. That they caught it before the blockage was too severe. No thanks to him, the stubborn old coot.” Her voice wavered at the last. Guiding her back to her chair, he sat down beside her and took her hand. He felt a little giddy with relief.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“It was about four last night. He was rubbing at his arm. His left arm.” She mimed the gesture, then shivered. “He insisted I drive him to hospital, that he wasn’t going to look a fool for nothing.
“Dear God. It was raining, and the roads were like pitch. I thought I was going to have a heart attack,” she added, managing a smile.
“What was he doing yesterday?” Kincaid asked suspiciously, knowing his father all too well.
“Building a fort for Sam.”
“Bloody hell,” he said in disbelief. That was over the top, even for Hugh.
“I know. Don’t tell Juliet. I said he was working in the barn.”
“Where is Jules?” he asked.
“Here, until an hour ago. She’s expecting you for dinner tonight. Although of course you’ll want to sleep at the farm.”
“What about Dad? When are they sending him home?”
“They want to keep him overnight. And I’m not letting him out of my sight.”
Hugh Kincaid was dozing in his hospital bed. The sight gave Kincaid a jolt of déjà vu, but unlike his visit to Denis Childs, when his dad opened his eyes they sparkled with recognition.
“Son. They shouldna have dragged you all the way up from London.” Hugh’s voice was thready, his Scottish accent more pronounced.
“You shouldn’t have put yourself in hospital,” Kincaid teased, pulling up a chair. “What were you thinking? Isn’t Sam too old for a fort?”
Hugh shrugged a bit apologetically. “Even teenagers need a retreat.”
Kincaid stood, reluctantly. His dad was sounding tired. “You get some rest. And behave yourself, or I’ll hear about it in the morning.”
Hugh reached for Kincaid’s hand. “You’re coming back, son?”
The Garden of Lamentations Page 16