Then the light dawned. “Surely not Ronnie Babcock, the old fox,” he said aloud, grinning. Ronnie Babcock had been his schoolmate, and was now a senior detective in the Cheshire Constabulary. Ronnie, who had risked his life for them the previous Christmas, was as tough as old boots, and on the surface as different from Juliet as chalk from cheese. But his sister was tough in her own way, and there was no doubt Ronnie was a man she could respect.
“Lally’s dad doesn’t like him,” said Kit. “And he says Aunt Juliet’s a—” Kit paused, obviously thinking better of repeating verbatim what he’d been told. “Uncle Caspar says the ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers,” he amended.
Caspar Newcombe, Kincaid’s former brother-in-law, had good reason not to like Ronnie Babcock. And it had nothing to do with Juliet or jealousy, which Kit knew as well as anyone. Nor was it likely that Caspar Newcombe, considering his current legal troubles, would have a chance of gaining full custody of the children.
“Your Aunt Jules is free to see anyone she wants, Kit. And you know that Sam and Lally weren’t happy when their mum and dad were living together.”
Kit shrugged.
“They’ll be fine, Kit. They’ll all adjust. You’ll see,” Kincaid said, addressing what he suspected was the heart of his son’s disquiet. Kit associated change with loss, and he projected himself into other people’s situations with a fierce empathy that would be dangerous if he didn’t learn to set some emotional boundaries.
Kincaid was beginning to think it was a very good thing that he was going to be spending more time, not just with Charlotte, but with Kit and Toby. He’d have to make sure that the boys got their share of attention.
“Let’s do something special after school one day next week,” he suggested. “Maybe we could go to the Natural History Museum.”
Kit glanced at him. “You’re really going to stay home?” He sounded carefully nonchalant.
“Stay-at-home-dad, that’s me.”
“You don’t know what Charlotte likes for her tea.”
“I’ll find out, won’t I? But I’m counting on you to help me out with this.”
Kit nodded, looking gratified, and Kincaid was about to inquire into Charlotte’s mysterious preferences when his mobile rang. He glanced at the number, swore under his breath, then switched to hands-free. It was his boss, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.
“Sir,” he said. Then, “Guv, you know I’m taking a few days’ holiday this week.”
But Childs knew that, of course, and had worked out exactly where he was likely to be at that moment. And as he listened, Kincaid realized he might as well give in gracefully. When his guv’nor wanted a personal favor, there was no one more determinedly persuasive. Resistance was futile, and besides, he knew Childs wouldn’t ask if he didn’t feel it was important.
Nodding, he took in the details, then said, “Right. I’ll get back to you,” and rang off.
He felt Kit’s stare even as the connection went dead. “We’ve got to make a stop in Henley,” he explained. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Kit looked away, his face expressionless. “Gemma won’t be best pleased,” he said.
Gemma, Kincaid thought, was not the only one who was going to be unhappy.
The Jolly Gardeners was very jolly indeed, thought Doug Cullen. The front beer garden could double as a nursery, and as they’d not yet had a hard frost, many of the plants and hanging baskets were still in bloom. But the furniture was wet from the morning’s rain, the wind swung the baskets like metronomes, and the only occupants of the patio were die-hard smokers huddled at one of the tables nearest the building.
Ushering Melody inside, he saw that the pub’s interior was as appealing as the outside—brick walls, wood floors, a long, gleaming bar, and simple but comfortable-looking mismatched furniture. There was no television in sight, and the pub was pleasantly busy for a weekday lunchtime.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, pleased with his choice. When they’d picked a table near the garden windows—Doug carefully avoiding the snogging sofa—and Melody was examining the menu on the blackboard above the fireplace, he studied her. Now that she’d taken off her coat, he tried to work out what seemed different about her since he had last seen her.
She’d abandoned her usual severely tailored suit, for one thing, and wore casual trousers with a cherry-colored cardigan that set off her dark hair and pale skin. Her hair looked a bit less sleekly tamed as well, but perhaps that was just the wind, or his imagination.
“Very gastro pub,” Melody said, but she seemed pleased. “And I’ve just realized I’m starving. I think I’ll have a burger. And after that, if I’ve the room, the Eton Mess.”
“That’s a summer pudding,” he said.
“Nevertheless, it’s on the menu, and I want it. I thought you were indulging me.”
“So I am.” Unable to concentrate on the menu, Doug opted for a ploughman’s. When he’d ordered the meals and half pints for them both at the bar, he carried the beer back to the table carefully, trying not to slosh it.
“Cheers.” Melody lifted her glass, and he clinked his against it. “To your new house.”
“And your new job.” He touched his glass to hers once more, then sipped. “So how is the job?”
“I’ve missed Gemma. But when the posting for Project Sapphire came up, it sounded interesting, and I’ve loved it.”
Just the idea of interviewing victims of sexual assault made Doug feel uncomfortable. “Isn’t it hard, talking to women about what’s happened to them?”
“Not only women,” she corrected. “Men, too, although it happens less often, and they’re more reluctant to file a report.” She paused, sipping a little more of her beer as the barmaid brought their cutlery, then continued, “And yes, of course it’s hard. But the fact that they’ve come forward is progress. And besides, I’m mostly working cold cases. I try to find matches between newly reported assaults and unsolved cases. When we get a result, it’s brilliant. We may be able to put away a guy who’s been preying on women for years.”
Their food arrived, and as Melody ate bites of her oozing hamburger with surprising delicacy, Doug wished he’d ordered something a bit less crumbly than the ploughman’s. The Cheddar and Stilton were delicious, the bread crusty and warm, but every time he took a bite he showered himself with crumbs.
Making a futile attempt to brush off his tie, he looked up and saw a glint of amusement in Melody’s eyes. Instead of bristling, he smiled back. “Can’t take me anywhere. Not that I expect to be going anywhere much,” he added, sobering. “They’re sticking me on Superintendent Slater’s team while Duncan’s on leave.”
“You don’t fancy him?”
“He doesn’t fancy Duncan, nor me by association. He’s a by-the-book kind of guy.”
“And you’re not?” Melody looked surprised.
“No, I’m bloody well not,” he said, instantly defensive.
She put down her knife and fork and frowned at him. “Doug, I’ve never seen such a stickler for the rules as you. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s part of what makes you good at your job.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” His tone was accusing, but he couldn’t call it back.
“I don’t make a habit of breaking rules,” she said sharply. “And when I have, I’ve regretted it. You know that.” The camaraderie between them had vanished like smoke. “And as for Duncan,” she added, “he may bend little rules now and again, but he doesn’t break the big ones.”
“So how do you know where to draw the line?” Doug asked, wanting to reestablish the connection he had so clumsily broken. “I’m not trying to take the mickey here. I really want to know. Every time I think I’ve got it right, I seem to screw up.”
Melody sat back, picked up her cutlery again, fiddled with a bit of lettuce on her plate. She met his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, without her usual assurance. “Surely it depends on the situation.”
“But you must be ab
le to set some sort of—”
His phone rang. Why the hell hadn’t he put it on Silent? Grimacing, he started to ignore it, then remembered he was still officially at work.
“You’d better answer it.” Melody pushed her plate away.
When he saw the ID, Doug muttered, “Bloody hell.”
“Somehow,” said Melody, “I think you’re going to owe me an Eton Mess.”
Gemma had spent the hour since Kincaid’s phone call alternately grumbling to herself and trying to jolly the restless and increasingly cranky children in the Escort’s backseat. When her phone rang, she’d been a few minutes behind Kincaid on the M4. Toby and Charlotte had insisted on stopping at the first services on the motorway, although she suspected their demands had more to do with the siren lure of sweets than a need for the toilet.
“You simply cannot have let Denis Childs talk you into taking a case,” she’d said, trying to keep her voice level when he’d explained his change of plans. “Not today. Not this week.”
“I’m not taking a case. I’m simply seeing if there is a case. Look, Gem, I’m sorry. But it’s not far out of the way. Kit can go home with you, and I’ll follow on as soon as I’ve got things sorted.” He sounded contrite, reasonable, and persuasive, all of which irritated her more.
There had been no choice but to agree to meet him, as she couldn’t very well leave Kit cooling his heels at a crime scene. Or a potential crime scene. “And what would he have done if I hadn’t been so conveniently to hand?” she’d muttered when she’d hung up. “Dropped Kit off on the roadside somewhere?”
“Who’s going to leave Kit on the road, Mummy?” said Toby, and she realized there had been a sudden cessation of the teasing and giggling in the backseat.
“I want Kit,” chimed in Charlotte, sounding apprehensive. “Where’s Kit?”
“And you’ll have him soon enough, lovey,” Gemma reassured her. “We’re just going to pick him up in a bit, and have a nice drive.”
“We’re already having a drive.” This from Toby, as always the logician.
“Well, a different drive. You’ll see.”
“What about Daddy, then? Is he going to walk?”
Gemma had never insisted that Toby call Duncan Dad, but lately he’d been copying Kit and she certainly hadn’t discouraged it. Toby’s dad had run out on them when Toby was a tiny infant, and Duncan had been a part of their lives as long as Toby could remember, so it seemed only natural for him. It had been harder, she supposed, for Kit, who had not known that Duncan was his father until his mother died three years ago.
At the moment, however, she could think of other, more appropriate monikers for her newly wedded husband, but she kept them to herself. “He’s going to stay with the new car.”
“I want to ride in the new car,” said Toby, happy to go back to the grievance that had occupied him for the first part of the return journey. “Why did Kit get to?”
“Because I needed you to be my navigator. And now I need you to watch for the motorway signs. Junction 10.”
Toby was quite proud of his ability to read the numbers on the motorway signs, and he settled back contentedly enough to watch for their exit, counting to himself in a singsong.
By the time Gemma reached the junction, however, there was no sound from the back at all, and when she glanced round she saw that both children had fallen asleep. Just brilliant, she thought. They’d wake up when she stopped for Kit, then they’d be fractious the rest of the way to London.
And poor Kit. He was bound to be disappointed, not only deprived of time alone with his dad but having to be collected by the roadside like an inconvenient parcel.
Leaving the motorway, she concentrated on remembering Kincaid’s brief directions, but it was easy enough to follow the road signs towards Henley. By the time she reached Wargrave, the dual carriageway had shrunk to a narrow road that dipped and turned though high banks of hedges and avenues of golden trees. A pub, St. George and the Dragon, flashed by on her left, and beside it she glimpsed the river and the bright colors of moored narrowboats. As the village vanished behind her, she felt she was sinking inexorably into the heart of the countryside, and she had an uneasy sense of déjà vu.
Before she could pursue the thought, she was turning into the Henley Road, the river before her.
Crossing the bridge, she only glimpsed the river, the view broken by the railings so that it looked like a juddery old film. Then she was across it, and the town center flashed by her; the pretty flower-bedecked pub by the bridge, the square of the church tower, a blur of shops and restaurants, the bulk of the town hall sitting astride the top of the square as if asserting its proprietary rights.
She turned right as she left the town behind, and was soon running along another narrow, leafy road cloaked in autumnal colors, her sense of prickly familiarity increasing.
She slowed at the signpost for Hambleden, as Kincaid had directed, then braked sharply as she rounded the next bend. The police cars were clustered on the verges, positioned at odd angles as if they had been scooped willy-nilly from the narrow lane and dropped. Their blue lights strobed like distress signals aimed at the lowering gray sky.
This time she had no doubt she’d reached the crime scene. The green Astra sat among the Thames Valley Police patrol cars, as plain as a female peacock against the bright blue and yellow Battenburg livery of the official vehicles.
Kit was leaning against the Astra, hands in the pockets of his anorak, his downcast face brightening when he saw her.
Gemma lowered her window and showed her identification to the uniformed constable on the scene, then eased her Escort onto the verge as close to the Astra as she could. The children hadn’t stirred, so she slipped quietly out of the car, holding her finger to her lips as she walked towards Kit.
“I don’t want to wake them if I can help it,” she said. Then, glancing at the Astra, she grinned at Kit. “It is a bit hideous, isn’t it?”
“A bit?” He shook his head in disgust, but his face relaxed into what might almost have been a smile.
“Will you watch the little ones while I find your dad and see what’s going on?” she asked.
“He wouldn’t let me go with him,” said Kit, but he sounded more resigned than sullen. He pointed towards a narrow passageway that ran between the redbrick houses nearest the formation of police cars. “It’s through there. The river’s just the other side but you can’t see it from here.”
Gemma gave his arm a pat. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” She glanced once more at the children, still sleeping soundly. “Kit, if they wake, make sure to keep them in the car,” she added.
She followed Kit’s directions, ducking into the graveled passageway. After a moment, she rounded a bend and saw the Thames spread before her, wide and still except where the water cascaded over the weir.
From the near bank, a metal-railed concrete walkway zigzagged across the water, traversing the river, then the weir, until it reached the lock on the far side, and as Gemma gazed across it, she realized at last why the drive from Henley had seemed so familiar.
She had been here before.
There had been a body in this place, in this lock, a case that had led to secrets in the heart of the Chiltern Hills—a case that had propelled her and Duncan from a comfortable relationship as working partners into something much more complicated, something that had terrified her.
And there had been a woman involved, Julia Swann, an enigmatic artist whose relationship with Duncan had been, Gemma suspected, more than professional.
But that had been a long time ago. And water under the bridge, Gemma told herself, appreciating the irony as she stepped out onto the narrow walkway. She moved quickly, keeping her eyes off the roiling water as she reached the weir. As the walkway twisted, she realized she could see people clustered on the far bank, beyond the lock.
There were uniformed officers on the path on either side of the lock, discouraging the groups of curious bystanders who were beginnin
g to gather. A child pointed, and as Gemma followed his gesture, she saw two dogs in orange SAR vests, a German shepherd and a black Labrador retriever, and their handlers, a man and a woman in black uniforms. She couldn’t read the insignia on the handlers’ jackets, but assumed they were volunteer search and rescue. The woman stood, the German shepherd sitting beside her, but the man sat with his head in his hands, the Labrador nudging at his arm.
A few yards from them, Kincaid was instantly recognizable, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket in a posture reminiscent of Kit’s, his hair ruffled by the gusty wind blowing down the river. Beside him stood a small Asian man in an ill-fitting buff-colored overcoat that screamed copper—he might as well have been wearing a uniform.
Two white-suited crime-scene techs worked in the lee of the tangle of trees and brush at the water’s edge below the lock, one snapping away with a camera at something on the ground. As Gemma drew nearer, she saw that there was a man kneeling between them, obscuring the object of their interest.
He wore jeans and a scruffy leather jacket, and his blue-black hair was gelled into spikes—all in odd contrast to the medical bag beside him—and she recognized him, too. Rashid Kaleem, the Home Office pathologist they had worked with on the case involving Charlotte’s parents.
Looking up, Kincaid caught sight of her. He lifted a hand in greeting, then said something to the overcoated man, who turned and gave her a brief glance. Gemma realized she must look as scruffy as Rashid. She wore jeans as well; her hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, and, unprepared for the torrential rain in Glastonbury, she’d borrowed an old Barbour from Winnie. But then she hadn’t expected to be making an appearance at a murder inquiry.
When she reached the towpath, both men came to meet her.
“Gemma, this is Inspector Singla,” Kincaid said.
She held out her hand. “Gemma James.”
Singla touched her fingers as briefly as courtesy would allow, then frowned at Kincaid. “Superintendent, I’m not sure it is appropriate for a civilian—”
“My wife,” Kincaid said with the careful emphasis that Gemma knew meant the man had already begun to try his patience, “is a detective inspector with the Met. And I would appreciate her professional opinion.”
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