All Shall Be Well

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid found the Bayswater address, a ground floor flat in a once-residential townhouse, without difficulty. To his surprise, the brass nameplate simply bore the legend ‘Antony Thomas, Solicitor’. Somehow he’d expected a high-powered string of names.

  The receptionist took Kincaid’s name, her dark eyes widening as she looked at his warrant card. Very young, very pretty, very likely Pakistani, Kincaid thought. She glanced at him nervously every so often as he waited patiently in the straight-backed chair. When her intercom buzzed she ushered him into the inner office with obvious relief.

  “What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Antony Thomas greeted Kincaid with a smile and a handshake. “Do have a seat. Though if it’s police business I can’t imagine how I could help.”

  Kincaid sat in the wing chair angled comfortably in front of the desk and considered Thomas. Another preconception shattered, although why his knowledge of Jasmine should have led him to expect a gruff old family retainer, he didn’t know. Antony Thomas was slender, middle-aged, with a fringe of dark hair surrounding a shiny, bald pate, and a trace of Welsh lilt in his voice.

  “Not entirely official business, Mr. Thomas,” Kincaid began, and proceeded to tell him the circumstances of Jasmine Dent’s death.

  Thomas absorbed the tale in silence, and when Kincaid had finished sat a few moments longer, pulling at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke his voice was soft, the lilt more pronounced. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Kincaid. I knew her situation, of course, but still one is never quite prepared. Had you known Jasmine long?”

  The question surprised Kincaid. “Not long, no. Just since her illness forced her to leave work.”

  Thomas sighed and looked down as he straightened the pens on his blotter. “I knew her a very long time, Mr. Kincaid. More than twenty years. My office was in the same street as the chartered accountant she worked for at the time—Jasmine always had a head for figures. She first came to me over the settlement of her aunt’s estate. What a lovely girl she was then, you should have seen her.” He raised his head, his brown eyes engaging Kincaid’s. “I was already married, with two small children,” he passed a hand over the top of his head and smiled, “and hair, if you can believe that, but I must admit I was sorely tempted. Not to give you the wrong impression—I’m sure the fantasy was strictly on my part. But we did become friends over the years.”

  “Did she talk to you about suicide, Mr. Thomas? Or give you any documents stating her intent to commit suicide?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No, she did not. I would have been very distressed.”

  Kincaid crossed his foot over his knee and straightened the crease in his trouser leg, thinking how best to approach the next bit. “I know it’s a delicate matter, Mr. Thomas, but I need to know how Jasmine left her affairs, and if she carried any life insurance. I found no copy of a will or insurance policy in the flat.” He pulled the warrant from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it across the desk to Thomas. “I think you’ll find everything in order.”

  Thomas scanned the paper, then pushed his intercom. “Hareem, bring in the files for Jasmine Dent, would you please.” Clicking off, he spoke to Kincaid. “I don’t like it, but I’ll give you what I can.”

  Hareem came in with the file, giving Kincaid another curious glance from under her lashes before shutting the door.

  Thomas shuffled through the papers, nodding as he found the familiar drafts, then looked up at Kincaid with an expression of surprise. “She’s named you executor, Mr. Kincaid. I thought your name seemed familiar.”

  “Me?” Kincaid said more loudly than he intended. “But why—” He stopped himself. There had been no one else she had trusted as competent and impartial. “Didn’t she have to inform me?”

  “No. But you can refuse, if you want.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “No. I’ll carry out her wishes, though it does complicate things a bit.”

  Antony Thomas smiled. “Good. Let me give it to you as simply as I can, then.

  “Jasmine made a new will in the autumn. She arranged to pay off the mortgage on her brother’s business. Except for a couple of small bequests, the remainder of her estate goes to Miss Margaret Bellamy.”

  “Is there quite a bit?” Kincaid asked, a little surprised.

  “Well, as I said, Jasmine had a knack for these things. It includes stocks and shares and the equity in the Carlingford Road flat. She and her brother both received a tidy nest egg when their aunt died. Jasmine invested it well, and she made a good income from her work. I don’t believe she spent much on herself—in fact, except for the disbursements to her brother, I don’t think she spent much at all.”

  Kincaid sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You mean financing Theo’s shop wasn’t the first time she’d lent him money?”

  Thomas shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no. Not by any means. In fact, after I had helped her settle her aunt’s affairs, she retained me to salvage some of his investment in a psychedelic nightclub. In Chelsea, I think it was.”

  “Theo? A psychedelic club?” Kincaid said, astonished.

  “Nineteen sixty-seven or sixty-eight, that would have been. I had very little success, I’m afraid, and if I remember correctly, that was the last of a string of bad investments with his aunt’s money.” Thomas snapped his fingers. “All gone, and in a very short time, too. After that, Jasmine funded him in various schemes—he went to art school and she supported him for a while, but his painting wasn’t terribly successful.”

  Kincaid found the idea of Theo painting less ludicrous than Theo running a trendy disco. “Have you ever met Theo?”

  “A few times, when he came in with Jasmine to sign papers, but I haven’t seen him in several years.”

  “Did Jasmine give you any idea how the shop was doing?”

  Thomas shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I only saw her the one time after her illness was diagnosed, and she didn’t stay longer than necessary. I found her very … reticent.”

  Not wanting to discuss her illness with an old friend, Kincaid wondered, or not wanting to explain the change in her will? “Did you not find it odd, Mr. Thomas, Jasmine not making better provision for Theo?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. She did say something rather cryptic, now that I think about it. Something about it ‘being a bit late to cut the strings, but necessary all the same’. And then there was the life insur—”

  “Jasmine carried life insurance?” Kincaid leaned forward, hands on the edge of the chair seat.

  Shrinking back a bit, Thomas said, “Yes, she—”

  “Theo the beneficiary?”

  Thomas nodded. “But it wasn’t all that much, Mr. Kincaid, only twenty thousand pounds.”

  Kincaid deliberately relaxed again, leaning back in the chair and resting his chin on his joined fingertips. “Mr. Thomas,” he said carefully, “does that policy carry a suicide exclusion clause?”

  Frowning, Thomas turned the pages in the folder. “Here it is.” He read for a few minutes, then looked up at Kincaid. “Yes. A two-year exclusion clause. And the policy was issued two years ago last month.”

  They looked at each other in silence until Thomas spoke, distress in his voice. “Surely Jasmine can’t have planned … she wouldn’t have known she was ill…”

  “Perhaps she felt something wasn’t quite as it should be.” The first nagging symptoms, Kincaid thought, and the fear of seeing a doctor. “Did Theo know about the policy?” And, Kincaid wondered, did he know it carried an exclusion clause?

  CHAPTER

  9

  As a child, Gemma had been intrigued by the idea of St. John’s Wood. Pop stars lived there, and television celebrities. The name itself had fairy-tale connotations, and made her think of dark, arching trees and hidden cottages.

  The reality, as she discovered when she was a bit older, was quite a disappointment. Ordinary upper-middle-class homes in ordinary streets, rapidly encr
oached upon by complexes of luxury, high-rise flats. She found the address Kincaid had coaxed from Margaret Bellamy on the phone, and a not-too-distant parking space for her car.

  The house, built of white stone with pseudo-Greek columns fronting it, looked expensive and not terribly well-kept. Close-up the whitewash revealed scaly, diseased patches and weeds flourished in the cracked walk. Gemma rang the bell and held her cardigan closed against the wind as she waited. The hollow echo of the bell died away and Gemma had raised her hand to ring again when she heard the staccato click of heels on a hard floor. The door flew open, revealing a thin woman with a helmet of bottle-blond hair. She wore a white denim jumpsuit, the front of which displayed a starburst pattern in gold brads.

  “What is it?” The woman’s foot, clad in a gold sandal with spike heels, began a furious tapping against the tile.

  Gemma, thrusting away speculation as to how anyone could walk in stilts like that without permanent spinal damage, brought her eyes back to the woman’s face and smiled as she flipped open her warrant card. “Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Kincaid had said that Roger Leveson-Gower lived with his mum. While the woman was opening her mouth to retort, Gemma continued. “Are you Mrs. Leveson-Gower?”

  “Of course I am. Whatever it is you—”

  “If I could just come in for a few minutes,” Gemma had already inserted her navy pump into the hall, her body following smoothly, “I’m sure this won’t take much of your time.” She shut the door with a decisive click, thinking that if she ever decided to give up police work she’d have a hell of an edge selling vacuum cleaners.

  Mrs. Leveson-Gower opened her mouth to protest, then shrugged. “All right, if you must. But make it quick—I’ve an appointment.” She glanced pointedly at her watch as she led Gemma through an open door on the right.

  White, white and more white—the room’s mirrored walls reflected white, linen-covered furniture and white, plush carpet, a snow queen’s lair, thought Gemma, suitable for a not-so-enchanted wood. Mrs. Leveson-Gower sank down on one of the white sofas, crossed her knees and propped a foot on the edge of a glass and chrome coffee table. She did not invite Gemma to sit.

  Gemma perched on the edge of the opposite sofa and took notebook and pen from her handbag, refusing to be rushed by the woman’s obvious impatience. “Mrs. Leveson-Gower,” Gemma said, pronouncing it ‘Loos-n-gor’ as Kincaid had coached her. ‘They’ll sneer at you if you get it wrong,’ he’d said, ‘and you can’t afford to let Roger have the upper hand’. “Does your son Roger live here with you?”

  The scarlet toenails on Mrs. Leveson-Gower’s sandaled foot began a rhythmic jiggling, but her tone remained belligerent. “Roger? Why on earth do you want to know?”

  “Just a routine inquiry, Mrs.—”

  “Inquiry into what, for heaven’s sake?” The errant foot stilled suddenly.

  If not for the mask of irritation etched into her features, Mrs. Leveson-Gower would have been a strikingly beautiful woman. An extremely well-preserved late forties, Gemma guessed, and the tautness of the skin over the bones spoke of expensive lifts and tucks. “An acquaintance of your son’s died in questionable circumstances last Thursday evening. We’re simply corroborating statements. Is he at—”

  “What station did you say you were from, Sergeant? Let me see your identification again.”

  Gemma obligingly pulled the folder from her bag and handed it across. “Not your local station, ma’am. New Scotland Yard.”

  “What division?”

  Gemma hadn’t expected such a knowledgeable question. “C1, homicide.” Mrs. Leveson-Gower went very still, and Gemma could almost hear the gears clicking in her brain.

  “You’re not going to speak to my son without our solicitor present.” She stood up and started toward the door, speaking over her shoulder. “You can call and make an appointment at his conven—”

  “Making arrangements for me, Mummy? I’m sure it’s not necessary.”

  The man entered the room with such smooth timing that Gemma felt sure he had been listening outside the louvered doors. He smiled at Gemma, showing even, white teeth, then turned his attention back to his mother. They faced each other silently across the expanse of white carpet like participants in a duel, then Mrs. Leveson-Gower left the room, without word or look to Gemma.

  Roger, for Gemma had no doubt as to his identity, crossed the room and stood looking casually down at Gemma. She closed her mouth with a snap. Kincaid might have warned her, the sod, before she made a ninny of herself. Roger Leveson-Gower was stunningly good-looking. She could see the resemblance to his mother in his coloring—his mother must have had the same tawny hair before she resorted to bleach—but in him every line and angle had combined to perfection.

  “I’m sure it’s not worth the bother of a solicitor, whatever it is, Constable.” He sat on arm of the sofa facing Gemma, so that she still had to look up at him.

  “Sergeant,” she said sharply, dropping her eyes and flipping open her notebook in an effort to regain control of the interview. “Last Thursday evening, Mr. Leveson-Gower. Can you tell me where you were?”

  “What’s it in aid of?” Roger asked in a tone of mild interest.

  “Jasmine Dent’s death, and your friend Margaret Bellamy’s involvement. Miss Bellamy says she agreed to help Jasmine commit suicide, but that Jasmine changed her mind and she didn’t see her after late afternoon on Thursday. Can you confirm that?”

  “Last Thursday?” Roger frowned in concentration. “No. I was on a job and then out with my mates. But Meg would never have gone through with it, you know. Hadn’t the nerve.”

  “She discussed it with you?”

  Roger smiled, including Gemma in the joke. “Noble as hell about it, too, worrying about her ethical duty to ease suffering.”

  “And that didn’t worry you? You didn’t try to talk her out of it? Assisted suicide is a criminal offence.”

  “It was all just talk, like I said, Sergeant. Meg couldn’t kill a wounded bird. There’s a yawning gap between planning and execution.” He stood and gave a cat-like stretch, then settled again on the sofa arm.

  “Just what is it you do in the evenings, Mr. Leveson-Gower?”

  Roger gave a bark of laughter. “Good god, you make it sound like I’m a ponce. Why so indignant, Sergeant?”

  Gemma felt her color rising. She sounded pompous even to herself, but the man made her throw up a full battery of defenses. Taking a breath to focus on her interview technique, she smiled at him sweetly and put the emphasis on her first word. “Are you a ponce, Mr. Leveson-Gower?”

  “Nothing so glamorous as that, Sergeant, more’s the pity.” He still sounded amused. “I set up for clubs and discos. Lights, sound equipment, you know the sort of thing. The hours suit me.”

  “And that’s where you were on Thursday evening?”

  “Yeah. Dive called The Blue Angel.” Roger raised one eyebrow with much practiced ease. “I suppose you’ll want the address? And the names of my mates?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  He gave her an address in Hammersmith, then added, “Jimmy Dawson you can find at the petrol station just off Shepherd’s Bush roundabout. We hung around at the bar till the show finished.”

  “What time would that have been?” Gemma asked, pen ready.

  Roger shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’d had a few pints, and I don’t wear a watch.” His shirt cuffs were turned back to just below his elbow, and he held up a tanned, bare wrist for Gemma’s examination.

  “And then what?”

  “I came home and put my head on the pillow, just like a good little boy.”

  Gemma allowed her skepticism to show. “Is that so? And can your mother vouch for you?”

  “I am not in the habit of registering my comings and goings with my mother. And besides, if I remember correctly, she was out that evening.”

  Under the smooth and slightly condescending reply, Gemma sensed irritation—so he was sensitive
about living in his mum’s house. She pushed her advantage. “You didn’t check in with Margaret either? Not even by phone?”

  “No. We don’t have that kind of relationship, Sergeant.” Condescension triumphed over irritation. His tone implied Gemma was a fool for expecting him to be accountable to anyone. He stood with the same easy grace as before. “Is that it, Sergeant?”

  Gemma remained planted on the sofa, notebook in hand, determined not to let him terminate the interview. “Are you sure, Mr. Leveson-Gower, that you didn’t go to Carlingford Road when you left the club that night? That you didn’t visit Jasmine yourself?”

  Roger smiled and Gemma had the unpleasant feeling the joke was on her. “No. I’ve never been to the Carlingford Road flat. You see, Sergeant, I never met Jasmine Dent at all.”

  Jimmy Dawson wore his hair in a pony-tail and looked to be in his late twenties, but those were the only similarities immediately apparent between Dawson and his friend Roger Leveson-Gower. Dawson’s accent made it obvious they hadn’t gone to the same schools.

  “’Ere, wot’s all this about?” he said warily, after Gemma had fished him from under a car in a service bay and identified herself

  “Roger Leveson-Gower.”

  “Oh, him,” Dawson said dismissively, and Gemma saw the tension drain from him. He jerked his head toward the glass-enclosed office and she followed, thankful when the door muted the roar of Shepherd’s Bush roundabout. Dawson gestured her into a cracked leather chair, wiped his hands on a greasy rag and lit a Marlboro from a pack in his shirt pocket. “What’s ’e done, then?”

  Gemma ignored the question. “Was he with you last Thursday evening, Mr. Dawson?”

  Dawson leaned against the desk and exhaled smoke from his nose while he thought about it. “Aye. And I can tell you when he left, too, ’cause he buggered off when it was his turn to buy a round.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Band took a break around nine … not long after that, I’d say.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Gemma asked, but without much hope. Even on such brief acquaintance she didn’t expect Roger to slip up so easily.