“Beautifully,” said Gemma.
“Except that good nurses demand high wages, and my profit margin is very, very slim.” Martha leaned forward and crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray. “It’s not exactly the Ritz around here. You might have noticed. I’ll need a few more years of good luck and hard work if I want to provide comfortably for my old age.” She smiled as she spoke, but it didn’t conceal the worry in her eyes.
The flat, although small and cluttered, looked scrupulously clean, and the furnishings were of good quality if rather conventional taste. “It could be worse, as far as temporary situations go,” said Gemma with an answering smile, and she felt Martha relax a little further. “Tell me, Miss Trevellyan—”
“Actually, it’s Mrs.—I’ve been divorced for donkey’s years. Raised two kids by myself, but now they’re both out and educated I could afford to take a risk.” She nodded toward her work area. “Call me Martha, why don’t you. I’ll feel less like I’m in the dock.”
Gemma didn’t mind conceding to her small request. It was common enough, and seemed to help close the gap people felt between themselves and the police. “How did you acquire Jasmine Dent as a patient, Martha?”
“Doctor’s referral, if I remember correctly. I can check my files.” Lighting another cigarette, she stood and went to one of the metal cabinets beside her desk. She pulled open a drawer and ran her fingers along the colored tabs before extracting a medical chart. “Dr. Gwilym, all right. Cancer specialist. He’s sent quite a few my way.”
“Was there anything unusual about Jasmine’s case?”
Martha thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, not really. By the time we get them, there’s not usually much chance of remission. She was in good hands with Felicity.” At Gemma’s inquiring look, she continued. “Felicity Howarth’s my best nurse. I pretty much let her pick and choose which cases she wants, according to her schedule and what’s geographically convenient for her.” Thoughtfully, she added, “And it’s also a matter of personal preference. All nurses have them. Felicity does particularly well with cancer patients.”
“Did Felicity Howarth choose Jasmine’s case?”
“As far as I can remember. Felicity’s been carrying an especially heavy caseload lately. I thought it might be a bit much for her, but she insisted. Said she needed the money.”
“Do you know why?”
Hesitating, Martha stubbed out her cigarette before she answered. “I don’t feel comfortable giving out personal details about my employees.” Gemma waited in silence, and after a moment Martha sighed and said, “Well, I don’t really see what harm it can do. I know Felicity has a son in a private nursing home, some sort of childhood injury. Maybe the fees have gone up. It must cost her a bundle anyway.” Then she added a little combatively, “But I don’t know that that’s what she wanted the money for. She could be saving for a cruise, for all I know. I’m sure she deserves it.”
Don’t we all, thought Gemma, trying to ignore the growing hunger signals from her stomach. “One more thing, Martha. About the morphine. How easily could Jasmine have saved enough morphine to kill herself?”
Martha Trevellyan lit another cigarette, and Gemma saw the return of tension in the sharpness of her movements. “Look. You have to understand. When the doctor orders unlimited self-administered morphine for a terminal patient, we have no real way of monitoring how they use it. Miss Dent could have requested more morphine while actually keeping her dosage the same. It happens. More often, honestly, than any of us like to admit. What are you going to do, slap their hands? Most of them do it as insurance, in case the pain becomes more than they can bear. And in Jasmine’s case, because of the position of the tumor, the pain probably would have been very bad indeed.”
Martha Trevellyan’s account of Jasmine’s treatment and condition tallied with Felicity Howarth’s, but Gemma still felt curious about Home-Care’s system. “Who’s responsible for acquiring drugs for the patients?”
“I am. I keep a log, and the staff sign it when they make a withdrawal. Then I do a regular cross-check between the patients’ charts and the medication log.”
“No discrepancies?” Gemma asked.
“None,” Martha Trevellyan said flatly. She drew on her cigarette, then tapped it several times against the lip of the ashtray. “Just how far is this inquiry going to go, Sergeant? Are we accused of anything?”
“Felicity Howarth will have to appear at the inquest tomorrow and make a statement as to Jasmine Dent’s treatment and state of mind. After that,” Gemma shrugged, “it will depend on the coroner’s ruling.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Martha said, disconcerted. “But then that’s Felicity for you—she wouldn’t have wanted to worry me.” She studied Gemma for a moment, squinting against the rising smoke as she ground her cigarette out in the ashtray. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are you lot spending your time on a simple suicide? Surely you have more important things to do?”
“Felicity didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“There’s a possibility the suicide may have been assisted, and that’s a felony offence.” Gemma made a silent wager on Kincaid’s intuition. “Or it may not have been suicide at all, but murder.”
There was no word from Kincaid when Gemma got back to the Yard. She shook her head as she thought about his morning call from the car. Dorset? He’d accused her of chasing after wild hares often enough, but she couldn’t remember ever driving across three counties on a moment’s whim.
It worried her, this obsession he seemed to be developing about Jasmine Dent’s past. He’d not spoken to her about Jasmine’s journals since she’d helped him carry them up to his flat. Had he found some clue in Jasmine’s early life, or was it just morbid curiosity, an attempt to resurrect a girl he hadn’t known? Remembering the photo she’d found face-down in Jasmine’s bureau drawer, Gemma still couldn’t say what had kept her from showing it to him. Had it been for his sake, or her own?
She’d taken refuge in Kincaid’s empty office, and the silence gave her no answer.
Gemma sat up smartly in Kincaid’s chair and shrugged off her uncharacteristic mood. It was probably just the curry she’d eaten on a too-empty stomach. She had problems enough without taking on his. She’d write up a report of the morning’s interview, and if Kincaid hadn’t called by the time she’d finished, she just might get away early.
After she picked up Toby at the sitter’s in Hackney, Gemma headed east toward Leyton. Anxious as she had been to leave the Yard, the thought of the long evening at home suddenly palled.
Leyton High Street hadn’t changed much since her childhood. The red-rick shop-fronts had sprouted a few more wire safety-grills, the Chinese take-away had been replaced by a Greek gyros, a shop that Gemma remembered as selling knitted goods now displayed neon-sprayed T-shirts in its windows—but the basic character had remained the same. Once a village in its own right, Leyton had been absorbed by London long ago, and only the High Street served as a reminder of its former identity.
Her mum and dad had owned the bakery on the High since before Gemma was born, and she’d grown up in the rooms above the shop, smelling sausage rolls, and pork pies, and fresh bread even in her sleep. She’d worked in the shop after school, and even now she felt her father’s disappointment that neither of his daughters had cared to stay in the business.
Gemma left the car in the public carpark and walked to the shop, Toby holding her hand and pretending to hop like a kangaroo every few feet. The day’s persistent drizzle had stopped, and by the time Gemma reached the shop some of her earlier unease had lifted. It was a few minutes before closing time and her mum was still behind the counter, busy with last minute customers.
“Gemma! What a nice surprise. Toby, love, give Granny a kiss, there’s a good boy.” Vi Walters wiped a hand across her perspiring brow and said to Gemma, “Could you give us a hand, love? It’s a bit of a panic just now.”
“Sure, Mum.” Gemma alwa
ys had to repress a smile at the thought of her grandparents’ stubbornness in naming their carrot-haired daughter so inappropriately. Violet had become Vi as soon as she was old enough to express an opinion and had stayed so ever since, although the ginger curls were fading slowly into gray.
“Where’s Dad?” Gemma asked as she came round the counter and tied on a white apron. Toby headed straight for the toy basket kept for the purpose of entertaining him and his two small cousins.
“In the back. Slicing bread for Mrs. Tibbit. You can stay for tea, can’t you, love?”
Nodding yes, Gemma took the last customer’s order. Her parents’ routine never varied—close the shop, have tea as soon as her mum could get it on the table, then settle down for the evening in front of the telly. Gemma found it both irritating and comforting.
This evening was no exception, and half an hour after closing they sat at the red Formica table in the flat’s kitchen, eating buttered toast, boiled eggs and jam-filled cake. Gemma had eaten her childhood meals at the same table, spilled her milk on the same lino floor. All her mother’s time and energy went into the shop, not into what she referred to as “tarting the place up”. The bakery’s reputation reflected her mother’s care, and Gemma supposed she and her sister hadn’t really suffered as a result. Her sister—
Gemma’s thought came to a guilty halt. “How is Cyn?” she asked as she helped her mum with the washing up.
Her mother gave her that sideways look of disapproval that could still make her cringe. “You could pick up the phone and ring her yourself. I hadn’t noticed your fingers were broken.”
“I know, Mum.” Gemma sighed. “Just tell me.”
“You just missed her, you know. She was here last night with the little ones. That new salon seems to be working out a treat for her. She’s already had a rise, and the manager says …”
Out of long habit, Gemma made interested noises in the proper places, her mind somewhere else altogether.
“Gemma, you’ve not listened to a word I’ve said.” Her mother looked more carefully at her, concern replacing the exasperation in her expression. “You’ve been quiet as the tomb all evening, come to think of it. Are you all right, love?”
Gemma hesitated, torn between her need to confide and reluctance to give her mother ammunition. The fact that her marriage had failed while her sister’s remained intact was a constant sore spot with her mum, although Gemma didn’t see that her brother-in-law was such a prize—he was a lazy lout who spent more time on the dole than he did on the job.
Need won out. “I think Rob’s skipped out on me, Mum. It’s been months since he’s sent any money for Toby, and I don’t know how much longer I can manage things the way they are.”
Instead of answering, Vi ran some water in the electric kettle and pulled two mugs off the shelf. “Sit down. We’ll have another cup.”
Gemma almost laughed. Tea, the universal problem solver. Her mother never dealt with anything unless fortified by strong, sweet tea. From the sitting room she heard her father’s voice and Toby’s giggle, then the opening music from Coronation Street. Her mum was making a real sacrifice.
“Have you looked for him?” asked Vi as she sat opposite Gemma and pushed her cup across to her.
“Of course I have. I tell you he’s done a skip, Mum. Left his job, no forwarding address, no phone number. I’ve talked to everyone I can think of who knows him—nothing.”
“His mum?”
“If she knows anything she’s not telling me, and it’s her grandchild that’s going to suffer, for god’s sake. How could he do this to us? The bastard.” Gemma felt her throat tighten, heard the threat of tears in her voice. She gulped down tea so hot it scalded her mouth.
“Just how bad it is it, Gem?”
Gemma shrugged. “The mortgage is high, even if the place is a hole. One of Rob’s great investment ideas—I’d lose everything if I had to sell it. But it’s Toby’s care that eats me up, not just regular days but nights and weekends when I have to work.”
Vi took a sip of her tea. “Could you find something less expensive?”
Shaking her head vehemently, Gemma said, “No. It’s not as good as it should be, even with what I’m paying.”
“Gemma,” Vi said slowly, “you know we’d look after him. You only have to ask.”
She met her mother’s eyes, then looked away. “I couldn’t do that, Mum. I’d feel … I just couldn’t.”
“Think about it, anyway, love. Even as a temporary measure.”
Temptation rose before Gemma. It would be an easy out, but it would mean a loss of independence that she didn’t want to consider. She took a breath and smiled at her mother. “I’ll keep it in mind, Mum. Thanks.”
Twilight was falling as Kincaid joined the North Circular Road. The journey back from Dorset had seemed interminable, and after miles of listening to his own thoughts make the same repetitive loop, jockeying for position in London traffic came as a welcome antidote.
He escaped the main artery and crossed the relative quiet of Golders Green into North Hampstead. When he reached the junction of North End Way and Heath Street, he made an impulsive left turn. Spaniard’s Road ran like a bridge across the top of the darkening Heath, isolated, empty of traffic. A white face flashed in his headlights—a solitary figure waiting at a bus stop—then the jut of the Bishop’s tollgate into the road and he was negotiating the bustle of the Spaniards Inn carpark. As Kincaid pulled up the car, the door of the old pub opened, spilling a wave of light, warmth, and savory smells into the night.
A few minutes later, balancing a plate of sausage, chips and salad, and a pint, Kincaid squeezed his way into a seat at a single table. Back to the wall, he could watch the room as he ate. He was always more comfortable as observer rather than observed, and the mill of activity allowed his mind to wander.
Had today brought him any closer to finding the real Jasmine? Tantalizing disconnected images ran through his mind—Jasmine’s face framed in the window of the Briantspuddle cottage; Jasmine’s dark hair swinging to cover her face as she bent over the typewriter in Rawlinson’s office; Jasmine propped up in bed in the Hampstead flat, laughing as he told her some exaggerated story from work. If he dug long enough and deep enough, would all the little pieces finally fit together to make a whole? Was there any such thing as a definitive person—could one ever say that this was Jasmine, and not that?
He realized that some of the melancholy restlessness that had been riding him since he left Dorset had to do with a growing reluctance to continue reading Jasmine’s journals. Everything he learned increased his perception of her as an intensely private, even secretive person, and his sense of trespass became ever more pronounced.
He found himself staring absently at two girls ordering food at the counter. One had orange hair cropped almost to her skull, the other a straight fall of fair hair halfway down her back. Spandex minis left their legs bare from the buttocks down, in spite of the chill, damp evening. He supposed vanity provided them sufficient internal warmth—what bothered him was not the likelihood of their catching a chill, but that he’d no idea how long they’d stood there before he noticed them. He must be getting old.
The sight of the girl’s long blond hair triggered the usual response—a déjà vu of pain shut off almost before it became conscious. Vic. How odd to have this insight into Jasmine’s innermost thoughts, when he had never known what his own wife was thinking. His relationship with Jasmine had in some perverse way become more intimate than marriage.
Kincaid mopped up the last bit of chip and sausage with his fork. Reluctant or not, he would go home and pick up the journals where he had left off. It was impossible now to leave the job unfinished, the life not followed to its conclusion. A feeling of urgency, almost of necessity, compelled him.
For months after Jasmine’s settling in London, the journal entries reminded Kincaid of the daybooks kept by Victorian wives. Bought curtains for flat. Spent ten pounds to furnish kitchen with necessari
es. Enough left to pay rates? Gaps appeared, then finally the entries began again, undated, sporadic and disconnected. Kincaid skimmed the pages, stopping occasionally to read an entry more carefully.
May’s dead, just like Father now. Should feel something, I suppose, but I don’t. Just blank. Did she know she was dying? Was she frightened, or did she stay starched as a preacher’s drawers even at the end? Did she think of me? Was she sorry?
Could I have loved her, if I had tried harder?
Won’t go back, not even for Theo.
* * *
This city seems to breed solitude in its slick, wet streets, in the cold that inhabits the stones. You could pass your whole life here, faceless, unrecognized, unacknowledged. I walk the same way to work every day, stop in the same shops, but I’m still a stranger, just “Miss.”
The flat welcomes me home with its stink of old grease and I feed just enough coins into the electric fire to keep from freezing. Sometimes when I fall asleep I dream of India, dream I’m in my bed in the Mohur Street house, and I hear the early morning peddlers singing below my window.
I never dreamed May had so much money. Or that she would divide it equally between us. She did try to be fair, even though she didn’t feel it. I have to give her that.
Why did she squirrel it away all those years? She lived like she couldn’t buy the next day’s milk, bitched about how she couldn’t afford to keep me even when I was paying my share of the housekeeping, and all the time she had thousands of pounds sitting in the bank. The old cow.
A new flat, a groundfloor in Bayswater. Small, but clean, with sunlight through the windows, and the tiny patch of back garden has a plum tree just beginning to bloom. Look forward to coming home to a simple meal I’ve made myself, a glass of wine, everything just the way I want it. Safe. For the first time I feel a sliver of hope that life here might not always be so dreary, then there’s the nagging reminder that May’s money made it possible. I used it for the down-payment, but I won’t spend more. Determined to live off my wages, not use the principal. Theo’s already asking for loans against his balance, can’t say no to him. He seems so lost.
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