A Share In Death

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid changed in record time, even for one who was accustomed to being summoned at inopportune moments. Shoving a tie in the pocket of his tweed jacket, he locked the door of the suite behind him and ran down the stairs, escaping into the cool forecourt with a feeling of relief.

  As he nosed the Midget through the gate, he spotted Hannah walking down the road from the village. He waited, watching as she came toward him with her purposeful stride. She wore a long Aran cardigan, and the last of the sun lit the dark cap of her hair. When Hannah reached his car she opened the door and got in, without looking at him, without speaking. Kincaid drove on a half mile past the gate and pulled the car onto the verge.

  “They interviewed us, Duncan.” She spoke into the sudden silence as the engine died, her face still averted. “One by one, in Cassie’s office. They asked if we were together last night. Corroborating your statement, they said. They seemed to assume that I knew you were a policeman, and Nash, the fat one, insinuated… all sorts of things.” She looked at him then, her color rising as she spoke. “Can you imagine what a fool I felt? ‘A policeman?’ I said, like some fatuous idiot. Why did you lie to me, Duncan?”

  Kincaid stalled, gathering his thoughts. “Oh, he’s a right sod, our jolly Inspector Nash. I’m sure it’s his standard interrogation procedure, making the…” he hesitated over his choice of words, “person uncomfortable.”

  “If you mean ‘suspect’, say so. Don’t bother to mince terms with me. Besides, I thought Chief Inspector Nash said it was suicide.”

  “That’s the official line,” he said slowly. “But he has to go through the motions.” Kincaid shifted around in his seat so that he could more easily see her face in the fading light.

  “But… I would have thought that we alibied each other.”

  “The high temperature of the water is going to make establishing the exact time of death difficult. But I personally think it likely he was already dead when we were walking in the garden last night. Think about it. He would have gone to the pool between finishing up his duties and going home for the night, not too late, say ten or eleven.”

  Hannah’s face had lost its quick color. “Before he went home for the night? You don’t think… it was suicide at all, do you?”

  “I don’t think it likely, no.”

  “Oh, god. You mean somebody… did that to Sebastian while we were talking just outside? And I was acting such a silly fool.”

  “Quite probably, yes.”

  “Now it all seems so stupid and inconsequential.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead with her fingers and sagged a little in the seat.

  “We couldn’t have known. And your life isn’t trivial or inconsequential. If the things that matter to us every day weren’t important, no one’s death, Sebastian’s included, would be much loss.”

  “Could we have done anything, helped him, if we’d known?”

  Kincaid took her hand and held it in his, palm up, as if reading her fortune. “I doubt it. The shock would have been massive. His heart probably stopped almost instantly. Immediate resuscitation might have saved him, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  She withdrew from him, and her voice came, sharply now, in the near darkness. “Of course, you know about these things. You’re the expert. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  He sighed and looked away, gazing out through the smeared windscreen at the dim forms of the moors. “I didn’t deliberately intend to deceive you. I suppose I just wanted to leave my work behind for a week, to be taken, for once, at face value. You should have seen them in the lounge a few minutes ago. They didn’t know whether to spit and snarl at me for putting something over on them, or suck up and pump me for information.” He smiled. “They’ll never see me as just an ordinary mug again. From now on I’ll be a spy in the enemy’s camp. I should have known it wouldn’t work. My job’s not shed so easily.”

  “I think I see what you mean,” Hannah said, examining her fingertips. “And are you a spy in our camp?”

  “I don’t think so. Neither fish nor fowl, really. I’m certainly a nuisance as far as Nash is concerned, and the fact that I outrank him doesn’t help.”

  “What is it, by the way? Nash never said, only rather sneeringly referred to you as ‘your friend Kincaid.’

  “Superintendent.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “I know, I know,” he said before she could speak. “Newly promoted, however, so it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. I went to Bramshill.” Seeing her expression of noncomprehension, he added, “Police College, near Reading. Special Course. It accelerates promotion to Inspector by about five years.”

  What he didn’t add was that only “young officers of exceptional promise” were considered for Bramshill, and meteoric rise through the ranks was expected of its graduates. If Nash had checked his credentials he’d be aware of it, however, and would resent him all the more. “All I wanted,” he misquoted plaintively, “was a week’s holiday, and a little bit of butter for my bread.”

  It brought a smile. “Weak. But nobody can be all bad who read Milne.”

  “Truce, then?” he asked, extending his hand.

  “Yes. All right.” She clasped his hand, briefly. “I feel like a ten year old.”

  “That’s the idea.” He noted with satisfaction that some of the strain had left her face. “I’m running away.” He gestured toward his jacket. “Come to York with me for dinner, where no one knows either of us.”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s been a shocking day. I think I’d rather be alone. Just drop me at the house as you go.”

  Kincaid turned the car in the narrow lane and delivered Hannah as she asked, reaching across the Midget’s narrow passenger space to open her door and let her out. The lights glowed softly in the windows of Followdale House, as welcoming as death.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sergeant Gemma James eased her Ford Escort into a space no bigger than a motorbike. Even her deft maneuvering couldn’t quite overcome the limitations of space-when she cut the engine and jerked up the handbrake, the car’s rear end stuck out into the street at an angle. Home early, an unusual feat, and still no place to park, because her neighbor’s teenage sons had cluttered every inch of the curbside with their clunkers. Even the baby had left his tricycle overturned in the middle of the path.

  She unbuckled Toby from his carseat and lifted him from the car. Balancing the squirming toddler on one hip and her shopping on the other, she kicked the Escort’s door shut with unnecessary spite. She negotiated the path well enough until she caught her toe on the tricycle wheel, stumbled and swore.

  An alliterative name and the mortgage on the semidetached house in Leyton were about the only things Rob had left her, and the house’s attributes were dubious-a view of Lea Bridge Road, red brick, peeling paint, a shriveled patch of front garden and next-door neighbors who seemed to be running a scrap yard.

  Toby wriggled and shrieked, “Down, down,” kicking his feet against her thigh.

  “Shhh. In a minute, love, in a minute.” Gemma bounced him on her hip and jingled her keys while she hunted for the right one. As she deposited Toby on the hall floor, she felt a large damp patch on the hip of her linen jacket. “Bloody hell. That’s torn it, now,” she muttered under her breath. Toby was soaking wet, and when she scooped him up again the odor of stale urine burned her nostrils. “Bloody day care,” she said. One of Toby’s blond eyebrows lifted in such a comical expression of surprise that she had to laugh.

  “Bloody,” he repeated seriously, nodding his head.

  “Oh, lovey.” Hugging him to her fiercely, sopping nappy and all, she whispered in his ear. “Mummy’s teaching you such bad habits. But it is bloody, it really is.” She carried him upstairs to his cot and stripped him off, then sponged his damp bottom with a wipe. “You’re too big a boy to be wearing nappies. Two already, aren’t you, love? A big boy.”

  “Me two,” Toby repeated, grinning at her.

  Gemma sighed. She’d taken her holi
day earlier in the summer, and she didn’t see how she could possibly train him unless she could stay home with him for a few days.

  She pressed her lips against his stomach and blew hard. Toby squealed and giggled with delight as she swung him down and slapped his bottom. He took off around the house, roaring like a freight train, chubby legs pumping, and Gemma followed him more slowly.

  Fortified with a glass of Spanish plonk from the fridge, she put away her shopping and picked up the sitting room, tossing Toby’s toys and books in baskets. She had tried to brighten the place up. White, rice-paper globes from Habitat to cover the bare lightbulbs, rice-paper shades on the windows, printed cotton cushions on the dull three-piece suite, colorful travel posters on the walls-but the damp still seeped through the wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling spread like ivy.

  The dull thud of heavy metal rock started up next door and the walls began to vibrate. Gemma fetched a broom from the kitchen and banged the handle smartly against the connecting wall. The noise abated a fraction of a decibel. “If you don’t turn down that bloody racket I’ll phone in a complaint,” she shouted at the wall, even though she knew they couldn’t hear a word.

  Then the absurdity of it struck her and she started to laugh. Just look at her-standing there screeching like a fishwife, red hair flying, broom in hand-a proper witch. Still smiling, she rescued her wine from the kitchen, sat down on the sofa and propped her feet on the trunk that served as a coffee table. Toby, unperturbed by the noise, pushed a plush teddy bear along the floor and made zooming noises.

  She should be as tolerant, Gemma thought wryly. Ten years ago she would have been right in there with the kids next door-but then again, maybe she wouldn’t. At eighteen she’d been much more concerned with making a different life for herself than in having a good time. She’d stayed at school and done her A levels, watching her friends drift away to take sales clerk’s and cashier’s jobs, or get married. On her nineteenth birthday she applied to the Metropolitan Police. Two years later she opted into the CID, her career advancement laid out in her mind like a map.

  She hadn’t counted on ending up in a neighborhood like the one she’d left. But then she hadn’t counted on Rob James, either.

  Toby climbed up beside her and opened a picture book. “Ball,” he said, jabbing his finger at the page. “Car.”

  “Yes, you’re a clever boy, love.” Gemma stroked his straight, fair hair. She really couldn’t complain. She’d done well enough for herself so far, in spite of the obstacles. And tomorrow she had a half-day off, free to spend with Toby.

  Perhaps some of her bad temper, she admitted grudgingly, was due to the fact that she’d become very quickly accustomed to working with Duncan Kincaid, and the day had soured a bit without his presence.

  And that, Gemma told herself firmly, was a tendency to be kept very well in hand.

  Kincaid woke late on Tuesday morning, with that sense of malaise that results from oversleeping. The bedclothes were rumpled and askew. His tongue felt furry-the residue of too much wine the night before.

  An unpleasant dream lingered on the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with tattered scraps of images. A child in a well-the small voice calling to him… he couldn’t find a rope… descending into the well, moss coating the palms of his hands like gelatinous glue… to find only bones, small bones that crumbled to dust as he touched them. Ugh! He shook himself and groped his way to the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his head.

  Kincaid emerged feeling ravenously hungry. He carried his makeshift breakfast of buttered bread, cheese and a cup of tea out to the balcony, and leaned on the rail as he chewed and thought about his day. He found he’d lost his enthusiasm for playing the tourist. All his plans seemed uninspired, deflated, a reflection of the dull, overcast day. Even the thought of walking the Dales alone, a prospect which had seemed glorious two days ago, failed to please him.

  His conscience was nagging him. All these dreams of things left undone, or not done soon enough. His subconscious was throwing little poisoned darts at him, and some appeasement would have to be offered. Official action was difficult, but he felt a need to take some assertive step.

  He’d visit Sebastian’s mum. A condolence call. An old-fashioned custom, traditional, respectable, and often mere empty etiquette, but it would at least give him the sense that Sebastian’s death had not passed unmarked.

  Cassie would have the address.

  As Kincaid turned from locking his suite door behind him, he found Penny MacKenzie hovering uncertainly in the hall. She was dressed this morning in slacks, sweater and sensible lace-up walking shoes, and seemed in some way diminished, as if she had shed some dimension of her personality along with her eccentricities. A lady, past middle-age, a little frail perhaps, but ordinary. Her enthusiasm was missing, Kincaid realized, her bubbling manner replaced by hesitancy.

  “Morning, Miss MacKenzie.”

  “Oh, Mr. Kincaid. I was hoping… I mean, I thought if you were… I’d just wait…” The words ran down and she stood silent, looking at him helplessly.

  “Did you want to talk to me about something?”

  “I didn’t want to speak to that man, Inspector Nash, because if it weren’t important, I’d feel such a fool. And Emma said you were a policeman, too, so I thought you might be able… I didn’t want Emma to know, you see… I told Inspector Nash I’d been asleep, but it wasn’t quite true, really. Emma gets so upset when I forget things, so I waited until she’d gone to sleep…”

  “Did you forget something, then?” Kincaid leaned against the wall, patient and relaxed, his professional manner slipping over him. He took care not to hurry her.

  “My handbag. In the lounge. I had such a good time at the party. I had a sherry. I don’t usually, it must have made me forgetful…”

  Penny’s voice trailed off again, and Kincaid dared to prompt her. “Did you go out to look for it, after Emma fell asleep?”

  “I waited until she started snoring. She never wakes after that.” A faint trace of her impish grin appeared. “The house was so quiet. I felt a little… skittish. An unfamiliar place, and dark. I didn’t expect-” She broke off, the momentary ease vanishing as swiftly as it had come. “It probably didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t stand to cause anyone distress. To be fair, I think perhaps I ought to speak-”

  “Penny, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Emma MacKenzie’s head appeared at the top of the stairwell, followed by her body as she puffed her way up the last few steps. “What are you doing skulking up here?”

  “I just wanted a word with Mr. Kincaid, Emma.” Penny was apologetic and flustered, and, Kincaid thought, a tiny bit relieved. He cursed under his breath. He’d get nothing more now, whatever she’d steeled herself to say would have to wait.

  “Miss MacKenzie’s just been telling me what I should see-

  “Well, for goodness sake, let Mr. Kincaid get on with it, then, and come along or we’ll miss the best birding of the day. It’s already late.” Emma turned, and muttered “A whole morning wasted…” as she stomped back down the stairs.

  Kincaid winked at Penny behind Emma’s back as they followed obediently behind.

  Cassie, as far as Kincaid could see, had not been one to suffer an uncomfortable night. He found her in her office, serene among the clutter, looking rested, sleek and so self-satisfied he almost expected her to purr. She smiled brightly at him, and gave him his rank-letting him know, thought Kincaid, that they weren’t going to get too chummy.

  “What can I do for you, Superintendent?”

  “Sleep well, Cassie?” She only smiled and waited, as if expecting greater things from him. “I thought you might be able to give me Sebastian’s address.”

  “Playing the good Samaritan?” Cassie mocked him.

  “I thought someone should. You said he lived with his mum. What about his dad?” Kincaid propped himself on the edge of her desk, riffling his fingers through the loose papers scattered on its top.
He leaned toward her, encroaching on the deliberate distance she had placed between them.

  “Died years ago, or at least that’s what he always said. Mummy raised her boy alone.” Cassie crossed her arms under her breasts and tilted her head to look up at him.

  “Cassie, did you see Sebastian after the party that night? He seemed perfectly all right earlier.”

  “I went over to my cottage about ten. He was tidying up in the lounge. He said he’d lock up-he usually did. Liked to play lord of the manor, padding around the house at night arranging everything just so. Then, last thing, he’d use the Jacuzzi. If I were awake I’d hear his motorbike start up when he left-he parked it right alongside the cottages.” Cassie seemed to be talking as much to herself as to Kincaid, her voice quiet and touched with what might almost have been a trace of regret. “I don’t remember hearing it that night, though I wasn’t conscious of missing anything at the time.”

  “And did you see or hear anything else after you’d turned in that night?”

  “Don’t cross-examine me, Superintendent,” Cassie said nastily. “Your Inspector Nash has already done enough for the two of you.” She flipped through a Rolodex on her desk and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s your address. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  He’d blown it. All Cassie’s armor had fallen back into place with a clang.

  Eddie Lyle sat in the sitting room armchair, a newspaper spread open on his lap.

  Kincaid, retreating from Cassie’s office, paused in the doorway. Could he escape with a nod and a greeting? His hesitation proved his undoing.

  Lyle looked up and spoke. “Mr. Kincaid.” He rattled the paper. “We’ve made the local rag this morning. I do hope the nationals don’t pick it up. I don’t want my daughter distressed by reading some sensational account.”

  Caught between going and staying and not wanting to commit himself to a prolonged conversation, Kincaid wandered over to the sofa opposite Lyle and leaned against its rolled, velvet back. The tufted buttons dug into his thigh. “Your daughter’s the same age as Angela Frazer?”