A Share In Death

by Deborah Crombie

  “Yes,” Kincaid said softly, “I think so.”

  “So I went along for years, captain of my own ship and all that, and then suddenly this last year it all began to seem so empty. Oh, I had lovers all right, but no one with hooks in my life. Maybe,” she sighed, and Kincaid felt some of her tension relax, “I am suffering from menopausal dementia, some hormonal imbalance. But it doesn’t feel that way.” She spoke now more to herself than to Kincaid, her gaze unfocused. “There’s no wholeness, no connection. It feels…” The flow of words stopped. Hannah fell silent for a moment, then focused clearly on Kincaid, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Just like that first night, and you thought I’d bored you with my life story then. I’m sorry.”

  “Hannah, what does this have to do with Patrick Rennie?”

  She chewed her lip, then took a deep breath before she spoke. “I can’t tell you. Not yet. But I will-” She cut off the beginning of his protest. “No, I want you to know. But first I have to explain some things to Patrick. Then you can tell me whether I need a shrink or a solicitor.” She smiled at him with a touch of the humorous directness he’d first found so appealing. “I promise I will tell you. Afterwards.”

  “All right.” Kincaid leaned back in his chair and pushed away his plate with its congealing egg.

  Hannah’s eyes strayed to his plate. “Oh, god, I’ve spoiled your breakfast. You haven’t touched it.” Her thighs bumped the table as she stood and more coffee joined the drying puddle on the table. “I’d better go. I really am sorry about all this, Duncan.”

  “Stop apologizing, for god’s sake. You’ve nothing to be sorry for, and besides, it’s out of character.” He followed her to the door. “And I don’t mind about the bloody breakfast.”

  “My whole life is out of character right now.” She laughed, the first sound of spontaneous pleasure he’d heard from her that morning. “Thanks. Just be patient with me. Please. I know I’ve no right to ask.”

  “Sure.” Kincaid stood with his hand on the door and spoke to her back as she walked away from him down the hall. “I’m good at that.”

  “Sir,” Gemma’s voice practically vibrated with early morning efficiency, “I’ve got some news on those inquiries you wanted.”

  Kincaid swallowed a mouthful of makeshift bacon sandwich. His short absence had not improved the eggs, and the cold toast and bacon he’d rescued as an afterthought as he dumped his plate in the sink.

  “Gemma. God, I hate people to sound so bloody cheerful in the morning.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry. Never mind. Any trouble getting clearance?”

  “No, sir. The Guv’nor oiled the machinery pretty well, I think.”

  Kincaid smiled at the thought of his chief having a few discreet words in a few shell-like ears-Gemma’s previous assignments had probably vanished in an eddy of paper in the secretarial pool. “Spill away, then. No, hold on-” he scrambled for a pen and notebook he’d left on the sofa, pulled the phone over to the small table and took a sip of his cold coffee-“okay.”

  “I’ve been to Dedham Vale. Dull as dishwater, in my opinion.” Gemma, with the ingrained prejudice of the North Londoner, didn’t find much to recommend in rural villages.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. What else?”

  “I wandered around for a bit until I found the local G. P.’s office. It seems he took care of the Reverend MacKenzie in his last illness. Knows everyone, of course, even with the National Health sending a lot of his old patients to the new clinic at Ipswich.”

  Kincaid couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. “Got quite chatty with him, did we?” He could imagine Gemma’s freckled face turning pink with annoyance. She would probably accuse him of being patronizing if she weren’t on her best professional behavior, but he wasn’t, really. It was just that Gemma was blind to her own assets-the frank openness of her face encouraged people’s confidence in a way that a more sophisticated beauty never would.

  Gemma remained silent for a moment, her usual response. When she couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking, Kincaid thought, she ignored him.

  “Sir, about the doctor.”

  “Sorry, Gemma. Go ahead.”

  “Well, it seems he looked after old Mr. MacKenzie for years. And the daughters. The old man was diabetic, very infirm. Lost his eyesight, kidneys failing. The doctor says he just slipped away in his sleep one night, no reason to think there was anything funny about it. But,” Gemma allowed a tinge of satisfaction to creep into her voice, “I found out from the travel agent in the village where your rumor may have originated. Someone else from the village owns time at Followdale House-a retired major who, according to the receptionist at the travel agent’s, is as big a gossip as any malicious old biddy you could find.”

  Kincaid considered a moment. “That might explain it. What else?”

  “Cassie Whitlake’s parents, in Clapham. The father’s a building contractor’s foreman. They’re very proud of her. Wonderful job, clothes right out of Vogue, her mum says, that smart.”

  “I can imagine,” Kincaid said drily.

  “But I got the impression she doesn’t visit them often. Tells her mum she can’t take a holiday when other people do, it’s her busiest time. She calls them, though, and her mum says she’s sounded over the moon lately. Says she has a real good prospect, one that would really make people sit up and take notice of her. ‘A job?’ I asked, not sure what she meant. ‘No, a man,’ her mum says, an important man.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like Graham Frazer. I wonder what she’s playing at.”

  “There’s a sister still at home, Evie. Taking a secretarial course. Evie says she’s just as glad Cassie doesn’t come home-all she does is act like Lady Muck.” Kincaid heard a hint of laughter in Gemma’s voice, some of the formality dropping away in the telling of her story.

  “How’d you manage to get her alone? Cup of tea?” Kincaid knew Gemma’s adroitness with the forgotten handbag, the helping out in the kitchen-and her ability to dig out the minutiae of people’s lives.

  “Uh huh. Evie says Cassie told her that if she, I mean Evie, played her cards right, she just might do half as well. A bitch, Evie called her. Not exactly what I’d call strong on family loyalty.”

  “Um,” Kincaid said, “I can see where Cassie might merit that description. That it?”

  “Just about, sir. I’ve written it up.”

  “Well, keep at it, Gemma. You never now what you might turn up. What’s next?”

  “The Sterrett Clinic, where Hannah Alcock works.”

  “Call in when you can. I’ve got to go. There’s someone banging on the bloody door.”

  Kincaid yanked the door open, annoyed before he saw who it was, resigned to a thoroughly unpleasant few minutes afterwards. Chief Inspector Nash stood there, a messenger not sent by the gods. His retribution, thought Kincaid, had arrived.

  “Well, laddie. Quite the lay-about, aren’t we. Just got up?”

  “Chief Inspector Nash. Do come in. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’m sure it is, laddie.” Nash traded sarcasm for sarcasm, and sat deliberately down on one of the suite’s dining room chairs, uninvited. Kincaid grimaced, repelled by the sight of the few greasy strands of hair stretched across Nash’s shiny scalp.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” Kincaid asked, not wanting to give Nash the advantage of opening the conversation.

  “Pretty fancy accommodation. Must be nice on a superintendent’s salary.” He minced the title.

  “Chief Inspector,” Kincaid said slowly. “Come off it.” He propped himself against the arm of the sofa. “What’s up. You didn’t come here to compliment me on my taste.”

  Nash considered him, the black eyes glinting with what might have been humor in someone else. “The lab report’s in. No evidence of fingerprints on plug, cord or heater. It seems,” Nash paused for effect, “that you were right. Coroner’s refused to give a verdict of suicide.” Nash settled himself more comfortably on
the chair and appeared to change the subject.

  “The Chief Constable’s had a word in my ear. How fortunate it is that Superintendent Kincaid just happened to be on the scene and offered to assist us with our inquiries. You’re considered quite the wonder boy with the higher ups, according to him. But you listen to me, laddie,” Nash straightened up in the chair, all the malice in evidence now, “I don’t appreciate wonder boys on my patch. I don’t appreciate you going around with your trumped up condolences to Mrs. Wade so you could poke around where you had no right. Your rank and your fancy opinions,” he jabbed a finger at Kincaid, “don’t mean shit to me, laddie. And if you don’t stay out of my business I’ll see you’re sorry for it.

  “As far as I’m concerned, if the little bugger didn’t kill himself, he was blackmailing somebody and got what he deserved. And I don’t need any help from you to find out who.”

  Nash put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, poised, Kincaid thought, for his spring at the jugular, when a frantic pounding sounded at the front door. Kincaid pushed himself off the edge of the sofa and went quickly to open it. Three times a charm, he thought hopefully.

  Inspector Raskin stood panting at the door, his tie askew, his hair falling almost over one eye in a rakish comma. “Chief Inspector Nash?” he said, in between gasps for breath, and when Kincaid nodded, followed him into the suite. Raskin looked from Nash to Kincaid and spoke, finally, into the distance between them.

  “It’s Penny MacKenzie. Down at the tennis court. She’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Kincaid clung to his disbelief until they reached the tennis court. Hannah sat against the court’s wire wall, her knees drawn up and her hands clasped together above her breasts, her face slack with shock. Penny’s small body lay beneath the net, touched with some quality of stillness that was utterly, inarguably final. Kincaid felt his breath rush out as if he’d been punched in the chest.

  “Miss Alcock came pelting across the garden into the drive just as I got out of my car.” Inspector Raskin nodded his head toward Hannah as he spoke quietly to Kincaid. “She said she thought Miss MacKenzie was dead and I came down with her at once.”

  Kincaid hesitated for a moment, then went to Hannah and sank down on his knees beside her. “Hannah. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.” She looked about her with a puzzled expression. “I told Inspector Raskin I’d stay while he fetched you. I don’t remember sitting down.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “There’s not much. I’d gone for a walk after I left you this morning, thinking, not paying much attention to things. I saw her as I came down the path.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I went to her. At first I thought she might have been taken ill, fainted or something. Then I saw her head.” Hannah stopped and swallowed. “But still, I thought she might be breathing, so I felt her chest, then her throat for a pulse. Her skin felt cool.” Hannah began to shiver. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Kincaid reached over and tucked the lapels of her heavy cardigan more tightly together. “I’m sure you did everything you could for her. The important thing now is to look after you. You’ve had quite a shock.” He looked around. Raskin knelt over Penny’s body, not touching her, and Nash, having stopped to phone divisional headquarters, had not yet appeared. “But I’m afraid you’d better stay at least until Chief Inspector Nash arrives. He’ll want a statement from you. Why don’t I take you up there?” He nodded toward the bench on the path above the court and helped Hannah to her feet.

  “Duncan,” Hannah turned to him as he pushed aside the gate for her, “it couldn’t have been an accident, could it? She couldn’t have fallen and hit her head?”

  “I don’t know yet, love, but I doubt it very much.”

  “But why?” Hannah’s fingers tightened convulsively on his arm. “Why would somebody want to hurt Penny?”

  Why, indeed, thought Kincaid as he made his way back to the court. Because Penny had seen or heard something that threatened someone’s security, and if he hadn’t been so dense, he’d have found out what it was.

  Kincaid squatted reluctantly beside Raskin.

  Penny lay on her right side, her fist curled beneath her cheek, her bright blue eyes closed. Only the awkward angle of her legs indicated something amiss, until one saw the back of her head. The indentation, though small, had bled freely, and a little blood had puddled beneath her. A tennis racquet lay a few inches from her outstretched left hand, as if she had fallen in the midst of a leaping volley at the net. A smear of blood showed rust-colored on the racquet’s edge. Penny’s binoculars lay partially beneath her side, and Kincaid fought the sudden urge to move them, as if it mattered whether or not she were comfortable. “Oh, Christ,” he said, his eyes stinging and his throat suddenly contracting. He pressed his fingers underneath his cheekbones until the pressure eased.

  “Hmmm.” Raskin didn’t look up, his gaze focused intently on the injury to Penny’s skull. “Not nice. Not nice at all, I don’t think. I’d say she was standing at the net, possibly looking at something through her binoculars, when chummy snuck up behind.”

  “And I’d say,” added Kincaid, when he could trust himself to speak again, “that chummy has had a run of bloody good luck. Acts on impulse, grabs the first thing to hand and what do you know, it works. But it might not have. That portable heater might have blown every fuse in the house and shorted itself out without frying Sebastian. And Penny…” He looked away. “… It wasn’t that hard a blow. I’ve seen people walk to hospital with head injuries worse than that.”

  “I thought the same,” Peter said thoughtfully. “But in either case he didn’t have much to lose. Sebastian wouldn’t have seen him. He could have hit Penny again if she hadn’t fallen unconscious. Do you suppose he waited?” Peter looked at Kincaid from under his raised brow. “I don’t think she died right away. She bled quite a bit.”

  “Bloody bastard.” The dam Kincaid had clamped on his anger cracked and he drew a deep breath, fighting it back. “I doubt it. Too chancy, even for our chummy. Now we’re both saying ‘he’. There’s no indication.”

  “Merely generic,” Peter answered. “No, there’s nothing in either case to rule out a woman. If it is the same person.”

  “Oh, I think so. I’d even bet on it. The same person, both times for the same reason. Penny saw something connected with Sebastian’s death, I’m sure of it. She started to tell me, but we were interrupted and I never found out what it was. But Sebastian… what did Sebastian see? Or find out? That’s the question. What runs behind all this? And,” Kincaid stood up and straightened his stiff knees as he looked toward the gate, “just where the hell is your chief? He’s taking his own sweet time about it.”

  “Well, you know Chief Inspector Nash, sir,” said Raskin, sardonically, “he likes to delegate.”

  “Then he can delegate someone to take Miss Alcock’s statement later. I’m going to take her up to the house. He can erupt as much as he likes.” But Kincaid stood a moment longer, staring at the tennis racquet. Most of the varnish had long since disappeared from its wooden perimeter, some of the webbing had sprung and the grip was stained and frayed. Not, thought Kincaid, exactly state of the art. “Where did he-chummy-get the racquet? He couldn’t have carried it with him just on the off-chance he might find someone to bash with it.”

  “There,” Raskin pointed, “behind the gate.” The wooden box blended into the shrubbery outside the fence, its faded green paint acting almost as camouflage. About the size of a child’s coffin, the box was secured with a simple metal hasp. “For guests’ use, I imagine.”

  “Okay,” Kincaid thought aloud, “say he sees Penny going off alone and follows her… she stands so conveniently with her back to him, concentrating on a bird… he knows where the racquets are kept… but he won’t have picked it up bare handed, not our chummy. What did he use? A glove? A plastic bag? He wi
ll have gotten rid of it, most likely. I’d tell scene-of-crime to have a look for it.”

  “I’ll pass the suggestion along.” Peter Raskin grinned. “Strictly as my own, of course.”

  Hannah sat with her eyes closed, her cheek resting against her drawn-up knees. As Kincaid bent over her she opened her eyes and then smiled sleepily at him. “Do you know, I think I actually went to sleep. How extraordinary. I feel weak as a kitten.”

  “It’s the shock.” Kincaid held out a hand to her. “It does strange things to the system sometimes. What you need is a cup of the good old British restorative-hot, sweet tea. I’m going to take you up to the house. Nash can send someone to take your statement later.”

  “All right. Duncan,” Hannah looked down at the court, where Peter Raskin stood quietly waiting, “someone will have to tell Emma. What if-”

  “No, no, don’t even think about it. If we pass anyone, say you don’t feel well. I think,” Kincaid added, his voice grim, “I should tell Emma myself.”

  Kincaid’s knock on the door of the MacKenzies’ suite echoed hollowly. He had taken Hannah in through the rear entrance, the sound of the children shrieking in the swimming pool came clearly to them through the pool’s glass door. The rest of the house seemed deserted, and he had turned away from Emma’s door when he heard it open behind him.