Chapter One
His office seemed to shrink as he paced. The walls drew
in, their angles distorted by the elongated shadows cast
from the swivel lamp on his desk. The Yard always felt a
bit eerie at night, as if the very emptiness of the rooms
had a presence. He stopped at the bookcases and ran his
finger along the spines of the well-thumbed books on the
top shelf. Archeology, art . . . canals . . . crime
reference . . . Many of them were gifts from his mother,
sent in her continual quest to remedy what she considered
his lack of a proper education. Although he'd tried to
group them alphabetically by subject, there were a few
inevitable strays. Kincaid shook his head -- would that he
could order his life even half as well as he did his
books.
He glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many
minutes, then crossed to his desk and sat down very
deliberately. The call that had brought him in had been
urgent -- a high-ranking police officer found murdered --
and if Gemma didn't arrive soon he'd have to go on to the
crime scene without her. She'd not been in to work since
she had left his flat on Friday evening. And although she
had called in and requested leave from the chief
superintendent, she had not answered Kincaid's
increasingly frantic calls over the past five days.
Tonight Kincaid had asked the duty sergeant to contact
her, and she'd responded.
Unable to contain his restlessness, he rose again and had
reached to pull his jacket from the coat stand when he
heard the soft click of the latch. He turned and saw her
standing with her back to the door, watching him, and a
foolish grin spread across his face. "Gemma!"
"Hullo, guv."
"I've tried and tried to ring you. I thought something
must have happened -- "
She was already shaking her head. "I went to my sister's
for a few days. I needed some time -- "
"We have to talk." He moved a step nearer and stopped,
examining her. She looked exhausted, her pale face almost
transparent against the copper of her hair, and the skin
beneath her eyes held faint purple shadows. "Gemma -- "
"There's nothing to say." She slumped, resting her
shoulders against the door as if she needed its
support. "It was all a dreadful mistake. You can see that,
can't you?"
He stared at her, astonishment freezing his tongue. "A
mistake?" he managed finally, then wiped a hand across his
suddenly dry lips. "Gemma, I don't understand."
"It never happened." She took a step towards him,
entreating, then stopped as if afraid of his physical
proximity.
"It did happen. You can't change that, and I don't want
to." He went to her then and put his hands on her
shoulders, trying to draw her to him. "Gemma, please,
listen to me." For an instant he thought she might tilt
her head into the hollow of his shoulder, relax against
him. Then he felt her shoulders tense under his fingers
and she pulled away.
"Look at us. Look at where we bloody are," she said,
thumping a fist against the door at her back. "We can't do
this. I've compromised myself enough already." She took a
ragged breath and added, spacing the words out as if to
emphasize their weight, "I can't afford it. I've my career
to think of . . . and Toby."
The phone rang, its short double brrr echoing loudly in
the small room. He stepped back to his desk and fumbled
for the receiver, bringing it to his ear. "Kincaid," he
said shortly, then listened for a moment. "Right, thanks."
Replacing the handset in the cradle, he looked at
Gemma. "Car's waiting." Sentences formed and dissolved in
his mind, each sounding more futile than the last. This
was not the time or the place to discuss it, and he would
only embarrass them both by going on about it now.
Finally, he turned away and slipped into his jacket, using
the moment to swallow his disappointment and compose his
features in as neutral an expression as he could manage.
Facing her again, he said, "Ready, Sergeant?"
Big Ben struck ten o'clock as the car sped south across
Westminster bridge, and in the backseat beside Gemma,
Kincaid watched the lights shimmer on the Thames. They sat
in silence as the car zigzagged on through south London,
inching its way towards Surrey. Even their driver, a
usually chatty PC called Williams, seemed to have caught
their mood, remaining hunched in taciturn concentration
over the wheel.
Clapham had vanished behind them when Gemma spoke. "You'd
better fill me in on this one, guv."
Kincaid saw the flash of Williams's eyes as he cast a
surprised glance at them in the rearview mirror. Gemma
should have been briefed, of course, and he roused himself
to answer as ordinarily as possible. Gossip in the ranks
would do neither of them any good. "Little village near
Guildford. What's it called, Williams?"
"Holmbury St. Mary, sir."
"Right. Alastair Gilbert, the division commander at
Notting Dale, found in his kitchen with his head bashed
in."
He heard Gemma draw a sharp breath, then she said with the
first spark of interest he'd heard all evening, "Commander
Gilbert? Jesus. Any leads?"
"Not that I've been told, but it's early days yet,"
Kincaid said, turning to study her.
She shook her head. "There will be an unholy stink over
this one, then. And aren't we the lucky coppers, having it
land in our laps?" When Kincaid snorted in wry agreement,
she glanced at him and added, "You must have known him."
Shrugging, he said, "Didn't everyone?" He was unwilling to
elaborate in front of Williams.
Gemma settled back into her seat. After a moment she
said, "The local lads will have been there before us. Hope
they haven't messed about with the body."