A Share in Death

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,

A share in death 53

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 C.I.D., 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

54 deborah grombie

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 oldfashioned 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.