A Share in Death

“And when you reached in for it, you found the handkerchief?”

 

A share in death 125

 

Brian found his tongue, perhaps encouraged by Kincaid’s friendly tone. “Right at the bottom. All wadded up. Like this.” He made a fist. “Squashed.”

 

“Do you mind if I take it for a bit? I think Chief Inspector Nash might like to see it.” The children nodded vigorously. Kincaid imagined that their brief encounters with the Chief Inspector had not made them anxious to repeat the experience. He thought for a moment, decided two polythene bags from the kitchen might just do the trick. “Leave it just where it is for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.” Next time he went on holiday, if ever there was a next time, he’d pack his murder kit.

 

Voices came clearly through the open door of the untenanted ground-floor suite. Kincaid stood in the hall, his prize held gingerly between his fingers, and listened. “If God had given you sense enough to wipe your ass, laddie, you’d do as you’re told and not stand there gawking like a halfwit.” There was no mistaking Chief Inspector Nash’s dulcet tones. The indistinguishable reply must be Raskin, not off to a jolly start with his superior.

 

“Damn.” Kincaid swore under his breath. He’d seen Raskin’s battered Austin from the first-floor landing and had hoped to catch him alone, hoped to let Raskin take credit for the find. Bearing such a gift himself would do nothing to improve his working relationship with Nash, but getting it to the lab was too urgent to wait for a better moment. He stuck his head around the corner and peered in.

Nash sat at the small dining table, surrounded by files. The telephone cable stretched dangerously across the room from the sofa table so that the instrument could rest at Nash’s elbow. Probably Raskin’s point of contention, thought Kincaid. “Temporary incident room?” he asked pleasantly.

“And what’s it to you, laddie?” Nash replied, his blackcurrant eyes sweeping over Kincaid with displeasure.

“Such as it is, sir.” Peter Raskin spoke into the pause. “It seemed the best option. Couldn’t take over Miss Whitlake’s 126 deborah crombie

office indefinitely. And it was a bit cramped.” Raskin seemed to hear himself chattering, opened his mouth and closed it again.

 

Kincaid crossed the room and carefully placed the polythene bag on the table before Nash. “The children found this in the umbrella stand this morning.”