A Share in Death

Nash picked up the bag and held it to the light. “A handkerchief? Well, well, it quite takes my breath away.” He smiled derisively. “What will the wonder boy think of next?”

“Look, Inspector,” Kincaid said as patiently as he could, asking himself just how much his own instinctive dislike fueled Nash’s hostility. “The handkerchief has what looks to be a bloodstain in one corner. It could have been used to protect the tennis racquet from fingerprints. It’s certainly worth sending to the lab.”

“If there had been anything worth finding my sceneof-crime people would have found it.” Even the sarcastic pretense of civility vanished from Nash’s voice, as did the heavy Yorkshire accent. “You have no jur—”

Kincaid’s temper erupted. “If your sceneof-crime team had been doing its job properly they would never have missed this. I’m sick and tired of your deliberate opposition, Chief Inspector. The only reason you’re in charge of this investigation is that your Superintendent is laid up in hospital flat on his back. If you won’t cooperate and aren’t able to keep your feelings about me from obscuring your judgement in this case, I’ll see you never have this much authority again.” Nash’s face flushed such an unhealthy shade of purple that Kincaid felt suddenly afraid he’d gone too far—the man might have a stroke on the spot.

“You’ll do no—” The phone rang, its insistent burr startling them all. Nash grabbed the receiver. “Nash here. What—” Whatever diatribe he had been about to utter died on his lips. “Sir. Yes, sir, he’s here now.” His eyes darted to Kincaid. “Yes, sir. I think that’s clear. Every courtesy.” Nash replaced the receiver in the cradle with great deliberation, looked first at Raskin, then Kincaid before he could bring himself to speak. “It seems that the Chief

 

A share in death 127

 

Constable has had a chat with the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. The Chief Constable thinks you might be of some help to us in this investigation, and the A.C. has given his approval. Could it be,” the heavy sarcasm was directed at Kincaid, “that the A.C. was the one did the calling, not the other way around?”

 

“Could be,” Kincaid answered noncommittally. “Chief Inspector, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. I’d just like to have access to the investigation.”

“You mean you’d like to interfere whenever and wherever it bloody well suits you?” “Something like that.” Kincaid smiled.