A Share in Death

Gemma reassured her. “You haven’t said a thing I wouldn’t have said myself. I have a neighbor who looks after her husband’s mum—you wouldn’t believe the things she puts up with from the old lady …” By the time she’d finished her anecdote Helen had recovered her equilibrium, and Gemma took her leave as smoothly as a surgeon removing a knife.

 

Kincaid stood on his balcony, as had become his habit when he needed to think. He turned up his shirt collar against the chill little wind that played around his ears. The weather, damp and formless, suited his mood.

 

He was finding it very difficult to accept the idea that Hannah could be Patrick’s mother. He’d never have thought her old enough to have a grown son. And he had seen them together, seen some spark kindled, even felt a faint stirring of envy. Had Hannah seen it as well? No wonder she had been so distraught.

Dear god, what had he driven Hannah to do? He’d meant to shock her into giving him evidence she might be withholding, not to send her off into some rash confrontation with Patrick. For they were both gone, he’d made sure of that. Hannah had bundled him out of her suite with such urgency that he’d had no choice but to go. When he’d returned a few minutes later to try once more to persuade her to talk, he’d seen from the landing window the flash of

 

A share in death 147

 

tail lights as her car turned into the road.

 

Marta Rennie, sober and sullen, didn ‘t know where Patrick had gone and didn’t seem to care. “Sightseeing,” she said with derision. “God, it makes me ill.” She’d shut the door on anything else Kincaid might have asked her.

It seemed to Kincaid that everything he had done from the beginning of this affair had gone wrong. Every turn and feint he made came up blank, shadow boxing with an unseen enemy. He should have listened to Penny. He should have kept his ideas about Patrick Rennie to himself. He should never have let Hannah out of his sight.

The burr of the telephone sounded through the French door, interrupting his recriminations. He dived to answer it, his life line to the outside world. Gemma’s voice came over the line. “Just what sort of a wild goose chase have you sent me on?”

Kincaid laughed, cheered by the asperity in her voice. “I wish I knew. What’s up?”

“My backside’s welded to the car, that’s what.”

“Angling for sympathy again, are you? Well, you won’t get it from me. At least you’re doing something.”