Any burglars would be long gone, she chided herself, leaving the path and setting off across the dew-damp grass with renewed purpose. But she slowed as she drew nearer. What had looked like a large white bundle of plastic or paper had begun to resolve itself into what looked disturbingly like a human shape. It was, Jean realized with a start, a woman. A young woman in a white dress, stretched out beneath the great branches of a plane tree.
She lay on her back, her face turned slightly away, but as Jean drew nearer she recognized her profile and the dark shoulder-length hair. It was the nanny from across the garden.
Incensed, Jean Armitage drew a breath, ready to scold as she charged forward with renewed purpose. What sort of a prank was this? Young people did anything these days. Sleeping in a private garden after a night on the town, she guessed. Such behavior was not to be tolerated in Cornwall Gardens, not among civilized people. She would have a thing or two to say to the girl’s employer when she’d got the young laggard up and about.
Suddenly, the sun climbed over the tips of the treetops, the light painting the green grass and the white dress with rippling, shifting dapples.
Jean stopped, her shoes squeaking on the wet grass. The heavy scent of the roses seemed suddenly cloying. Instinctively she put a hand to her breast. There was something not quite natural about the girl’s position. And she was still, so still. A sparrow swooped down, almost brushing the girl’s dark hair, and yet she did not stir.
Any reprimand died unformed on Jean’s breath. She moved a step closer, then, slowly, another. And saw that the girl was not sleeping at all.
“You’re up early for a Saturday,” Gemma said as she padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in her dressing gown. “I thought I heard you.”
Kincaid turned from the coffeemaker. He’d taken a quick shower, then thrown on jeans and yesterday’s slightly wrinkled shirt. “I tried not to wake you.” The machine hissed as coffee began to drip into the carafe.
His wife slid into a chair at the kitchen table, smothering a yawn as she pulled back her tumbled copper hair and anchored it with a scrunchie. “That smells heavenly,” she said, taking a deep sniff as the aroma reached her.
“Want some?” Kincaid lifted her favorite mug from the shelf beside the cooker. It was festooned with garish pink roses, some of which cascaded over the chipped rim, but Toby had bought it for her at the market with his pocket money, so it would never be thrown in the bin.
“Of course.” She watched him as he added a dash of milk to her cup. “But I thought we were having a lie-in. It is Saturday.”
“So it is.” He handed Gemma her coffee, summoning a smile, and poured his. But he was too restless to sit. Standing with his back to the cooker, he went on, “But I couldn’t sleep. This damned case is giving me nightmares.”
“I thought it was all sewn up. Open and shut.” She was eyeing him warily now.
He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I just want to have one more look over the file before it goes to the prosecutors. What if I missed something?” It had been a simple enough case. A coke dealer in Camden, found shot in his flat.
“You promised to take the kids and the dogs to the park,” said Gemma, sounding unconvinced. As if to make her point, Geordie padded in, tail wagging, and plopped down at Gemma’s feet.
“I know. I’m sorry. I won’t be long.” That earned him a disbelieving look. “No one will be in on a Saturday morning without an active case,” Kincaid added. “I just need—” He stopped.
He couldn’t tell her what he needed. He couldn’t say that he meant to force himself to look at the crime scene photos—or that he hoped that if he could do that, he might stop dreaming of another crime scene, and of the man he had called a friend, dead, with a gun in his hand.
Turning, he set his cup in the sink, sloshing coffee over his fingers. He wiped his hand with the good tea towel, then went to kiss Gemma’s cheek.
But she didn’t turn her face up to him. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, her voice sharp. “What am I supposed to tell the kids?”
Kincaid’s hands shook with a sudden rush of anger. “Whatever you like. Since when do I have to apologize for doing my job?”
He walked out of the kitchen without giving her a chance to answer. As he left the house, the front door banged behind him with a sound like a gunshot.
“Don’t let the kittens out.” Gemma looked up as the patio French doors opened, wiping a grimy gardening glove across her brow. She’d thought it was Toby or Charlotte, and at seven and three—and a half, as Charlotte regularly reminded her—they were easy game for tiny feline escape artists. But it was Kit, with Captain Jack, their black-and-white kitten, draped over his shoulder.
“Um, need some help?” he asked tentatively, surveying the spilled bag of potting soil and the empty plastic containers littering their small flagstone patio. Beyond, the shady spots in their Notting Hill communal garden begged for lemonade and lawn chairs. The fine morning had turned hot as noon approached, and Gemma could feel her dirt-stained nose going pink with sunburn.
“You’ve done more than your share today already.” She sat back with a sigh, wondering if it had been her knee she’d heard pop. This gardening lark was not half what it was cracked up to be. The begonia she’d just put carefully in a pot had a broken and bedraggled stem, and her back hurt.
Kit shrugged, keeping firm fingers on the scruff of the kitten’s neck. But he had looked after the younger children while they all paid a visit to Rassells, the garden center on Earl’s Court Road. Thank goodness, too, or Toby would undoubtedly have wreaked havoc among the roses and rhododendrons.
Her enthusiasm for her project was waning. Having grown up above a high street bakery in north London, gardening didn’t come naturally to her.
“Has Dad rung?” Kit’s tone seemed deliberately neutral. Gemma couldn’t tell if he was upset by Kincaid’s failure to give the kids their promised outing to Hyde Park.
“No,” Gemma said, suppressing a sigh, “not yet.” She’d regretted her irritation with Kincaid as soon as he’d slammed out the door. She’d stood, frowning, watching him from the kitchen window as he got into his old green Astra and drove away.
They’d never criticized each other for the long hours they spent on the job. Both detectives, it was one of the things that had made their relationship work. But this—this wasn’t the job. It was something else, and it worried her. He hadn’t been the same since the day in March when they’d heard Ryan Marsh had died.
Gemma had tried to talk to Kincaid about it, but he’d merely given her a blank stare and changed the subject. They’d always been able to discuss things, first as partners on the job, then as lovers, and, eventually, spouses. She wasn’t sure how to deal with the wall he’d thrown up between them lately.