CHAPTER TWO

Portobello was our family's shopping street. There were lots of kosher butchers… eight or nine quite close, and Jewish delicatessens where you could get lovely bagels and Jewish bread.

– Whetlor and Bartlett,

from Portobello

She sat on the stoop, idly swishing her skirt between her knees, listening to the faint sound of the new Cliff Richard song drifting from the open window across the street. This was not how she had imagined spending her twelfth birthday, but her parents did not believe in making a big fuss of such occasions. Nor did they think she needed her own record player, which was the one gift she desperately wanted. "A frivolous expense," her father had called it, and none of her arguments had swayed him.

Sighing gustily, she hugged her knees and traced her name on the dusty step with her finger. She was bored, bored, bored, and hot, filled with a new and strange sort of discontent.

Perhaps when her mother came home from visiting friends, she could wheedle permission to see a new film at the cinema, as a special birthday treat. At least it would be cooler in the dark, and she could spend her pocket money on sweets from the concessionaire.

She was wondering if Radio Luxembourg would play the new Elvis record tonight when an engine sputtered nearby. A lorry pulled up to the curb in front of the house next door. The lorry's open back held mattresses, an orange sofa, a chair covered with a bright flower print, all jumbled together, all blistering in the hot August sun.

The driver's door opened and a man climbed out and stood gazing up at the house. He wore a white shirt and a dark tie, and his skin was the deep color of the bittersweet chocolate her mother used for baking.

A woman slid from the passenger side, her pumps clicking against the pavement as she touched the ground. Like her husband, she was smartly dressed, her shirtwaist dress crisply pressed, and as she stood beside him she looked up at the house with an expression of dismay. He smiled and touched her arm, then turned towards the bed of the lorry and called out something.

From amid the boxes and bundles emerged a girl of about her own age with thin, bare, brown legs and a pink ruffled dress. Next came a boy, a year or two older, tall and gangly. It seemed to her that the family had blown in on the hot wind from somewhere infinitely more exotic than this dingy London neighborhood of terraced houses with peeling plasterwork; somewhere filled with colors and fragrances she had only imagined. They trooped up the steps together and into the house, and the street seemed suddenly lifeless without them.

When it became apparent that they were not going to reappear right away, she hugged herself in frustration. She would tell someone, then, but who? Her mother wouldn't be back for an hour or two, but her father would be at the café, his usual custom after a good morning's trading at his jewelry stall.

Leaping from the steps, she ran. Down Westbourne Park into Portobello, nimbly dodging the fruit-and-veg stalls, then round the corner into Elgin Crescent. She came to a halt in front of the café, pressing her nose against the glass as she caught her breath. Yes, there he was, just visible at his favorite table in the back. Smoothing her dress, she slipped through the open door into the café's dim interior. The patrons sat in shirtsleeves, men reading Polish newspapers and filling the hot, still air with a heavy cloud of smoke from their pipes and cigarettes.

She coughed involuntarily and her father looked up, frowning. "What are you doing here, little one? Is something wrong?"

He always thought something was wrong. She supposed he worried so because of his time in the war, although he never talked about that. In 1946, newly demobbed, her father had arrived in England with her mother, determined to put the war behind him and make a life for himself as a jeweler and silversmith.

In spite of her precipitous arrival nine months later, he had done well. Better than some of the other men in the café, she knew, but still he clung to the things that reminded him of the old country: the smell of borscht and pierogi, the dark paneling hung with Polish folk art, and the company of buxom waitresses with hennaed hair.

"No, nothing's wrong," she answered, sliding onto the banquette beside him. "And I'm not little. I wish you wouldn't call me that, Poppy."

"So, why does my very grown-up daughter come rushing through the door like a dervish?"

"We have new neighbors in the house next door."

"And what's so special about that?" he asked, still teasing.

"They're West Indian," she whispered, aware of the turning of heads. "A father and mother and two children, a boy and a girl, about my age."

Her father considered her news for a moment in his deliberate way, then shook his head. "Trouble. It will mean trouble."

"But they look very nice-"

"It doesn't matter. Now you go home and wait for your mother, and stay away from these people. I don't want you getting hurt. Promise me."

Hanging her head, she muttered, "Yes, Poppy," but she did not meet his eyes.

She walked home slowly, her excitement punctured by her father's response. Surely he was wrong: nothing would happen. She knew there had been trouble when West Indian families had moved into other parts of the neighborhood, rioting even, on Blenheim Crescent, just round the corner from the café. But she'd known most of their neighbors since she was a baby; she couldn't imagine them doing the sort of things she'd heard the grown-ups whispering about.

But when she reached Westbourne Park, she saw a crowd gathered in front of the house next door. Silent and watchful, they stood round the lorry, and there was no sign of the new family.

For a moment she hesitated, remembering her father's instructions; then a dark face appeared at an upstairs window and the crowd shifted with a rumble of menace.

Without another thought for her promise, she pushed her way through to the back of the lorry, scooped up the biggest box she could carry, and marched up the steps. With a defiant glance back at the crowd, she turned and rapped on the door.


***

As they descended the stairs from the top floor of the house, Kincaid heard the faint but insistent ringing of a telephone. The sound seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the coat rack, and Gemma swore under her breath as she crossed the room and plunged her hand into the pocket of her jacket, retrieving her phone.

From the stillness of her face as she listened, Kincaid guessed that they would not be spending a romantic evening celebrating the beginning of a new era in their relationship.

"What is it?" he asked when she disconnected.

"A murder. Just up the road, near the church."

"You're in charge?"

She nodded. "As of now, anyway. The superintendent can't be reached."

"Any details?"

"A woman, found by her husband."

"Come on. You'll be quicker if I drive you up the road." His adrenaline had started to flow, but as they hurried to the car, he realized with a stab of disappointment that no matter how challenging the case about to unfold, he would be merely an onlooker.

He saw the flash of blue lights to their left as they crested the hill. Kincaid pulled up behind the last of the panda cars, then followed Gemma as she greeted the constable deployed to keep back onlookers.

"What can you tell me, John?" she asked quietly.

The young man looked a bit green about the gills. "I took the call. Gentleman came home and found his wife between her car and the hedge. He called the paramedics but it was already too late- she was dead."

"How?"

"Throat cut." He swallowed. "There's a lot of blood."

"Has the pathologist been called? And the scene-of-crime lads?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sergeant Franks took command until you arrived, ma'am."

Kincaid saw Gemma grimace, but she said merely, "All right, John, thank you. You'll get the area cordoned off before the SOCO's get here?"

"Yes, ma'am. Constable Paris has it in hand." As he spoke, a female constable appeared from behind the last of the patrol cars. She began unrolling the blue-and-white tape that would delineate the crime scene.

Following Gemma as she spoke to the young woman, Kincaid was the first to see the approach of a heavyset man already clad in the requisite white crime-scene coverall. This must be Sergeant Franks, whom Gemma had mentioned with dislike and a grudging respect. Balding, middle-aged, his face creased by an expression of perpetual discontent, Franks addressed Gemma without preamble. "You'd better suit up, then, before you go any further."

"Thanks, Gerry," Gemma replied smoothly. "Have you a coverall handy? Make that two." She glanced back at Kincaid, adding, "This is Superintendent Kincaid, from the Yard."

As they slipped into the coveralls Franks produced from the boot of one of the cars, Gemma asked, "What have you got so far, Gerry?"

"Husband arrived home, expecting his wife to be ready for a dinner engagement. Her car was in the drive, but the house was dark. He went in and called out for her, had a look round, then came back out into the drive and found the body. Tried to rouse her, then called nine-nine-nine."

"Did the paramedics touch her?"

"No, but the husband did. He's a right mess."

"What's his name?"

"Karl Arrowood. Quite a bit older than his wife, I'd say, and well off. Owns a poncey antiques shop on Kensington Park Road."

The well-off part was obvious, Kincaid thought, glancing up at the house. The lower windows were now ablaze with light, illuminating the pale yellow stucco exterior and the white classical columns flanking the porch. In the drive, two dark Mercedes sedans sat side by side.

"Where is Mr. Arrowood now?" asked Gemma.

"One of the constables took him inside for a hot cup of tea, although I'd wager a stiff drink is more his style."

"Right. He'll keep for a bit. I'm going to have a look at the body before the pathologist gets here. What about lights?"

"Coming with the SOC team."

"Then we'll have to make do. What was her name, by the way? The wife."

"Dawn. Pretty name." Franks shrugged. "Not much use to her now."

Gemma turned to Kincaid. "Want to put your oar in?"

"I wouldn't miss it."

They pulled elasticized covers on over their shoes and made their way carefully along the edge of the drive nearest the house, assuming that to be the least likely area for the perpetrator to have traversed. As they passed the cars, they saw that a wrought-iron gate barred the end of the drive, meeting the hedge that ran down the drive's far side.

"There's no place to hide except in the hedge itself," Gemma murmured.

The body lay in front of the outside car, a dark heap that resolved itself as they drew closer into a slender woman in a leather coat. The thick, ferrous smell of blood was heavy in the damp air.

Kincaid felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as he squatted, using his pocket torch to illuminate Dawn Arrowood's motionless form. As Gemma bent over, examining the corpse without touching it, he saw the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. "You okay?" he asked softly, keeping the jab of fear from his voice with an effort. Gemma had almost suffered a miscarriage six weeks previously, the result of her harrowing rescue of a young mother and infant on the slopes of Glastonbury Tor. Although now under doctor's orders to take it easy, she had not been willing to take leave from work, and he found himself hovering over her like a broody hen.

"Shouldn't have had the curry for lunch." Gemma attempted a smile. "But I'll be damned if I'm going to sick it up in front of Gerry Franks."

"Not to mention it plays hell with the crime scene," he rejoined, feeling a surge of relief that it was merely nausea that was troubling her.

He turned his attention back to the victim. Young- perhaps in her early thirties- blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that was now in partial disarray, a delicate, high-cheekboned face that he suspected had been strikingly beautiful in life; all marred now by the savage gash beneath her chin. The torchlight picked up the white gleam of cartilage in the wound.

The woman's blouse had been sliced open and pulled back, and beneath the splash of blood from her throat, Kincaid thought he could make out another wound in her chest, but the poor light made it impossible to be sure. "There was no hesitation here. This bloke meant business."

"You're assuming it was a man?"

"Not likely to be a woman's crime, is it? Either physically or emotionally. We'll see what the pathologist says."

"Did I hear someone take my name in vain?" called a voice from across the drive.

"Kate!" Kincaid said warmly as another white-suited figure came towards them. They had worked with Dr. Kate Ling on several previous cases, and he thought highly of her skill- not to mention her looks.

"Superintendent. Good to see you. Sounds like you've got yourself a real media circus in the making here."

"Not my case, actually," he told her, cursing himself for putting Gemma in such an awkward position. "Inspector James is Senior Investigating Officer. I'm just tagging along."

"Oh, Inspector is it now," Ling said, smiling. "Congratulations, Gemma. Let's see what you've got here."

Kincaid and Gemma stepped back as Ling knelt beside the body.

"Her blood's pooled beneath her body, so she hasn't been moved," the pathologist said, as much to herself as to them. "No obvious signs of sexual interference. No hesitation marks on the throat. No readily apparent defense wounds." She looked up at Gemma. "No weapon?"

"Not that I've heard."

"Well, I'll be able to tell you a bit more about what was used here when I get her on the table, but the wound's very clean and deep." She probed the chest with gloved fingers. "There seems to be a puncture wound here as well."

"What about time of death?" asked Gemma.

"I'd say very recent. She's still warm to the touch."

"Bloody hell," Gemma whispered. "I walked right by this house not more than an hour ago. Do you suppose…"

"Did you see anything?" Kincaid asked.

Gemma shook her head. "No. But then I wasn't looking, and now I wonder what I might have missed." She turned to Kate Ling. "When can you perform the postmortem?"

"Tomorrow morning, first thing," Ling said with a sigh. "So much for getting my nails done." She stood as voices heralded the arrival of the technicians who would photograph the body and the crime scene, and gather every scrap of physical evidence from the area. "Right, I'll get out of the way and let them do their job. When they get ready to bag the body, have them deliver it to the morgue at St. Charles Hospital. It's nearby, and convenient for me." Ling gave Kincaid a jaunty wave and disappeared the way she had come.

"And I'll get out of your way," Kincaid said as he saw Gemma glance at him and hesitate.

"Will you check on Toby, and let Hazel know what's happened? I've no idea when I'll get home."

"I'll stay with Toby myself. Don't worry." He touched her arm lightly, then made his way back to the street. But rather than getting in his car, he stood, watching from a distance as Gemma directed her team. As she climbed the front steps and entered the house, he would have given anything to be beside her.


***

"Bloody sodding hell!" Doug Cullen fumed, stomping into his flat and dropping his briefcase in the hall. He'd been reading his case files on the bus, as was his usual habit on his nightly commute home from the Yard, when he'd come across a scrawled note from Kincaid criticizing the conclusions he'd drawn after interviewing a suspect's associate.

I think there's more here than meets the eye, Doug. This one warrants another interview. Be patient this time, see if you can get under his skin.

"Like Sergeant James," Cullen mimicked Kincaid's unspoken parenthetical comment. The inestimable Sergeant Gemma James, who had apparently never made a mistake in her entire career at the Yard, and who had, as Kincaid so often reminded him, a special talent for interviewing people.

Cullen went into the kitchen and stared morosely into his barren fridge. He had meant to get off the bus a stop early and buy a six-pack at the off-license, but it had completely slipped his mind. Filling a glass with water from the tap, he gazed out the window at the traffic moving on the damp, greasy tarmac of Euston Road.

Of course he'd heard the scuttlebutt round the office about Kincaid's relationship with his former partner, and he was tempted to put Kincaid's veneration of her down to personal bias. But even if Sergeant James had been the most exemplary detective, did that mean he had always to be measured by her standard?

Cullen was introspective enough to realize that a good deal of his ire towards Gemma James had to do with his doubts about his own performance. Of course he was a good detective, he knew that, and he knew he'd never have landed this job at the Yard if his record hadn't spoken well of him. He was analytical, thorough, good at task management, but he also knew that his weakness lay in his impatience in interviewing witnesses and suspects. He wanted results quickly, and he wanted them in black and white- neither of which was very likely in police work.

Part of that he put down to his rather sheltered upbringing in suburban St. Albans, the only son of a City lawyer, part to an addiction to American cop shows on the telly, where the tough guys always got their man by the end of the hour.

But surely he could learn patience, just like anything else. And the fair, schoolboy looks that so plagued him gave him a ready advantage- people tended to trust him. If he could make himself sit and listen, even the most hardened criminals, he was learning, had a vulnerable spot for sympathy.

And wasn't that what his guv'nor was telling him, if he could get round his resentment of Gemma James? She was an ordinary mortal, after all, one who had probably muddled through her first few months as Kincaid's sergeant in much the same way he had. Perhaps if he were to meet her, see her as a person, it would lay the ghost of her perfection to rest in his mind. And he had to admit to a good measure of plain old-fashioned curiosity.

Wandering back into the sitting room, he tidied automatically, mulling over possibilities. It was not likely that a chance errand would send him to Notting Hill Police Station any time soon, nor could he foresee any upcoming social encounters… unless he were to manufacture an occasion. His girlfriend, Stella, was always on at him about his lack of enthusiasm for her dinner parties- but what if he were to suggest one?

Not here, though. He looked round his flat with distaste. At Bloomsbury's northern edge, the small flat in an ugly, concrete sixties building had been a good value for London but lacked any charm or comfort. To make matters worse, Stella, a buyer for a trendy home furnishings shop, had decorated it for him in neutrals and grays. She insisted that the color scheme and the boxy lines of the furniture harmonized with the building's architectural style. After her efforts, he hadn't the heart to tell her that he found it all extremely depressing.

Stella's flat, then, in Ebury Street, near the Yard. He would jolly her into it at dinner tonight, even if it meant the trade-off of committing himself to one of her friends' country-house weekends- and that was a fate he considered almost worse than death.


***

The house smelled of flowers, the sweetness of the scent a painful contrast to the acrid smell of blood. A console table held an enormous arrangement of fresh blooms, and glimpses into the rooms on either side showed equally sumptuous bouquets. Walls the color of goldenrod accentuated the richness of the dark furniture, the elegance of the silk draperies falling to pools on the carpets, the discreet lighting on the paintings that hung on the walls.

The touch of something soft against her ankle made Gemma gasp, but when she looked down she saw that it was only a gray cat, materializing as if by magic. She knelt to stroke it and the beast butted against her knees, purring gratefully. Was this Dawn Arrowood's pet? Gemma wondered. Missing its mistress- or perhaps merely craving its supper.

She heard voices from the back of the house, an intermittent murmur of conversation. Giving the cat a last pat, Gemma followed the sound down the corridor. The large kitchen was as elegant as the other rooms, lined with cream-colored cabinets and copper accessories. At a table in the breakfast area sat Constable Melody Talbot, and beside her a man in a white, blood-soaked shirt.

Gemma paused, halted in part by the unexpected sight of so much blood in such surroundings, and in part by her surprise at Karl Arrowood's appearance. "An older husband," Gerry Franks had said, and she had mentally translated that into "feeble elderly gentleman." But the man gazing at her across the kitchen was, she guessed, no older than his mid-fifties, lean and fit, with a strong, lightly suntanned face, and thick hair still as yellow as the walls of his house.

"Mr. Arrowood," she said, collecting herself, "I'm Detective Inspector James. I'd like to speak to Constable Talbot for a moment, if you'll excuse us."

When Talbot had followed her into the hall, Gemma asked, "Anything?"

Talbot shook her head. "Just what he told Sergeant Franks. And he has no inclination to talk to me. I suspect he considers me beneath his notice." She made the statement without rancor.

"Right. I'll tackle him, then. Go check on the search warrant, then let me know the status."

Returning to the kitchen, Gemma sat across from Karl Arrowood. His eyes, she saw, were gray, and without expression.

"Mr. Arrowood, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I don't know how I can help you, Inspector. I've come home, found my wife murdered in my own drive, and all your lot seem to be able to do is offer me tea."

"Our investigation is proceeding along normal lines, Mr. Arrowood, and one of the necessary components is a detailed description of everything you remember about finding your wife. I'm sorry, I know this must be painful for you."

"I've already gone over it with your sergeant."

"Nevertheless, I need to hear it as well. I understand you were expecting your wife to be at home when you arrived. Is that correct?"

"We had a dinner engagement at the Savoy, with customers who come over regularly from Germany. Dawn wouldn't have been late."

"So you were surprised when you arrived home and found the house dark?"

"Yes, especially as I knew she'd taken her car, and it was in the drive. She was meeting a friend at Fortnum's, and she didn't care for public transport. I thought…" For the first time he hesitated, and Gemma saw that in spite of his apparent composure, his hands were trembling. "I thought perhaps she'd come in feeling unwell and fallen asleep, but when I checked the bedroom there was no sign she'd been there."

"What is the name of your wife's friend?"

"Natalie. I'm afraid I don't recall her surname. She was an old school friend of Dawn's. I've never met her."

Gemma found that a bit odd, but let it go for the moment. "Then what did you do?" she prompted.

"I called out, had a look round the house. Then… I'm not quite sure why, I went back out into the drive. I suppose I thought she'd met a neighbor or… I don't know." He rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving a tiny smear of red. "I saw something white in the drive, near the bonnet of her car. When I got closer I saw it was a carrier bag, from Harrods. And then…"

This time Gemma waited in silence.

"I thought she'd fallen… fainted, perhaps. She hadn't been feeling well lately. I tried to lift her…"

"Then you rang for help?"

"I had my mobile in my pocket. I couldn't leave her."

"Was there anything worrying your wife, Mr. Arrowood?"

"Good God! You're not suggesting suicide?"

"No, of course not. Only that she might have been approached by someone recently, or had an argument with someone. Anything out of the ordinary."

"No. I don't know of anything. I'm sure she'd have told me." He drummed long fingers on the table and Gemma saw that he had blood under his fingernails. "Look. Is that all? I've phone calls to make. Her family… I'll have to tell her family…"

A motion in the hall alerted Gemma to Talbot's return. Talbot gave her a nod of assent, then stood by for instructions.

"Mr. Arrowood, Constable Talbot is going to stay with you while we search the premises-"

"Search my house?" Arrowood scowled in disbelief. "You're not serious?"

"I'm afraid I am. It's the first thing we do in any homicide investigation. We'll need your clothes as well, for the lab. I'll have one of the technicians bring you some clean things from upstairs."

"But this is outrageous. You can't do this. I'm going to call my contact in the Home Office-"

"You're welcome to ring whomever you like, Mr. Arrowood, but the warrant's already been issued. I'm sorry. I know this is difficult, but it's normal procedure and we've no choice under the circumstances. Now, did your wife keep a diary of her appointments? Or an address book where I might be able to find the name of the friend she met for tea?"

She thought he might refuse, but she held his gaze and after a moment the fight seemed to seep out of him. His shoulders sagged. "In the sitting room. On the desk by the window."

"Thank you. Is there someone you can call to stay with you?"

"No," he said slowly, almost as if the thought surprised him. "No one."


***

Gemma found the address book and diary easily enough, just where Arrowood had said; small books, covered in floral fabric and smelling of perfume. A quick look showed her that Dawn Arrowood had written only one thing in her diary for that day, at ten o'clock in the morning: Tommy to vet. Was Tommy the gray cat she had met in the hall?

Gemma paged carefully through the neat script in the address book. With helpful feminine logic, Dawn had placed All Saints Animal Hospital under V for vet. Making a note of the number, Gemma continued searching for Dawn's friend Natalie. In the W's, she found a listing for a Natalie Walthorpe, but Walthorpe had been carefully lined through and Caine had been written in after it.

After writing an evidence receipt, Gemma tucked both books in her bag for later perusal.

"Anything upstairs?" she asked the technician.

"No bloody shoes tucked neatly in the wardrobe, if that's what you're hoping," the technician returned cheekily. "You can have a go, if you like."

"Thanks, I will."

As she climbed the stairs, she felt again the brush against her leg, and looked down to find the cat padding up the stairs alongside her. "Tommy?" she said experimentally.

The cat looked up at her and blinked, as if to acknowledge his name. "Okay, Tommy it is."

At the top of the stairs, she turned towards the sound of voices. She was rewarded by the sight of the master bedroom, and within it, two coveralled technicians going over every surface with tweezers and sticky tape.

"Afraid you'll have to observe from the doorway for a bit longer, guv," one of them informed her. "Let us know if there's anything particular you want to look at."

With that Gemma had to be content. She stood, taking in the atmosphere of the pale yellow room. It was a gracious and elegant retreat, large and high-ceilinged, with a draped four-poster bed. The floral print of the drapes was matched by the coverlet and window coverings, a show of expensive decorating that made Gemma feel slightly claustrophobic.

Tommy the cat jumped up on the bed, curled himself into a ball, and began to purr. When the technician gave her the go-ahead, Gemma went into the room and began to look round her.

The bedside table on the right held glossy copies of Vogue and Town and Country, as well as a copy of the latest best-selling novel and a delicate alarm clock. Gemma thought of her own bedside, usually endowed with a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a used teacup.

Peeking into the en suite bathroom, she found monogrammed, pale yellow towels, and an antique oak sideboard displaying expensive makeup and perfumes tidily arranged on lacquered trays. On the back of the door hung a fluffy toweling dressing gown. Where, Gemma wondered, was the hastily abandoned hairbrush, the jewelry taken off and left to be dealt with at a later time?

The built-in wardrobe revealed more of the same: neatly arranged women's clothes on one side, men's expensive suits on the other. Frowning in frustration, Gemma dug deeper. Shelves held handbags and stored summer clothes, the floor racks of shoes. It was only when she sat back with a sigh of exasperation that she saw the edge of the box behind the shoes. Moving the shoe rack, she pulled out the box- not cardboard, heaven forbid, but a specialty shop storage container- and removed the lid.

Here at last was some semblance of a jumble. Tattered volumes of Enid Blyton's children's books jostled against romantic novels and two dolls; a smaller, obviously hand-papered box held school reports and family photos labeled in a childish, yet recognizable, hand.

Gemma sat back, perplexed. These things had, at one time, defined the woman who had died that night. Why had Dawn Arrowood found it not only necessary to reinvent herself so completely, but to hide away the remnants of the person she had been?


***

Kincaid had tucked Toby into bed with a reading of Graham Oakley's The Church Mice Adrift, the boy's book of choice as of late, and now sat at Gemma's half-moon table, nursing a glass of the Chardonnay he'd found in her fridge.

As he looked round the room, he thought how deeply Gemma had stamped her presence on this space. It had given her safety and comfort when she had felt adrift in her life- Would he be able to provide her as much security as she'd found here? God knew they needed anchors badly enough in their jobs… and this case she'd landed tonight would test her resources; he'd known that from the outset. The media attention alone would be brutal, especially if she failed to produce a suspect in the amount of time the journalists deemed suitable.

Was he making the right choice in moving her into a house in her own patch, where there would be no escape from the presence of work, and in forcing her to do it so quickly? Yet he felt compelled to act; now that she'd agreed at last, he was afraid if he hesitated she might change her mind.

And then there was Kit to consider. His son's school term ended in a week, and when Kit made the move from Grantchester to London, Kincaid wanted them to begin as they meant to go on- as a family. He still harbored the fear that his ex-wife's widower, Ian McClellan, who remained Kit's legal guardian, might change his mind about leaving the boy in Kincaid's care when Ian took up a teaching post in Canada in the new year.

And then there were his ex-wife's parents, who felt they should have charge of their grandson. Eugenia Potts was both selfish and hysterical, and when forced to stay in her care, Kit had run away. Since then, Ian had allowed the grandparents only one supervised visit a month, which was coming up the Friday after Christmas. Eugenia had chosen the stuffy formality of afternoon tea at Brown's Hotel for their meeting- not the outing of choice for a twelve-year-old boy.

Nor would Eugenia be happy to see Kincaid, whom she despised, or to learn about Kit's new living arrangements. Over them hung the specter that Eugenia might actually undertake the legal action she threatened on a regular basis, and attempt to wrest Kit's guardianship for herself.

Well, they would just have to deal with that when the time came. If Kincaid's job had not taught him that there were few guarantees of stability in life, he should have learned it from his ex-wife's tragic death.

Thinking of the young woman they had seen that night, her life so unexpectedly snuffed out, Kincaid got up and poured the remains of his wine down the sink. He turned off all but the bedside lamp, then opened the blind and stood looking into the darkened garden. What worried him most was that he had seen a murder like this once before, less than two months ago.

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