“You just keep talking to her,” Maggie instructed when he paused, “and I’ll give you a few more minutes.” She moved away to attend another patient, her face impassive.
Jack fumbled in his pocket for the prayer book the hospital staff had found in Winnie’s handbag and began to read, hoping the familiar and comforting words would somehow reach her. “O Lord our heavenly Father, Almighty and everlasting God, who has safely brought us to the beginning of this day: Defend us in the same with thy mighty power; and grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger; but that all our doings may be ordered by thy governance.…” His voice broke; he bowed his head and closed the small leather-bound book with its gilt-edged pages. It was Winnie’s, a gift from her parents upon her confirmation, she had told him once. They had been killed in a boating accident shortly afterwards, and the book had become one of her treasures.
How had she managed to survive such grief whole? he wondered. He whispered to her, rubbing her hand between his, telling her he loved her, that she was strong and that he would let nothing—nothing—take her away from him.
Maggie reappeared at his side with a soft touch on his shoulder. “You’ll have to go now, I’m afraid, but you can come back in a couple of hours.” As Jack stood, regretfully letting go Winnie’s hand, she added, “Did I hear someone say that Winifred was a vicar?”
“Of St. Mary’s, in Compton Grenville.”
“If she likes music, you might bring something for her to listen to. Music can be a very strong trigger for some people, especially if it’s an important part of their daily lives.”
“Can I leave this with you?” Jack held out the prayer book. “In case you have a chance to read to her? Or if she wakes …” He looked up, desperately meeting Maggie’s hazel eyes. “What if she wakes up while I’m gone? Or …”
Maggie dug a piece of paper and a pen from her pocket. “You have a mobile phone?” Jack nodded. “Give me your number, and I’ll ring you if there’s any change at all.”
Jack thanked her and, with a last look at Winnie, went out into the waiting area. It was then that he sank into the nearest chair, shaken by the realization that he could not bear to lose her, could not bear to go back to the desert that had been his life after Emily’s death.
Nor could he bear to sit idly by, waiting. There were too many unanswered questions. What would Winnie tell them when—he refused to consider the possibility that it might be if—she woke? Why had she been going to see her friend Fiona at that time of evening? Where had she been before that? Why hadn’t she rung him? And what had she seen before the car struck her?
There must be something he could do. The police had certainly not shown much interest in investigating the accident. Winnie was much too levelheaded to have cycled blindly into the path of an oncoming vehicle. But how else could this have happened, unless someone had deliberately hurt her? And that was unimaginable.
He would go see Fiona. Perhaps Winnie had rung her, told her something that would explain her unlikely appearance in Bulwarks Lane.
And there was one other person he could call; someone he could trust to tell him if he was completely mad.
Kincaid returned the phone to its cradle on his desk just as his sergeant came into his office with a sheaf of papers in a folder.
“Report from forensics,” Douglas Cullen said, sliding the folder across the desk and pulling up a chair.
“Any joy?”
Cullen shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Nothing, zilch, nada.”
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve been watching American telly again.” He suspected that Cullen liked to imagine himself a tough, NYPD Blue-type detective—a harmless enough fantasy as long as it didn’t get in the way of his work—but surely no one could look a less likely candidate. With his fair hair, spectacles, and rosy-cheeked, schoolboy complexion, Cullen was the very image of the traditional English bobby.
For the past two weeks, they’d been working a case that looked disturbingly as if it might be the beginning venture of a serial killer. The victim, the owner of an antiques stall in Camden Passage, had been found on her own premises, and so far they had not turned up a smidgen of useful evidence. Kincaid had begun to think that the killer had worn a hermetically sealed suit, and been invisible to boot.
As he opened the folder, his mind wandered to his recent—and unexpected—phone call from his cousin Jack Montfort and the dilemma it had presented him.
How long had it been since he’d seen Jack? He had been away on a case when Emily and the baby died … it would have been his aunt’s funeral, then, but he had done little more than shake Jack’s hand and offer his condolences before rushing back to London.
If there was anyone who’d had more than his share of tragedy, it was his cousin. But now it seemed Jack’s new love was lying in hospital and he seemed distraught, fearing that the hit-and-run might not have been an accident. Hesitantly, Jack had urged, “You could come for the weekend, just see what you think.”
“But I’d have no jurisdiction,” Kincaid had protested.
“It doesn’t matter. I just … It would be good to see you.”
His mother and Jack’s had been close, and the families had spent extended time together in the summers when the children were small. Jack had been a rather solemn but likable boy, always ready for an adventure, and he had grown into an engaging and generous man. Kincaid’s memories of the holiday Jack had given him in his Yorkshire time-share had been marred by Emily’s death so shortly afterwards, but the thoughtfulness of the offer had been typical of Jack.
“I’ll let you know if I can work something out,” Kincaid answered, ringing off. As much as he regretted letting Jack down, he had no real intention of driving to Somerset for the weekend.
There was no way he could leave London; something might break on the case, and Doug Cullen wasn’t experienced enough to handle it alone. And he and Gemma had managed little enough time together lately—he’d been hoping to make the most of Kit’s plans to spend the weekend with friends.
He shuffled papers resolutely, determined to focus on the matter at hand. But as he read through the disappointingly negative report, he couldn’t quite forget the desperation he’d heard in Jack’s final words. His cousin needed his support, and Kincaid suspected how dearly it had cost Jack to ask for it.
“Sir?”
“Oh, sorry, Cullen. Afraid I was wool-gathering.”
“You’ve not heard a word I’ve said.” Cullen sounded a bit injured.
Kincaid gazed at his sergeant speculatively. He was a sound lad; perhaps it was time he had a chance to sink or swim. And Gemma … If her touchiness the past few weeks was anything to go by, Gemma badly needed a holiday. The question was whether he could convince her to take it.
He smiled at Doug Cullen. “Think you could manage on your own for a few days, Sergeant?”
When Jack rang him at the bookshop with news of Winnie’s accident, Nick felt a sharp jolt of relief. Cold, hunger, and common sense had driven him back to his caravan the previous evening, but he’d not been able to rid himself of a gnawing feeling of foreboding.
“How—How is she?” Nick asked.
“Unconscious, but stable. They’ll let me in to see her again soon,” Jack told him.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Let the others know, if you can. I’ll ring you if there’s any … change.” Jack’s voice had wavered and Nick sensed the control it took him to keep it steady.
“Right. I—I’m sorry, Jack.” Unable to find anything more adequate to say, Nick hung up. He stood, then flipped the sign on the shop door and locked it as he left. He would tell Faith, but not on the telephone.