Kincaid retrieved the ticket and stuck it into his wallet. He folded the Midget’s top down, lowered himself into the driver’s seat and sat in the silent street, thinking. What to do, now, with this unexpected information? He couldn’t ignore it. Why, in the name of all that was competent, hadn’t Nash’s men searched the room already? It had been nearly thirty-six hours since Sebastian’s body had been discovered, and Nash had only sent a W.P.C. to break the news-he hadn’t even interviewed the mother, for Christ’s sake. Actually, he amended, ‘thank god’ might be a better qualification, as he couldn’t imagine that Nash would have done anything to ease her distress.
Nash would have to be told, there was no help for it. And help, decided Kincaid, was just what he needed. He turned the key in the ignition and lifted the car phone from its cradle.
Kincaid counted himself extremely fortunate in his immediate superior. Chief Superintendent Denis Childs was an intelligent man whom Kincaid liked personally and respected professionally-and Kincaid knew that the luck of the draw could have just as easily given him a chief like Nash, although he liked to think that a copper of Nash’s caliber would never make it past Detective Constable at the Yard.
Denis Childs was a massive man, dwarfing Kincaid’s rangy six feet, and with his olive skin and bland inscrutability of feature, he sometimes made Kincaid think of an Eastern potentate-one finger on the political pulse and the other on his harem.
“Sir,” Kincaid said, when they were finished with the standard greetings, “I’ve run into a little problem.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” Childs said equably, with his usual disinclination to be ruffled. “And just how little is it?”
“Um,” Kincaid hesitated, “the situation’s a bit tricky. Yesterday morning I found the house’s assistant manager electrocuted in the swimming pool. The local D.C.I, is of the opinion that it was suicide, but I think he’ll find it’s not when the lab reports come back. At any rate, I’m not too happy about the whole thing. I just… um… happened across some files of the victim’s that contain some fairly damaging information on some of the timeshare owners.”
“Just happened, my ass. You’ve been snooping, Kincaid, where you’d no right to stick your nose.” Childs’ voice contained a note of approval. “Blackmail, eh?”
“Funnily enough, I don’t really think so. Not directly, anyway. I wondered if you could smooth the way for me to make a few discreet inquiries. Don’t want to step on any toes-” Kincaid paused. “Actually, I’d like to stomp the bastard’s shins, but in the interest of departmental good will…”
“I imagine you’ve already stepped on plenty, if you’ve been looking about. The A.C. will appreciate your restraint,” Childs added sarcastically. “But I’ll see what I can do. I believe the Chief Constable up there is an old friend of the A.C. Perhaps the A.C. would be willing to have a word with him on your behalf. Offer the Squad’s assistance if the business does turn nasty. I’ll have a word in his ear. In the meantime, try to keep out of trouble.”
“I’ll tread like an angel,” Kincaid said. “All right if I call Sergeant James?”
“On your head be it,” Childs answered, and Kincaid hung up, satisfied.
Gemma James shoved two combs into her ginger curls, one more attempt on her part to bulldoze them into professionalism. She frowned at herself in the mirror, pulled the combs free and quickly brushed her hair into a pony-tail at the nape of her neck. “I give up,” she said aloud. If God had seen fit to give her red hair and freckles, she might as well accept them gracefully and stop harboring secret desires to be an icy blond or a sultry brunette. A little make-up toned the freckles down to a barely noticeable dusting, and that would have to do.
The phone rang just as she scooped up a rambunctious Toby, ready to take him to the sitter’s. The morning off had improved her outlook, and she reached for the receiver with a return of her usual energy. “No, no, love. Let Mummy get it.” She gripped Toby’s clutching fingers with one hand and picked up the phone with the other, shifting her handbag and balancing the toddler on her hip. Gemma rested her cheek for a moment against his flaxen hair. It was straight as a die, thank god, a genetic wild card, unlike either her own or his dad’s dark mop.
“Gemma?”
“Sir. How’s your holiday?” Gemma grinned into the phone, both surprised and pleased to hear Kincaid’s voice. She toed the uneasy line between Christian name and title.
“Sorry to interrupt your morning, Gemma. Are you working on anything in particular?”
It was business, then, and she’d called it right. “Not really. Why?”
“I’d like you to do some checking for me, and I’d like you to do it as unofficially as possible. I’ve cleared it with the Guv’nor, but I don’t really have any official jurisdiction.”
“Gossip with the old biddies?” Gemma knew Kincaid’s indirect methods.
“Right. Although in some cases you may have to speak directly to relatives. The problem is that I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Anything in these people’s lives that doesn’t mesh, doesn’t seem quite right. Let me fill you in.”
Gemma listened, and wrote, having long since set the squirming Toby down. With half her mind she heard him pulling pots and pans out of the cupboard, his favorite pastime, but her attention was concentrated on Kincaid, and when she finally hung up she wore a small, satisfied smile.
As Kincaid locked the Midget and started across the gravel toward Followdale House, Inspector Peter Raskin came out the door and ran nimbly down the steps to meet him.
“Sir, I’d just about given up on you,” said Raskin, by way of greeting. “Thought you might like to know what the scene of crime lab came up with.”
Kincaid glanced up at the blank faces of the windows above them. “We do need to talk. Let’s move away a bit.” They strolled down to the bench at the end of the garden-the same spot where he and Hannah had stood two nights before and thought how gay and welcoming the house looked with the light spilling from its windows. “You first,” said Kincaid, when they had settled themselves on the bench.
“You were right about the heater and the plug. There’s not a smudge of a print anywhere on it that doesn’t belong to Cassie Whitlake. So, either Cassie plugged it in, and in that case why would she implicate herself, or the person who did wore gloves. Now, if it were Sebastian-and I never heard of a suicide wearing gloves-what did he do with them? His clothes, his shoes, his wallet, even his handkerchief and comb were folded in a neat stack by the bench. Did he plug the heater in, go dispose of the gloves somewhere, then come back and undress and hop in? I don’t buy it.” Raskin paused. “The heater might have shorted itself out before he could get in the pool. And I never knew a neat suicide not to leave a note.”
“I didn’t buy it, either,” said Kincaid. “What about the p.m.?”
“The best the doc can give us from the stomach contents is between ten and midnight.”
“Not much help, but then I didn’t expect it would be. None of the guests have a definite alibi?”
“Not to speak of.” Raskin ticked them off his fingers. “Cassie says she went to her cottage, alone, around ten, and didn’t come out again. The Hunsingers had gone to bed and to sleep, after tucking in the children and having some herbal tea. Marta and Patrick Rennie say they were in their suite all the time, but she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. The MacKenzie ladies retired around ten, were both asleep by eleven. Janet Lyle had a headache, and her husband fixed her a cup of tea. She then went to sleep and he did, too. Um, let’s see, who’s left?”