Color flooded into Rennie’s face. “God, I’ve been an bloody fool. You were right about Cassie, you know. It started last year. Marta knew something was going on but I badgered her into coming here anyway. I thought Cassie cared about me, that she was even worth risking my future.” He shook his head as if bewildered by his own stupidity. “But nothing went right this visit. This afternoon I decided I had to pin her down, sort things out. I went across to the cottage and started to knock but the door wasn’t quite shut. Well, it’s the usual old story. Why should I have been so surprised?” He smiled, but his color was still high and his eyes didn’t quite meet Kincaid’s.
“Compromising?”
“Fairly.”
“And who was the lucky chap?”
Rennie looked away. “Graham Frazer.”
CHAPTER 17
Kincaid paced the dimly lit reception area, listening, a little guiltily, for Anne Percy’s light tread on the stairs. He’d left Patrick Rennie nursing a drink in the empty bar, and he felt less sure than ever whether the man was genuine or a most sincere and plausible liar.
If Cassie supported Patrick’s story, would that give him a sufficient alibi? Hannah had told Kincaid she’d tapped on his door just before she started down the stairs. But it had been a very tentative knock, she’d said, as she’d thought better of it and decided to go on her own. Had that been the sound he’d heard while on the phone to Gemma? Or had he been on the balcony and heard nothing at all?
“Timing. All a matter of timing,” he muttered. If Hannah had lain on the stairs only minutes, could Patrick prove he’d come straight from Cassie’s into the hall? And for that matter, where did that leave Cassie and Graham? Safely locked in a lovers’ alibi? Or colluding in a foolproof murder attempt? Assuming, of course, that Hannah hadn’t been lying unconscious for half-an-hour or more-in which case it could have been any one of the three. But why would one of them, or anyone else, for that matter, want to kill Hannah?
And what had the rest of the cast been up to?
Kincaid smacked his fist into his open palm, grimacing in frustration. He might as well be tied up and blindfolded, for all he’d accomplished. He, who had so often complained of paperwork’s drudgery, would have given anything for a stack of neatly detailed statements taken by his efficient sergeant. Chief Inspector Nash had gone from being deliberately obstructive to a kind of sly evasiveness, but both tactics produced the same end result-Kincaid had no facts.
Some movement in the shadowy room, a current of air perhaps, made Kincaid turn toward the sitting-room door. The light shifted and he had a brief second’s vision of Sebastian Wade as he had first seen him in this room-propped nonchalantly with his shoulder against the door-jamb, hands in pockets, face split by an impish grin.
How the hell, Kincaid thought, did it all fit together?
Quick footsteps on the stairs drew him into the hall. Anne Percy met his questioning look with a smile as she descended the last few steps. “She’s doing fine. A bit done in, of course. Wrist probably sprained, and a good-sized bump on the head. I told her that she had good bones.” Anne’s lips twitched with amusement. “No sign of creeping osteoporosis.” She sighed and stretched, then said more seriously, “You will keep an eye on her, won’t you, Duncan? I keep thinking…” Frowning, she paused for a moment. “Whoever pushed her… they might have stayed and finished the job.”
“It’s possible they heard me coming out of my suite. But then again, it’s not that different from what happened to Penny or Sebastian. Opportunity seen-action taken, with little to lose. Bending over Hannah on the stairs would have been a much riskier proposition.”
Anne shuddered. “What an awful thought.”
“I know. I’ve told her to keep herself locked in and not to go anywhere without telling me. She says she doesn’t want babysitting,” he added in exasperation. “She was quite docile and agreeable until she began to recover a little.”
“I’ve left her with Chief Inspector Nash. That’s not exactly what I would call a tranquilizing experience.”
“No. Best to get it over with so he’ll leave her in peace.” Kincaid studied Anne appreciatively. Under a bright yellow plastic slicker, she wore fuchsia leggings and a matching rugby-striped top, and looked to Kincaid as unlikely a doctor as he could imagine.
“What’s so funny?” asked Anne, as the grin spread across his face.
“I was thinking of the crusty old country practitioner who looked after us when I was growing up.”
She glanced down at herself, then met his smile. “Well, times change, don’t they? Thank goodness.” Her eyes strayed to her watch. “But some things never seem to. I’m late getting supper for my girls. I’m afraid I’ll have to run.”
He felt suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d been guilty of forgetting her obligations, but said equably enough, “Yes. I’ll walk you out.”
Her yellow slicker squeaked and rustled as she walked, and once her arm brushed lightly against his. When they reached her car she opened the door and swung her bag in, then turned to face him. Kincaid stood close enough to notice that she smelled of lavender-a clean, comforting scent-and he searched for something to say that might detain her a moment longer. “Thank you. This has all been pretty beastly for you, I imagine.”
Anne smiled. “Death’s familiar enough. It’s the circumstances that differ. Anyway, the police surgeon’s back from holiday tomorrow, so I won’t be officially on call anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said into the silence that stretched between them.
“I’m sorry, too,” Anne Percy answered as she got into the car, and as Kincaid watched her drive away, he wasn’t sure what either of them had meant.
The evening drew in as Gemma drove north along the Banbury Road. Large, comfortable houses flanked the street on either side, their interiors looking warm and welcoming as only lamplit rooms seen in the dusk can. Trees filled the gardens, the fading light leaching the autumn colors from their leaves.
She’d never been in Oxford before-never had a case take her there, and it wasn’t the sort of place her family would have chosen to go on holiday. Her mum and dad had gone to the same Cornish village for the same two weeks every year as far back as she could remember-an agreeable, dependable place, and not the least bit adventuresome.
Much to her surprise, Gemma found herself enchanted with the city. Once she’d arranged an evening appointment with Miles Sterrett through his housekeeper, she’d had several hours to kill, and had spent them exploring the city center. From Cornmarket down The High as far as Magdalen College and the river, the tranquil, green quads of the colleges beckoned.
She walked slowly, the collar of her navy cardigan turned up against the wind, and when she reached the bridge over the Cherwell she leaned her elbows on the parapet and watched the boat crews skimming the water as lightly as water-bugs.
A university education had been so far out of her reach that she’d never really envied others the privilege, but now she felt a fleeting longing for an opportunity missed. Kincaid had told her once, over an after-work pint, that he’d been eligible for a police scholarship to university, but hadn’t applied. “A little late rebelliousness, I suppose,” he’d said, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. “Too much what my parents expected of me. It seems a bit silly now, to have passed it up.”
Gemma thought, as she slowed for the turning she had missed in the afternoon, that Oxford would have suited Kincaid very well.