Free A Share in Death by Deborah Crombie Page A

wryly. Ten years ago she would have been right in there with the kids next door—but then again, maybe she wouldn’t. At eighteen she’d been much more concerned with making a different life for herself than in having a good time. She’d stayed at school and done her A levels, watching her friends drift away to take sales clerk’s and cashier’s jobs, or get married. On her nineteenth birthday she applied to the Metropolitan Police. Two years later she opted into the CID, her career advancement laid out in her mind like a map.
    She hadn’t counted on ending up in a neighborhoodlike the one she’d left. But then she hadn’t counted on Rob James, either.
    Toby climbed up beside her and opened a picture book. “Ball,” he said, jabbing his finger at the page. “Car.”
    “Yes, you’re a clever boy, love.” Gemma stroked his straight, fair hair. She really couldn’t complain. She’d done well enough for herself so far, in spite of the obstacles. And tomorrow she had a half-day off, free to spend with Toby.
    Perhaps some of her bad temper, she admitted grudgingly, was due to the fact that she’d become very quickly accustomed to working with Duncan Kincaid, and the day had soured a bit without his presence.
    And that, Gemma told herself firmly, was a tendency to be kept very well in hand.
    *   *   *
    Kincaid woke late on Tuesday morning, with that sense of malaise that results from oversleeping. The bedclothes were rumpled and askew. His tongue felt furry—the residue of too much wine the night before.
    An unpleasant dream lingered on the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with tattered scraps of images. A child in a well—the small voice calling to him … he couldn’t find a rope … descending into the well, moss coating the palms of his hands like gelatinous glue … to find only bones, small bones that crumbled to dust as he touched them. Ugh! He shook himself and groped his way to the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his head.
    Kincaid emerged feeling ravenously hungry. He carried his makeshift breakfast of buttered bread, cheese and a cup of tea out to the balcony, and leaned on the rail ashe chewed and thought about his day. He found he’d lost his enthusiasm for playing the tourist. All his plans seemed uninspired, deflated, a reflection of the dull, overcast day. Even the thought of walking the Dales alone, a prospect which had seemed glorious two days ago, failed to please him.
    His conscience was nagging him. All these dreams of things left undone, or not done soon enough. His subconscious was throwing little poisoned darts at him, and some appeasement would have to be offered. Official action was difficult, but he felt a need to take some assertive step.
    He’d visit Sebastian’s mum. A condolence call. An old-fashioned custom, traditional, respectable, and often mere empty etiquette, but it would at least give him the sense that Sebastian’s death had not passed unmarked.
    Cassie would have the address.
    *   *   *
    As Kincaid turned from locking his suite door behind him, he found Penny MacKenzie hovering uncertainly in the hall. She was dressed this morning in slacks, sweater and sensible lace-up walking shoes, and seemed in some way diminished, as if she had shed some dimension of her personality along with her eccentricities. A lady, past middle-age, a little frail perhaps, but ordinary. Her enthusiasm was missing, Kincaid realized, her bubbling manner replaced by hesitancy.
    “Morning, Miss MacKenzie.”
    “Oh, Mr. Kincaid. I was hoping … I mean, I thought if you were … I’d just wait …” The words ran down and she stood silent, looking at him helplessly.
    “Did you want to talk to me about something?”
    “I didn’t want to speak to that man, Inspector Nash,because if it weren’t important, I’d feel such a fool. And Emma said you were a policeman, too, so I thought you might be able … I didn’t want Emma to know, you see … I told Inspector Nash