And now was Melody avoiding him, too?
Suddenly, Putney Bridge seemed very far away. His bad ankle twinged on the next stroke, and glancing round, he found he could see Harrods Book Depository on the south bank of the river. He’d rowed farther than he’d meant. Easing the little scull round in a wide circle, he began to stroke back downriver. But he was fighting the current now, and the rising breeze cut across his bow and kicked up the surface of the water. The pain in his ankle quickly grew worse than a twinge, but there was no choice but to keep rowing unless he wanted to be carried upriver until the tide turned.
Doug gritted his teeth and plowed on. Damn and blast Melody Talbot. If he was crippled by the time he got to shore, it would be her bloody fault.
“You wash, I’ll dry,” Kincaid said, pulling the tea towel from the bar on the front of the cooker. He knew it was the easier job—as did Gemma, from the look she gave him—but he liked it. It was a visible result, and he liked visible results. They were an antidote to the frustrations of the job.
They had finished their Sunday-morning family breakfast and the kitchen still smelled of bacon and fried eggy bread. The younger children were playing in the hall. Checking on them, he’d found Toby lowering the kittens from the stairwell in a basket, and Charlotte looking on, entranced. When the kittens reached ground level, none the worse for their adventure, Kincaid had dutifully scolded Toby while trying not to laugh.
“I think Kit’s been reading Jules Verne to Toby,” he said as Gemma handed him her Clarice Cliff teapot, brought out for the occasion of Sunday breakfast. He took it gingerly. When visitors told Gemma it was too valuable to use, her usual practical reply was, “Why have it, then?” But he knew that if he broke it, he would not be readily forgiven.
The look she gave him said she was not amused by Toby’s antics, or by him. He couldn’t blame her for being cross. Last night, he’d stayed at the pub long after Denis left, finishing the pint Denis had bought him, then drinking another, trying to make sense of what Denis had told him. And trying to decide exactly what to tell Gemma.
As he sipped his beer, he’d watched the patrons in the tiny pub, guessing at their jobs and personalities and relationships. How long, he’d wondered, since he’d been anywhere alone? Other than driving or riding the tube, he was with either his family or his team at work all day, every day, and he suddenly realized how much he needed that small window of time on his own to let his mind unwind.
He’d roused himself to finish his pint and nod goodnight to the barman.
The tube service was slow, however, and when he finally reached the house he found Gemma and the children asleep.
Now, however, his reckoning had come.
“So,” she said, handing him the dripping plate with a little more force than necessary, “tell me about your mysterious meeting. Who was it?”
Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to figure out any way to ease into this. “Denis,” he said, rubbing vigorously at a smudge on the plate. “It was Denis.”
Gemma just glanced at him, then dunked another dish. “Bollocks. The children could come up with something better.”
“No one could invent Denis.” He kept his tone light, but this time she really looked at him, the forgotten dish dripping suds on the floor.
“That’s daft,” she said, but with less certainty. “Our Denis?”
“None other.”
“But—” She shook her head. “He’s back? Where the hell has he been all this time? And why on earth didn’t he just ring you?”
“He’s been in Singapore. He had a liver transplant.”
“He had what?” Gemma abandoned the washing up, leaning back against the sink so that she could look at him directly. “You really are having me on. This isn’t funny.”
“Who would joke about a liver transplant?” Kincaid shuddered involuntarily. “And you wouldn’t doubt it if you saw him. The man’s positively glowing. Thin as a rail, too. Well, thin for Denis, anyway,” he amended.
“But—I don’t see—why didn’t he tell anyone? And why Singapore?”
Kincaid gave her an edited version of the story Denis had told him last night, leaving out the bit about Denis being afraid he’d be turfed out of his job if anyone discovered how ill he was.
When he’d finished, she looked a little less skeptical, but said, “Why didn’t he tell you?”
“Maybe he thought I’d refuse to see him.”
“With good reason. Did he offer you your job back?”
“No.”
“Did he at least say why he transferred you?”
Kincaid almost answered, Because he thought I’d be safe with Faith, but caught himself. “Because he thought I needed a change, and that I’d get on well with Chief Superintendent Faith.”
Frowning, Gemma took the teapot from the draining board and set it carefully on the shelf by the cooker, then turned back to him. “It’s Henley, isn’t it? He’s punishing you because you questioned his judgment over Angus Craig.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s—” Kincaid stopped. He might have said the same before last night. Shrugging, he said, “Maybe. But I suspect Denis has had more important things to worry a—”
Gemma’s mobile rang, making them both jump. “Oh, blast,” she muttered, interrupting him. “Sorry.” Digging the phone from under the accumulated pile of Sunday newspapers, she glanced at the screen, then answered with a neutral, “Hi,” that gave him no clue as to the caller’s identity.
He was just as glad of the distraction. God knew what sort of admissions he’d have waffled himself into if he’d kept talking.
Mobile held to her ear, Gemma nodded several times, then said, “Right. Right. Of course. No, we’ve had breakfast—brunch, really.” She glanced at him, then at the kitchen clock. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll ring you back.”
“Who was that?” he asked when she’d rung off.
“MacKenzie. She needs a favor.”
Melody looked like hell. Her dark hair was matted, and the blue eye that peered blearily back at her as she squinted at the mirror was bloodshot. Her cheek was creased and stamped with the imprint of the patterned sofa cushion. Not a pretty sight. God, how had she done that again, gone flat out on the sofa for an entire night? Turning away from the mirror with a grimace, she switched the shower on full force.