Refusing to let herself glance back at the house, she walked back to the car, got in, and drove to Kensington.
When she reached the town house, she stopped for a moment to gaze at it. With its own small gated front garden and white stuccoed facade, it looked plain enough. If you weren’t familiar with London property values, you wouldn’t guess that only someone very well-off could afford such a place. Ivan Talbot, owner of one of the most successful newspapers in London which had its premises just round the corner, certainly fell into the well-off category. But he hadn’t been born to money, and he’d never made a secret of the fact that he’d grown up a working-class lad in Newcastle.
The black wrought-iron gate buzzed open before Melody could touch the intercom button. Her mother had been watching for her, having had no doubt that she would turn up as requested.
The glossy black front door swung open as Melody reached it and Addie Talbot gathered her into the house with a hug. Addie was, like her daughter, just a bit over five feet tall, but her delicate bone structure made her feel fragile as a child beneath Melody’s hands. Melody kissed her smooth cheek and stepped away, taking in her mother’s cream linen trousers and teal silk blouse—her mum’s idea of casual wear.
Addie examined her at arm’s length. “Darling, you do look a fright.”
“I told you I wasn’t presentable,” said Melody, unable to keep the defensive tone from her voice. “And if you’ve invited anyone else, I’m leaving.”
Her mum had a very bad habit of using Sunday lunches as occasions to trot out what she thought were eligible bachelors, making it clear that her parents felt she was in danger of becoming an old maid. Melody had not yet got up the nerve to bring Andy here—nor to tell Andy anything about her parents other than that her dad was in the newspaper business.
“Darling,” said Addie, her forehead creasing in the deepest frown she ever allowed herself, “what on earth have you done to your hair?”
“Oh.” Melody ran a hand across the top of her head. She’d actually forgotten her mother hadn’t seen it. “I cut it.”
“You cut it? With a pair of kitchen scissors? Surely Jean Paul would never have done that to you.”
“No. I didn’t cut it myself, Mum. I went to a salon. I just felt like a change.” Melody had never worn her hair much longer than chin length, but a few weeks ago she had walked into a salon in Brixton on her lunch hour and had walked out with her dark hair as short as a boy’s. Shorn like a pilgrim, she’d thought to herself when she looked in the mirror. She felt naked—and surprisingly unfettered. She wasn’t at all sure that was a good thing.
“If you wanted a change, you might have bought a new outfit,” her mother said, but now there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “I think it rather suits you, but I’ve no idea what your father will say.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs, putting lunch together. It’s just cold salads, but I think he has a special treat in mind for you.”
Ivan Talbot, who could afford to eat at the best restaurants in London, and often did, had never forgotten his Newcastle roots. He liked to potter in the kitchen, making what he referred to as ordinary food.
“We should go down,” Addie went on. “He’ll be wondering what happened to us.” The town house kitchen and adjoining living area were in the basement, overlooking the back garden. The ground-floor sitting and dining rooms were seldom used except for formal entertaining.
“Let’s face the music, then.” Melody led the way.
The stairs that led down to the basement were bare Portland stone, the treads slightly worn in the center. In the town house’s heyday they would have been covered with a durable runner to muffle the sound of the servants going up and down from kitchen to dining room. But Melody’s father had insisted they be left uncovered. He liked, he said, to see the bones of the house.
“Hi, Dad,” said Melody as she came to the bottom of the stairs and stepped down into the kitchen. Tall as a Viking, fair hair going a distinguished gray, Ivan Talbot stood at the work top, wearing an apron. It should have looked silly on his large frame, but he managed, as he did most things in life, to carry it off with aplomb.
He gathered her into a hug and for a moment she let herself relax against his broad chest. “It’s about time you showed your pretty face, lass.” His northern vowels were still strong, even after more than thirty years in London. Although Melody was sure his sharp eyes missed nothing, he made no comment on her hair or her clothes. Her mother had come in behind her and begun gathering plates and cutlery.
“Cold ham, cucumber salad, beetroot, potato salad,” he said when he had released her, pointing to the dishes set out on the work top. “I thought we could picnic in the garden, as fine as it is. And”—he gave her a boyish grin and pulled a dish from the fridge—“my smoked whitefish spread. We’ll make the toast to have with it at the last minute. The bubbly is chilling.” “Bubbly” to Ivan meant the Veuve Clicquot nestled in a silver ice bucket.
The doors at the end of the sitting room stood open and the space beyond glowed like a green gem. It was an elegant design, the plants in multiple shades of green fading to whites, arranged artfully around a patio of the same pale gray Portland stone used inside the house. And it was as different from the glorious, shaggy flower border that Melody had envisioned for Doug Cullen’s little garden as night from day.
“Are you quite all right, darling?” asked Addie, pausing with a tray in her hands. “You had the oddest look for a moment, as if you’d lost something.”
Melody blinked and shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
“I thought you might be upset about your chief superintendent. Such a dreadful thing.”
“What?” Melody stared blankly at her mother, not comprehending.
“I thought you’d have heard at work,” said Ivan.
“I haven’t been in all weekend.” Melody felt suddenly woozy, as if all the blood had drained from her head. “What are you talking about? Has something happened to Superintendent Krueger?” Diane Krueger was her and Gemma’s superior at Brixton Police Station.
“No, no,” her father shook his head. “Your mother meant your friend Kincaid’s guv’nor. Or ex-guv’nor, I should say. At Scotland Yard. Chief Superintendent Childs. Apparently he was attacked last night near his home. Left for dead in a churchyard. They’re not certain he’ll make it.”
Chapter Five
“What do you mean, left for dead?” said Melody. “Is he going to be all right?”
“I’ve no idea, love, or I’d have said.” Her father frowned. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I really did assume you’d have heard.”