“We might have to—oh, wait,” Gemma said, spying a free space by the window. “There’s a spot. If you’ll choose what you want from the board, you can stake it out while I order for us.”
A few minutes later, they were settled on sofas just inside the open window overlooking Kensington Park Road, plates of jacket potatoes on their knees and coffees balanced rather precariously on a small, wobbly table. The baby had mercifully stopped crying.
Gemma had chosen roasted vegetables on her potato, and Kerry, mushrooms in a cream sauce. Watching the plume of steam rise from her lifted fork, Gemma thought better of trying her first bite of potato.
Kerry, having been less cautious, was waving a hand in front of her mouth as if that would help cool her scorched tongue. “Bloody hell,” she said when she could speak. “Maybe we should have gone for the ice creams.”
“Good thing the coffee’s cold, then,” said Gemma, attempting a levity she didn’t feel.
They both pushed bites of potato about on their plates in an attempt to cool it, then took tentative nibbles. Kerry soon polished hers off, but Gemma found she’d lost her appetite and the cheese drizzled over the veggies was congealing unappetizingly.
After watching her for a moment, Kerry said, “I’m going to get us some more coffee, and see if this time they can make it hot.”
With Kerry gone to the counter, Gemma gave up on her lunch and stared idly out the window. Then a passing figure caught her eye. It was Nita Cusick, looking very businesslike in a skirt and heels, scowling and talking intently on her mobile as she walked by. Even though the window was open and she passed within a few feet of Gemma, she didn’t look up. Gemma thought that if they’d meant to talk to Nita again that afternoon they might not find her at home, as she’d been walking away from Cornwall Gardens, towards Notting Hill Gate.
Kerry returned with two fresh cups of coffee, but before Gemma could mention Cusick, Kerry eyed her barely touched plate disapprovingly. “So tell me about your father-in-law. Are you close? I didn’t think you’d been married for that long.”
“Not that long, no, but Hugh—” Gemma stopped, unsure of how to begin to describe Hugh Kincaid. She remembered when she’d met him, that first Christmas in Nantwich. She’d met Rosemary before, but she’d been nervous—terrified, really—about meeting the rest of Kincaid’s family, afraid she wouldn’t live up to their expectations. Or to their memories of Kit’s mother. But Hugh had taken her under his wing. He’d done everything to make her comfortable, showing her the town and asking her questions about herself. And he’d listened to her with interest and with respect, something she’d never experienced with her own father. She shook her head as her eyes threatened to fill. “Hugh is . . . just Hugh.” And then she realized she’d have to tell the children.
The crime scene officers had arrived when Gemma and Kerry returned to Cornwall Gardens. The constable who had been guarding the scene had moved to the gate, and Clive Glenn was packing up his tools. Kerry stopped him before he could leave.
“I need that key,” she told him.
“I can’t give you my key. I thought Mrs. Armitage—”
“Mrs. Armitage isn’t in, and the police must have access to this garden.” They’d tried Mrs. Armitage again, this time from the front door, on their way back from lunch. “I’ve got crime scene technicians in here, for heaven’s sake,” Kerry went on. “Who do you think is going to lock up after them? Don’t be a wanker.”
Gemma almost laughed at the expression on Glenn’s face. He took a deep breath and she could see the red flush under his stubble and his suntan.
“But—”
“Key.” Kerry held out her hand. “Or I’ll take it in as evidence and then you’ll likely never see it again.”
The two stared at each other, but Gemma had no doubt by this time who was going to win this pissing contest.
Glenn shrugged, then pulled the key from his pocket. He rubbed his large, calloused fingers along the barrel, then dropped the key into Boatman’s outstretched palm. “On your head be it, then, Detective Chief Inspector. If anything happens to this”—he shook head—“well, I’d not want to be on the wrong side of Mrs. A.”
With that, he climbed into his truck and roared off.
Kerry tucked the key into a pocket. “Now, let’s have a word with this Mr. Peacock.”
It was the house on the left-hand side of the gate, built of dark brown brick that, unlike most of the houses on the garden, had not been covered with stucco. The brown brick continued into the wall that met the gate itself, so that the whole impression was fortresslike. The house sat close to the street, with only a low hedge to separate it from the pavement. The door was painted a glossy black.
“The place is downright funereal,” Kerry muttered as she rang the single bell. The house was not divided into flats, then. They could hear it, loud as a klaxon, echoing through the house. After a moment, they heard footsteps and a man’s voice muttering something unintelligible.
“Whatever you’re selling, you can bugger off,” he said as he opened the door. “I don’t want—” He broke off in midsentence, staring at them. “Who the hell are you?”
Gemma would have introduced herself first, but Kerry was ever ready with the warrant card. “Police,” she said smartly, holding it up. “Can we have a word, Mr. Peacock?”
Roland Peacock was tall and thin and obviously farsighted. He peered at the card, then shook his head. “I need my glasses. I’ll take your word for it. The two of you don’t look like insurance salesmen.” Smiling at his own humor, he motioned them in. “But if this is about that parking complaint, I’m impressed they’ve sent detectives. You are detectives?” he asked, glancing back at them. Kerry, in her navy suit, certainly looked the part, but Gemma was more casually dressed in tan trousers and a lightweight, yellow poplin jacket.
She held out her hand. “Detective Inspector Gemma James. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Boatman.”