“I just can’t imagine . . .”
“Nobody can. And when you know someone, well, nobody can be prepared for something like this.” Gemma pushed MacKenzie’s wineglass towards her. “Here. Have a good sip. Or I can get you some water. Or a cup of tea.”
Shaking her head, MacKenzie lifted the glass and took an obedient sip. Then she made a face and pushed her glass away. “I don’t think I can . . . I’m sorry. I feel a little ill. I keep thinking . . .”
Rising, Gemma filled the kettle. “You have a cuppa before you go. It will help with the shock.” Another crash of tiles and a high-pitched shriek came from the dining room. Gemma wasn’t sure if it had come from Charlotte or Oliver, but in either case she predicted impending chaos.
MacKenzie recognized the signs as well. “No, I’m fine. Really. We’d better go. I will tell Bill I spoke to you—although I still don’t think he should have put you on the spot like that. But Gemma, do you . . . Do you have any idea who might have . . . done this to her?”
“We’ve heard she wasn’t getting on with her boyfriend, that’s all. But we only have a first name for him—Hugo.”
MacKenzie stared at her. “Hugo?”
“Blond. Pretty. At least I think that must be him. Reagan had photos on the corkboard in her room.”
“I don’t believe it.” MacKenzie’s eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth.
“What?” Gemma stared at her. “Don’t tell me you know him?”
“Hair like this?” MacKenzie brushed a hand just below her jawline.
“Yes.”
“But— She never— I had no idea . . .”
“MacKenzie. Look at me.” Gemma reached across the table and patted her friend’s hand. She understood shock, but she was impatient now. “Do you know him?”
MacKenzie nodded, slowly. “It has to be Hugo. Hugo Gold. But I had no idea they were seeing each other.”
“How do you know him?” Gemma asked, trying to keep her voice level.
“He modeled for us.”
As Kincaid drove north, the clouds moved in from the Atlantic like a blanket flung across the sky. With a shiver, he cranked up the heater in the Astra. Even though he’d known not to count on the fine London weather holding, the chill made his spirits sink. He tried to concentrate on the rolling Cotswold landscape—at least what he could see of it from the motorway. The spring fields looked a shockingly brilliant green against the flat gray horizon.
The rain set in in earnest at Birmingham. But by the time he took the turnoff for Nantwich, the downpour had ceased and patches of blue were appearing in the western sky. He told himself it was a good omen. Not, of course, that he usually thought of himself as superstitious, but the last few days had set him grasping at titbits.
Leighton Hospital sat north of Nantwich, on the A530. It seemed small, provincial even, compared to the warren of the London, and he found the cardiac unit easily enough. His mother was the only person in the waiting area. He stopped for a moment, just on the other side of the glass door, observing her. Rosemary Kincaid was a handsome woman, with the fine bone structure that grew more defined with age. Usually, she dressed well if not elegantly—Nantwich was, after all, a country town and a bookshop didn’t call for much in the way of finery—and she was always careful of her appearance. Today, however, she was in what she referred to as “farm clothes”—jeans, a cardigan that he recognized as his father’s, and the pair of old brogues she wore for gardening. He thought she must have put on whatever came to hand.
Glancing up, she saw him and sprang to her feet. “Darling,” she said as he pushed open the door, and the exhaustion was momentarily smoothed from her face by a smile. When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. It surprised him still that his mother’s head fit into the hollow of his chest, as if the memory of looking up at her was imprinted on his consciousness.
“Mum.” He stepped back to look at her but kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. “How are you? How is he?”
“I was just trying to decide whether to ring you, but I thought I’d wait a bit longer. He’s had a stent put in, just one, and he’s still a bit groggy from the procedure.”
“But he’s okay?”
“They say he’s fine. That they caught it before the blockage was too severe. No thanks to him, the stubborn old coot.” Her voice wavered at the last. Guiding her back to her chair, he sat down beside her and took her hand. He felt a little giddy with relief.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“It was about four last night. He was rubbing at his arm. His left arm.” She mimed the gesture, then shivered. “He insisted I drive him to hospital, that he wasn’t going to look a fool for nothing.
“Dear God. It was raining, and the roads were like pitch. I thought I was going to have a heart attack,” she added, managing a smile.
“What was he doing yesterday?” Kincaid asked suspiciously, knowing his father all too well.
“Building a fort for Sam.”
“Bloody hell,” he said in disbelief. That was over the top, even for Hugh.
“I know. Don’t tell Juliet. I said he was working in the barn.”
“Where is Jules?” he asked.
“Here, until an hour ago. She’s expecting you for dinner tonight. Although of course you’ll want to sleep at the farm.”
“What about Dad? When are they sending him home?”
“They want to keep him overnight. And I’m not letting him out of my sight.”
Hugh Kincaid was dozing in his hospital bed. The sight gave Kincaid a jolt of déjà vu, but unlike his visit to Denis Childs, when his dad opened his eyes they sparkled with recognition.
“Son. They shouldna have dragged you all the way up from London.” Hugh’s voice was thready, his Scottish accent more pronounced.
“You shouldn’t have put yourself in hospital,” Kincaid teased, pulling up a chair. “What were you thinking? Isn’t Sam too old for a fort?”
Hugh shrugged a bit apologetically. “Even teenagers need a retreat.”
Kincaid stood, reluctantly. His dad was sounding tired. “You get some rest. And behave yourself, or I’ll hear about it in the morning.”
Hugh reached for Kincaid’s hand. “You’re coming back, son?”
“Of course I am. Just try to stop me.” On impulse, Kincaid leaned down and kissed his dad’s bristly cheek, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.
Chapter Thirteen
July 1994