“And I’ve a building site to get to,” Juliet added, handing Kincaid a cup of tea as he wandered into the kitchen. She filled a thermos for herself from the teapot and added milk and sugar. “You can use my shower,” she added, giving him a critical eye. “I take mine after work.” She wore her builder’s overall, and looked all the more feminine for it.
Sam and Lally trooped noisily in wearing their school uniforms, shrugging into backpacks, and Kincaid felt a sudden searing homesickness. He’d missed telling the children goodnight last night when Gemma hadn’t returned his call, and now he was yet again missing their morning routine.
He was wondering why Gemma hadn’t rung him back when Juliet gathered up her things and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You will look after Daddy this morning, won’t you?” she asked.
“Of course.” He pulled her into a hug. “And you keep me posted on things, okay?” What he didn’t want to say in front of the children was that he was counting on her to tell him the things that his mother would not.
“Do you have to go?” asked Sam, long-faced.
“I’m afraid I do. I have to go to work, and your cousins miss me.” He tousled Sam’s hair and resisted the urge to do the same to Lally. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her very gently on the cheek. “You look after your mum, okay?”
Lally nodded, blushing, and pulled something from the pocket of her jeans. She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Will you give this to Kit?”
“Yes, of course.” He tucked it carefully into his shirt pocket.
“It’s origami. I’ve been practicing.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be—”
“Must run,” interrupted Juliet, hustling the children towards the door.
“Jules,” he said, and when she turned back he added, “Thanks. For everything. And”—he grinned—“keep Ronnie Babcock in line.”
Although his father was now stable and settled at home, worry over his parents consumed the first hour of Kincaid’s return journey. But by the time he reached Birmingham, his night was catching up with him. The car was warm and he was beginning to nod. He rolled the windows of the old Astra down farther and turned up the radio, but nothing helped the sleepiness. “As bad as drink,” he mumbled, and pulled off with relief at the first motorway services.
Stopping in an empty spot at the edge of the car park, he turned off the car and was asleep within seconds.
He woke with a start a half hour later. His mouth felt like old leather and his head was pounding. Sprucing himself up as best he could, he went into the shop and bought a coffee. Then, realizing that he hadn’t eaten since the night before, he added a sandwich and a bottle of water. A few minutes later, back in the car, he’d polished off the sandwich and the bottle of water. Feeling much more alert, he took a sip of the coffee, then started the car and eased back onto the motorway.
As he drove, he found himself thinking about his conversation with Ronnie Babcock the night before. Ronnie was right, he realized now. With everything that had happened to Denis and to Ryan Marsh, he’d been so emotionally involved that he’d failed to do basic police work. But how could he go about any proper investigation now without leaving tracks that could endanger him and his family?
As he gazed once again at the rolling hills of the Cotswolds to the west, a flicker of half-formed thought nagged at him. He’d almost grasped it just before he woke from the deep sleep in the car, he remembered now. Had he been dreaming? Had it been to do with Ryan? He glanced at the overhead motorway sign—he was coming up on the exit for Oxford. And south of Oxford, there was the cottage near Sonning where he and Doug and Melody Talbot had visited Ryan Marsh’s wife, Christie. Was she still there? he wondered. If so, would she still be watched? It was too dangerous, he thought, to pay her a visit.
And then he thought of the island, Ryan’s hideaway on the Thames, near Didcot. Christie Marsh had known roughly where it was because she’d followed her husband as far as the river, and it had been Christie who had told them about it. It was where he and Doug had found Ryan and convinced him to come with them. If they hadn’t, would Ryan still be alive?
Had Christie managed to find the island after Ryan’s death? If not, what might Ryan have left there?
With sudden decision, Kincaid swung the car into the lane for the Oxford exit. He meant to find out.
Chapter Fifteen
After leaving Bill’s and the tube station arcade, Gemma and Kerry tried the piano bar, on the other side of Kensington High Street. The place was locked up tight, its hours stating that it didn’t open until five. “We’ll have to come back,” Boatman said. “Maybe about half past four, see if we can catch the staff before the punters start coming in.” Gemma agreed, but also thought it was going to be another long day, and she’d not had a word from Kincaid about when he might be home to help with the kids.
From there they walked back to Kensington nick, retiring to Kerry’s office for a strategy session and, in Kerry’s case, more coffee. Gemma decided the woman must have caffeine for blood.
“So what did you think of our little trio?” Kerry asked, leaning against the edge of her desk as she had the day before.
“Unlikely,” Gemma said after a moment’s thought. “On all fronts. Reagan seems to have been a sensible girl. I can’t imagine what she saw in Hugo Gold. Although he was different in the photos,” she added. “Maybe since they modeled together, she saw the persona he generates in front of the camera.”
“Yes, good point. But Sidney is rather unpleasant, wouldn’t you say?” Kerry added with an expression of distaste.
“I got the impression Hugo rather enjoys Sidney’s adoration, although I doubt he returns it. And Thea—what is a girl like that doing with either of them?” Gemma shook her head, adding, “I’d like to talk to MacKenzie Williams about Hugo.” Taking out her notebook, she jotted “talk to MacKenzie” on her running list.
“I’ll get someone checking their alibis for Friday night,” Kerry said. “Although I suspect that Sidney would happily cover for Hugo.”
“And I suspect Sidney is happy to have Hugo to himself,” Gemma mused.
Kerry’s eyes lit up with the spark of possibility. “Could Sidney have killed her, do you think?”
“Out of jealousy? Maybe. But how?”
“He strikes me as a sneaky bastard,” Kerry said. “Maybe he figured a way to get in through the house. Or over the wall—although we haven’t found any evidence of a climber.” Then she sighed and shook her head. “But I can’t see Reagan Keating sitting down for a tête-à-tête with him in a secluded spot.”
Gemma nodded agreement. “And nothing we’ve heard explains her high blood alcohol. If she wasn’t a drinker, and she only had a drink, or possibly two, at the club, how did she end up practically comatose?” she asked.