Leaving the car in Powis Square, Gemma walked through the leafy front garden of the Tabernacle. It might have been last Saturday, with families eating and children playing, and what she would have sworn was the same dog tied to a table.
She went in the redbrick building, up the stairs and into the quiet of the upstairs landing. For a long moment, she stood outside the doors to the dance studio vestibule, not sure she could face disappointment. But having come this far, it would, she told herself, be silly to turn back. She pushed open the doors. The vestibule was empty, but the thump of the piano came from inside the studio. Through the glass panel in the studio door, she caught a glimpse of bodies moving to music. Children, the girls in leotards, the few boys in the familiar white T-shirts and black tights. It might have been Toby’s class, fast-forwarded a few years. The dancers were taller, their bodies more developed, their movements precise and graceful.
And, there, in the center of the whirl of bodies, she saw him, his light brown hair flying out as he spun, his face joyously intent.
Quickly, she turned away before he could catch a glimpse of her.
But all the way down the stairs and out to the car, and for a long time afterwards, the image stayed imprinted in her memory.
Jess was going to be all right.
Gemma had chosen Carluccio’s, the branch of the Italian café just off Kensington High Street. It was still warm enough to sit at one of the outside tables. “You could have picked something more posh,” Kincaid had teased, but she said it was fancy enough for her, and she’d been wanting to come here when the weather turned fine.
They ate chicken liver paté with red onion relish, then spinach ravioli, and sipped glasses of chilled prosecco. Kincaid sat back as the waiter cleared their plates, watching Gemma in the softening light. She wore a sundress in bright spring teals and corals, with a white cardigan thrown over her shoulders. The freckles from last weekend’s sunshine were fading, and he missed them.
He’d missed her, too, more than he’d realized, but he didn’t know how to tell her.
When the waiter returned for their dessert orders, he offered them a complimentary limoncello. Gemma gave a quick, emphatic shake of her head, and Kincaid ordered coffee for them both instead.
“Denis is home,” he said, when they were stirring cream into their cups. “I talked to him this afternoon.”
“We should take them something,” Gemma said. “Maybe tomorrow, if he feels up to it.”
“As long as it’s not bloody flowers,” Kincaid said, imitating Denis at his most irritable. “He said,” he went on, carefully, “that dominoes would undoubtedly fall in the Met. That there would be a need, at the Yard, for good police officers.”
Gemma looked at him across the table, her gaze unreadable. “He’s offering you your job back?”
“Or a pick of jobs, I think.” They were close enough that he could easily touch her hand where it rested on her cup, but he didn’t.
“Will you take it?” she asked, but he still couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
He looked away, trying to formulate what he felt. After a moment, he said, slowly, “No. I don’t think so. I like where I am. I like the people I work with. Well, except for that ass Sweeney.” Tom Faith had told them that Sweeney had come into his office with a memo while he’d been speaking to Denis on the phone from the hospital. DC Sweeney was now suspended from duty pending an investigation into his activities and connections. “But I always thought he was a rotten apple,” he added, stirring his coffee again. “Anyway, the thing is, I don’t want to be seen as having profited from the damage. And I’ve had enough of internal politics to last me a lifetime.”
Gemma’s smile, when it came, lit her eyes. “I’m glad. It would be going backwards, I think. But what about Doug? Will you leave him slaving away doing data entry at the Yard? He’s too good a detective to waste.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Maybe the brass’s good feeling will extend to finding him a place at Holborn.”
“Oh, dear. I can just see Doug butting heads with Jasmine Sidana.” Gemma was laughing now, and he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d heard her sound happy.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I’m sorry I kept secrets from you.” This time, he reached across the table and rubbed his fingers across the tender flesh at the base of her thumb, then clasped her hand. When she didn’t pull away, he said, “It won’t happen again.”
“Promise?” Looking up, she held his gaze.
“I promise. But there is one thing you should know.” Feeling her tense, he squeezed her hand and grinned. “I had a good talk with my mum before I left Nantwich. She thinks we should consider buying the bookshop from them.”
“What?” Gemma gaped at him. “No way. You’re taking the piss.”
“I’m not. Can you see us, living the quiet life in the country?”
“Get off,” said Gemma, shaking her head, but she still didn’t remove her hand from his. “Just don’t tell Kit.”
“Why not?”
Gemma picked up her spoon with her free hand and needlessly stirred her own coffee, now undoubtedly cold. “I’ve, um, sort of promised him we’d go for a holiday. When school is finished. He wants to see your mum and dad.”
“Well, fine. We can do that. I’d like to see them, too. And I won’t give Kit any ideas about staying.” He slid his fingers to the inside of her wrist, where he could feel the beat of her pulse. “But in the meantime,” he said, softly, “I think I’d like to go home.”
Author’s Note
While all other characters in this novel are entirely the product of my imagination, Stephen Lawrence was very much a real person. The young black man was murdered in south London in a racially motivated attack while waiting for a bus on the evening of April 22, 1993. The case became one of the highest profile racial killings in UK history, its fallout including profound cultural changes to attitudes on racism and the police, to the law and police practice, and the partial revocation of English double jeopardy laws. Two of the perpetrators were convicted almost twenty years later in 2012, but as of this writing, the investigation into Lawrence’s murder continues.
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without a veritable tribe of friends who have given me insight, ideas, and heaps of moral support. In the UK: Kate Charles, Barb Jungr, Kerry Smith, Abi Grant, Steve Ullathorne, and especially Karin Salvalaggio, tireless companion in my search to find the perfect pub.
Huge thanks to my friends who have read this book in various stages and offered invaluable advice: Gigi Norwood, Kate Charles, Marcia Talley, Theresa Badylak, and especially Diane Hale, who stuck with me from the very first scene and who often knows my characters better than I do.
Special thanks to Caroline Todd, who inspires me with her energy and enthusiasm, and who constantly encourages me to WRITE FASTER.