Now she could hear Toby singing along tunelessly.
“The West End in his future, for certain,” said Melody, and they both giggled.
“Only if he can swashbuckle,” Gemma said, meditating on Toby’s possibly brilliant career. “But maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll put Charlotte to sleep, and not just future audiences.”
She thought her friend looked unusually relaxed. Melody had changed into jeans, but still wore the bright pink cardigan she’d had on earlier, and her cheeks were flushed from taking the dogs for a quick outing while Gemma was settling the kids.
“And that would be a blessing? Putting Charlotte to sleep?”
“Some nights. Most nights,” Gemma admitted. “And even when she does go to sleep, she wakes up with bad dreams.”
“Does she dream about her parents, then?” Melody asked.
Gemma swirled the wine in her glass. “Sometimes. Sometimes she calls out for them.” She didn’t want to confess, as she had to Winnie, how helpless and inadequate she felt when Charlotte woke up sobbing, “Mummy! Daddy!” Only recently had she begun calling out for Gemma as well, but Gemma wasn’t sure that was an improvement.
Melody glanced towards the sitting room and lowered her voice. “I’d think that was pretty normal, under the circumstances. I can’t imagine what it must be like for a child to lose her parents, her home, everything familiar . . .”
“The odd thing,” Gemma answered slowly, “is that except for the separation anxiety, during the day it seems as if she’s adjusting quite well. She does talk about her mum and dad in the present tense, as if they were just away somewhere, but she doesn’t ask to go home.”
“Have you taken her back there?”
Gemma shook her head. “No. We didn’t think that was a good idea. But Louise is getting ready to put the house up for sale, and we wanted her to have some familiar things.”
Louise Phillips had been Charlotte’s father’s law partner and was now the executor of the estate.
Although art dealers—including Pippa Nightingale, who had represented Sandra Gilles, Charlotte’s mother—were begging for the textile collages that remained in Sandra’s studio, Lou Phillips had decided she would store all Sandra’s works and her notebooks until Charlotte was of age and could sell or keep them as she saw fit. Her mother’s art would be a legacy for Charlotte’s future, and the money from the sale of the Fournier Street house, which should be considerable, would go into a fund to pay for her education.
“So I took her to the park one day when the boys were at school,” Gemma went on, “and asked her to play a game. She had to close her eyes and name her favorite thing from every room in her old house.”
“I can’t think of a thing I’d save from my flat even in a fire,” Melody said, sounding wistful. “It’s not like this house.”
Gemma looked round at her cheerful blue and yellow kitchen, with her treasured Clarice Cliff tea set on the shelf above the cooker, then glanced into the dining room, where her piano held pride of place.
She’d loved this house from the moment Duncan had shown it to her, when she’d thought their lives held a very different future. And it seemed to her, oddly, that in making Charlotte feel at home, she had grown deeper into the house as well, learning every nook and cranny, every creak and sigh, as if they were etched in her bones.
But the house belonged not to them, but to Denis Childs’s sister and her family, and Gemma’s love for it was always tinged with the ache of impending loss. One day they would have to give it up.
“What did Charlotte choose?” asked Melody.
Gemma smiled at the recollection. “From the kitchen, an old egg cup with a chicken-foot base. I imagine her mum picked it up at a street stall. It’s hideous, and Charlotte adores it. From the sitting room, she chose the chaise longue.”
Charlotte had called it the “crazy chase,” and it had taken Gemma a moment to work out that she meant the chintz crazy-quilt chaise longue, but she, too, loved the whimsical piece that had seemed such an expression of Sandra Gilles’s personality.
When they’d begun officially fostering Charlotte, they’d had to meet the requirements imposed by social services, which included moving Toby back in with Kit so that Charlotte could have a room of her own—the room that had been meant as a nursery for the baby they had lost.
They’d brought Charlotte’s bedroom furniture from the house in Fournier Street, and there had been enough space in her new room for the crazy chase as well. When Gemma had told her they could paint her room any color she liked, Charlotte had chosen not a little girl’s pink, or blue, or even lilac, but a deep saffron yellow that picked out the dominant color in the quilted chaise and glowed like distilled sunlight on the walls. The child had without doubt inherited her artist mother’s eye.
“From her parents’ bedroom she wanted her mother’s petticoats,” Gemma continued, “although I brought the colored-glass bud vases that Sandra kept on the chair rail as well.
“And from Sandra’s studio, Charlotte wanted the duck pencils. When I pointed out that she already had them, she asked for the painting of the red horse that hung over her mother’s desk.”
“That’s not one of Sandra’s?”
“No. In fact, it’s signed LR, and Duncan said he saw a painting that was almost identical hanging over Lucas Ritchie’s desk in the club in Artillery Lane.”
“Ah, so you think it was done by the delectable Mr. Ritchie?”
“Maybe. It would be a nice connection for Charlotte to have with her mother’s old friend. Someday we’ll have to ask him.”
“I’ll go with you,” Melody offered, and Gemma laughed.
“I didn’t realize you fancied him,” she said. Lucas Ritchie managed a private club in Whitechapel, but had gone to art college with Charlotte’s mum. He was also tall, blond, wickedly good-looking, and apparently quite well off.
“I’m female. I’m not attached. And I’m not blind.” Melody took a big swallow of wine to punctuate her assertions, coughed, and wiped at her watering eyes.
“I can see that,” Gemma said, still grinning. “What I don’t know is what you were doing with Doug Cullen today.”
“Ah.” Melody was beginning to look slightly owlish. “He invited me to see his new house. In Putney. It needs some DIY. And I’ve offered to help him with the garden.”
Raising her eyebrows in surprise, Gemma asked, “Have you ever done any gardening?” Melody, as far as she knew, had grown up in a town house in Kensington, in a household that lacked for nothing. If it had had a garden, it would have come with gardener attached.
“No. But it should be an adventure.”
Gemma looked at her friend, bemused. She could imagine few things more unlikely than Doug Cullen doing home improvements while Melody mucked about in the garden. “You must be desperate for excitement.”
“I keep telling you, work hasn’t been the same with you gone, boss,” Melody retorted. “And speaking of the job”—she straightened up rather carefully and set her now-empty glass on the table—“there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ve put in for my sergeant’s course.”
“Oh.” Gemma felt an unexpected prick of loss. Not that she hadn’t nagged Melody to go for promotion. Not that she’d expected Melody to stay at Notting Hill forever. But promotion would undoubtedly mean Melody would transfer to another station, if not another division, and Gemma realized how much she’d looked forward to working with Melody at Notting Hill again.
Seeing the disappointment on Melody’s face, she pulled herself together and summoned a smile. “Oh, congratulations, Melody. I’m so glad for you. You should have done it ages ago. And you know you’ll do just fine on the exam.”
“I’ve liked working with Sapphire,” Melody said, sounding relieved at Gemma’s approval. “I suppose before you went on leave, I’d been riding on your coattails, and the new job gave me a bit of confidence.”
It was always hard for Gemma to imagine that the daughter of on
e of the biggest newspaper barons in the country could lack confidence. But Melody had gone against her father’s wishes in even joining the force, and Gemma knew that this decision would have been difficult for her.
“This business today, in Henley,” Melody said, “will it interfere with your starting back next week?”
“Oh, I’m sure we can work out something, if it’s not sorted by then,” Gemma told her, but in fact she’d been worrying all evening about alternative child care if Duncan were to get hung up on this case. They couldn’t count on their friend Wesley Howard, who sometimes nannied for them, for full-time child-minding, and if anything, the events of the day had made her more certain than ever that Charlotte wasn’t ready for nursery school.
“What about the girl who used to be her nanny?” Melody suggested. “Have you kept up with her?”
“Alia?” Gemma frowned, considering a possibility that hadn’t occurred to her. “She’s been to visit a couple of times, and Charlotte is always pleased to see her. Maybe I should give her a ring, just in case . . .”
“Maybe they’ll find the death in Henley was accidental, and Duncan will be off the hook.”
Remembering Rashid’s expression when he was examining the body, Gemma thought she wouldn’t hold her breath. Rashid Kaleem was a good pathologist, and she trusted his instincts. And she was still wondering why Denis Childs had been so insistent that Duncan look into the death. There were other detective superintendents—not on holiday—who could certainly have represented the Met. “Maybe,” she said, trying to muster some conviction.
“The officer whose body they found—did you know her?” Melody asked.
Gemma shook her head. “No. At least the name didn’t ring a bell, and I didn’t actually see her face. But Duncan said she worked out of West London.”
“West London?” Looking suddenly sober, Melody straightened in her chair and pushed her wineglass away. “That’s a bit close to home, isn’t it?”
“Tell your constable to keep him there. I’m on my way,” Kincaid told Singla, then rang off and repeated what he’d been told to Milo Jachym. “Did Becca Meredith remarry?”
“No. It must be Freddie. He—they were still very close. I don’t think Freddie ever really came to terms with the divorce. Look, let me go with you. A friend should break the news.”
Kincaid considered, then shook his head. “No. I want to speak to him first.”
“But someone should see he’s all right—he’s got no family nearby—”
“All right. Give me half an hour with him first, then.” He stood, then turned back to Milo with a warning look. “And please, don’t ring him until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
Kincaid drove down Remenham Lane, following the directions Milo had given them to Rebecca Meredith’s cottage. The road ran behind Leander, parallel to the river. Although the way was well marked, Kincaid wasn’t used to handling a car as big and heavy as the Astra. The curves in the lane swooped upon them with startling suddenness, and a few times he slowed a bit more drastically than necessary.
“Still breaking it in?” Cullen asked, releasing his grip on the dashboard.
Kincaid cast him an evil glance, then looked back at the road. “And you would do better?”
Cullen had the grace not to reply. In fact, although he didn’t own a car, he was a good driver, and usually drove when they had a pool car from the Yard. But Kincaid was not ready to give up the wheel of his new acquisition.
After a cluster of cottages near the main road, their headlamps caught hedgerows and fields, and to the left, Kincaid glimpsed the occasional dark void that he knew must be the river. When lights began to appear again, he slowed to a crawl and soon saw cottages hard against the road to the left.
Two cars were pulled onto the right-hand verge, one bearing the distinctive blue and yellow livery of the Thames Valley Police, the other a new-model Audi. On the left, a redbrick, gabled cottage stood close behind a fence.
As Kincaid parked and got out of the car, he saw a constable standing inside the gate, and a man sitting on the porch. A faint light shone through the stained glass in the cottage door, but the porch itself was dark.
Kincaid pulled his warrant card from his pocket and raised it to the beam of the constable’s torch. “Scotland Yard. Detective Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant Cullen.”
“Sir—”
The man on the porch stood as if suddenly animated and charged towards them, his words tumbling out. “Scotland Yard? What are you doing here? Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Have you found Becca?”
The accent was posh, the attire odd. From what Kincaid could see in the light shining from the cottage, he seemed to be wearing an old anorak, and beneath that, a suit and tie. The knot on the tie was pulled loose, as if he had yanked at it, but the shirt was still buttoned at the collar.
“Mr. Atterton?” Kincaid asked.
The man peered at him. “How’d you know my name? What’s happened? Why can’t I go in my wife’s house? I have a bloody key—” He turned for the door, and when the constable reached for him, he swung at the officer, managing to smack his arm.
“Now, sir, let’s calm down, shall we?” said the constable, in the infuriatingly reasonable tone that was the police constable’s first line of defense.
“No, I won’t calm down. I want—” He turned towards Kincaid, his expression suddenly pleading. “I want to see my wife.”
“Mr. Atterton.” Hearing himself echoing the constable, Kincaid made an effort not to sound so patronizing. Nor was this the place to give bad news. “You say you have a key? Why don’t we go inside and have a chat?”
Atterton looked suddenly unsure. “But—”
The constable, a small young man who looked as if he might have had a time subduing the six-foot-plus Atterton, broke in. “Sir, I’ve been told to keep this scene se—”
Kincaid gave a sharp shake of his head, then glanced at Cullen. “Doug, if you could.”
“Right.” Doug led the officer a few yards away, speaking softly, and Kincaid took Atterton by the elbow.
“Where’s that key, then, Mr. Atterton?” The anorak, an old Barbour that must have lost its wax, felt damp and slick beneath Kincaid’s fingers. “You’ve been out in the rain.”
“This morning, when I was looking for Becca. I got soaked and I just never—I never got dry.” Atterton fumbled a key from his pocket. His fingers felt icy as he handed it to Kincaid.
How long had the man been sitting here, wet and in the cold? Kincaid wondered. He turned the key easily in the lock and stepped into the cottage first. A single lamp burned in the tidy sitting room.
“You were in the cottage earlier today?” he asked Atterton, who had come in behind him. The house was cold and smelled of soap—or perhaps perfume—and coffee. He felt the wall for a switch, and two more lamps sprang into life.
“I came in this morning when Becca hadn’t answered her phone or turned up for work and I thought—” Atterton stopped, swallowing. “I was worried.”
“And when you didn’t find her, you rang the police. Did you come back again?”
“To let the search and rescue people in. The blond woman and her dog went through the house. She had a constable with her. I wanted to go with them when they left, but she said I would only slow them down. So I went back to Leander to wait.
“But no one came, and no one told me anything. And when I came back to the cottage that plod wouldn’t let me in.” Atterton’s derogatory reference to the constable was made casually, with the sort of unthinking snobbery that set Kincaid’s teeth on edge.
“This morning—did you turn on the lamp?” he asked.
Atterton looked surprised. “No. It was on when I came in. I never thought—”
“Would your ex-wife have left a lamp turned on deliberately during the day?”
“Becca? No, I doubt it. She’s very green. Always telling me I’m a drain on the planet. She—” Atterton’s smile faded before it rea
ched his eyes.
In the better light, Kincaid could see that Freddie Atterton was a handsome man, fair-skinned, with thick brown hair worn long enough to sweep back from his brow and over the tops of his ears. Now, however, his blue eyes were shadowed, his face creased with worry and fatigue.
“Let’s get you out of that anorak,” Kincaid said. When he took the jacket from Atterton, he could see that the suit beneath it was also damp. It looked like a very expensive cut and fabric, and it smelled faintly of wet sheep. “Why don’t we sit down?”
But Atterton didn’t sit. Instead, he said, “You don’t look like a policeman, much less Scotland Yard.”
“I was on holiday with my family. Mr. Atterton—”
“Who called you? Was it Peter Gaskill?”
“I don’t know Peter Gaskill.”
“He’s Becca’s boss. Superintendent Gaskill. Why didn’t he come himself? Unless—” Atterton stared at him, his blue eyes going darker. “You’re homicide, aren’t you? That’s why they sent you. She’s dead.” He nodded once, as if affirming something he had already known. “Becca’s dead.”
Then he swayed, and when Kincaid guided him to a chair, he sat heavily, gracelessly.
“I’m sorry.” Kincaid pulled over an ottoman and sat as near Atterton as he could. He thought he might have to catch him. Quietly he went on. “The search team found her body this afternoon, below the weir.”
“Becca. But how— Was she— The shell— Becca couldn’t have—” Atterton stopped, shivering. His teeth began to chatter, but he made no move to warm himself.
Satisfied that Atterton wasn’t in immediate danger of fainting, Kincaid moved to the brown leather sofa that matched the armchair. The furniture was a bit worn and reminded him of his parents’ old Chesterfield.
It was a masculine room, he thought, glancing round. Unadorned, a study in whites and browns. The only splash of color came from the spines of the books in the simple bookcases and a few framed photographs. “The boat was snagged just below Temple Island,” he said. “We don’t yet know what caused Rebecca’s death.” He heard the click of the door as Cullen came in. “Doug,” he called, “do you think you could rustle up something hot to drink?”
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