Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“Kincaid,” he snapped, and heard in answer the familiar voice of the Yard’s receptionist telling him to hold.

“What is it?” asked Kit.

Covering the mouthpiece, Kincaid said, “Work.” Then he added, with more confidence than he felt, “Won’t take a minute.”

Chief Superintendent Denis Childs came on the line, sounding as unruffled as always. Kincaid had been guilty more than once of wishing for a natural disaster, just to see if Childs were capable of an elevated pulse.

“Look, Duncan, I’m sorry.” The smooth rumble of the superintendent’s voice hinted at his bulk. “I know you’re not on the rota this weekend.”

Kincaid’s heart sank. An apology up front was not a good sign.

“But it’s been one of those days,” his boss continued. “The other teams have already been called out, and we’ve just had a homicide report that the local team feels needs our intervention. Their DCI is away for the weekend, and their guv’nor feels it might be a bit much for the newly promoted inspector on call this weekend.”

“A proper baptism,” Kincaid agreed. “Where’s the body, then?”

“The Isle of Dogs. Mudchute Park.”

“Oh, Christ.” Kincaid hated outdoor crime scenes. At least indoors you had some hope of containing the evidence.

“A young woman,” continued Childs. “From the preliminary reports it sounds like a strangulation.”

“Are the SOCOs on the way?” Kincaid asked, grimacing. An outdoor sex crime. Even better. “Have the uniformed lads cordoned off the area?”

“In the process. How soon can you be there?”

“Give me—” Kincaid glanced at his watch, and the movement brought Kit’s white, tense face into his focus.

He had forgotten him.

“Guv—” Then he stopped. How to explain his predicament to his chief? “Under an hour,” he said at last, with another glance at Kit. “I’ve some things to take care of first. What about Gemma?”

“The duty sergeant’s ringing her now. Keep me informed,” Childs added, and rang off.

Kincaid switched off the phone slowly and turned to Kit. “I’m sorry. Something’s come up, and I’m afraid I’ll have to go to work.”

“Can’t you—” the boy began, but Kincaid was already shaking his head.

“I’ve no choice in the matter, Kit. I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to go back to Cambridge—”

“I can’t,” said Kit, his voice rising. “The Millers have gone away for the weekend. Don’t you remember?”

Kincaid stared at Kit. He’d forgotten that as well. He was finding it increasingly difficult to coordinate the demands of his job with his commitment to Kit, and now he seemed to have run up against an insoluble dilemma.

“I suppose you’ll have to stay at the flat on your own, then,” he said with a smile, trying to soften the blow.

“But the tennis—” Kit bit down on his lip to stop its trembling.

Kincaid looked away, giving the boy time to collect himself. Then an idea occurred to him and he said slowly, “Maybe we can work something out. Wait and see.”

“CORNSILK,” THE PAINT SAMPLE HAD READ, and Jo Lowell had liked the name as much as the color. As she painted, Jo imagined it spreading over her kitchen and dining room walls like warm butter, and when she’d finished, the rooms seemed to glow with perpetual summer sun.

There was nothing like a bit of fresh paint to cheer you up if you were in the doldrums, she often told her clients, but she seldom found the time to take her own advice. And of course her clients almost never did the actual painting themselves, but she thought the physical labor might be the most effective part of the therapy. Perhaps she should change her business cards to read Interior Decorating and Mood Counseling and raise her hourly rates.

The small smile raised by the thought quickly vanished as she thought of the previous evening. Her cheery yellow walls and soothing green trim had done little to prevent the very eruption of tempers she’d meant to avoid. She’d intended a little civilized dinner party—a means of making peace with Annabelle without actually having to offer forgiveness, because in spite of everything that had happened between them, she had missed her sister.

Jo had been good at entertaining, once, but this had been her first attempt without Martin, and it had been difficult to find the right mix of people. One of the worst things she’d found about divorce was the division of friends into his and her camps. Martin’s friends, of course, were out of the question, but she hadn’t dared bring her own partisan supporters into contact with Annabelle, whom they viewed as the villain of the piece. So she’d invited guests she’d felt sure would contribute to a pleasant, neutral evening—a couple who were recent clients; Rachel Pargeter, a neighbor who had been a close friend of their mother’s; Annabelle and Reg. And it had almost worked—until her son Harry had told his aunt what he thought of her.

Carefully, Jo slipped the last of the bunch of early sunflowers into the vase on the dining room table. The kitchen door slammed and Sarah’s high, piping voice carried clearly from the back of the house. “Mummy, Mummy!”