But he knew well enough that even little lies, however kindly meant, had a way of assuming monstrous propor-
tions, and he wished that he had been honest with Gemma from the beginning. Now, in the light of what had happened in Scotland, his omission was going to be even more awkward to explain. He would, he resolved, tell her as soon as he spoke with her again.
When, a few minutes later, he turned north from Pen-tonville Road into the sedate crescents of Islington, he realized it was the first time he’d been to the Cavendishes’
house since Gemma had moved out. He had to remind himself not to pull round to the garage in the back. Although he knew that Hazel now used the flat as an office, he found it impossible to imagine it other than it had been, stamped by Gemma’s and Toby’s presence. Would he someday come to feel the same way about the Notting Hill house? It seemed to him that their full possession of the place was still marred by the emptiness of the nursery.
Pushing such thoughts aside, he parked in front of the Cavendishes’ house, a detached Victorian built of honey-colored stone, unexpectedly situated between two Georgian terraces. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed that the garden, previously a model of tidiness, looked weedy and neglected.
The house seemed quiet, turned in upon itself, the front drapes still drawn. Kincaid wondered if Tim had gone out—no one with an active four-year-old slept in until midmorning, even on a Sunday—but the pealing of the bell brought quick footsteps in response.
The door swung wide, revealing a pleasant-faced woman in her sixties with smartly bobbed graying hair.
“Can I help you?” she asked with an inquiring smile. She wore a raspberry shell suit, and her features seemed vaguely familiar.
“Is Tim at home? I’m Duncan Kincaid.”
“Oh, you’re Toby’s dad,” she said with obvious de-
light. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Holding out her hand, she added, “I’m Carolyn Cavendish, Tim’s mum.”
Kincaid clasped her well-manicured fingers. “Nice to meet you.” He had not quite got used to being referred to as Toby’s dad, and he felt an unexpected flush of pleasure.
“Come in, won’t you?” Stepping back, she ushered him into the house. “Holly is quite smitten with you.”
“And vice versa.” Kincaid looked round, prepared for the onslaught of Holly’s usual enthusiastic welcome, but the child didn’t appear.
“I’ve just made some coffee,” said Carolyn Cavendish,
“if you’ll join me?”
As Kincaid surveyed the familiar array of slightly worn furniture and children’s toys, the magnitude of what Gemma had told him that morning truly registered for the first time. How could Hazel, of all people, have possibly been having an affair?
He had never known anyone so contented, so at home in her domestic environment. He caught sight of the piano, music still open on the stand as if Gemma had just finished practicing, and felt a pang of loss for a time that had been innocent at least in memory.
Realizing that Mrs. Cavendish was watching him curiously, he brought himself back to the present with an effort. “Thanks. I’d like to wait if Tim won’t be long—”
“Oh, but Tim’s gone.” Leading the way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cavendish pulled two mugs from a rack above the cooker. “But I’m glad of the company.” As she pressed the coffee already standing in the pot, she added,
“Tony—that’s Tim’s father—has taken Holly for a swing on the school playground, and I had nothing on my agenda more pressing than the Sunday papers.”
Kincaid accepted the mug and sank slowly into a seat
at the scarred wooden table where he had spent so much time with Hazel, Gemma, and the children. The kitchen looked much the same; the old glass-fronted cabinets were still stained a mossy green, the walls sponged peach, and a basket of Hazel’s knitting sat on the table end.
“Tim’s out?”
“Away for the weekend,” she corrected. “Well, it was such lovely weather, and it was no trouble for us to come from Wimbledon. Usually, Holly comes to us, but she had a birthday party here in the neighborhood yesterday.
One of her school friends. Not that Hazel would have approved of all the sugar,” she added ruefully. “You should have seen them, little savages—”
“Mrs. Cavendish.” Kincaid abandoned his manners in his rising anxiety. “Where is Tim?”
“Walking. Some friends rang on Friday, after Hazel had got the train, and invited him to go. It seemed the perfect opportunity. He hasn’t had a holiday in ages, poor dear.”
“Where are Tim and his friends walking?” he asked carefully, trying not to betray his dismay.
“Um, Hampshire, I think he said. The Downs.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Sometime this evening.” She frowned slightly. “Is there something wrong?”
“Can you get in touch with him? Did he take his mobile phone?”
“No, I don’t believe he did. He said they were planning a real getaway. Has something happened?”
He forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that there’s been an accident at the B&B
where Hazel and Gemma are staying—Hazel’s fine, don’t worry—but I thought Tim should know as soon as possible.”
“An accident?”
“One of the other guests,” Kincaid explained. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. The police will have questions, and it’s always possible that the story could make the national media. I didn’t want Tim reading about it in the papers before Hazel had a chance to call him.”
He finished his coffee and stood. “Will you tell Tim to ring me as soon as he gets in?”
“Yes, of course, but—” She touched his arm. “This man, you said there was an accident. What happened?”
“He was shot.”
Mrs. Cavendish lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You’re sure Hazel’s all right? Did she—”
“Hazel’s fine,” he assured her again. “But that’s all I know, Mrs. Cavendish. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s more news.” He took his leave, but once in the car he sat for a moment, his unease growing as he thought over what he had heard.
Surely it was a coincidence that Tim Cavendish had had an unexpected invitation to go out of town on the very weekend Hazel had meant to see another man—the weather was lovely, after all. But although he didn’t think of Tim as a close friend, they had spent a good deal of time in idle chat, and he had never once heard Tim mention an interest in walking.
That could well be coincidence again—perhaps the subject had just never happened to come up. But Kincaid had learned over the years to distrust coincidence—especially when there was murder involved.
God, how he hated outdoor crime scenes. Chief Inspector Alun Ross had acted quickly to initiate the tedious and painstaking process of securing the scene and gathering evidence, but since he’d arrived, the sun had disappeared
behind an increasingly ominous bank of cloud and chill spurts of wind eddied through the trees and bracken. If the rain held off another hour, they would be lucky.
At least the police surgeon, Jimmy Webb, arrived quickly. Giving Ross no more than a nod of greeting, he suited up and knelt over the body. Although the heavy-jowled Webb was taciturn, he was direct and efficient, and Ross was always glad to find him on duty.
Webb soon finished with his poking and prodding, and shucked his white coverall like a mollusk sliding out of its shell. “You’d best get your tarps up,” he said, glancing at the sky as he came over to Ross.
“The lads are fetching them now.” Ross gestured at the team of uniformed officers emerging from the woods, carrying awkward bundles of canvas sheeting. “What can you tell me?”