Chapter Seven

Gemma sat at the kitchen table, huddled in Rob's old terry-cloth dressing gown. It was his color, not hers-the deep wine shade turned her hair ginger. She knew she should throw it out, or give it to Oxfam, along with all the other odds and ends of her married life that cluttered the house. But sometimes, if she pressed the dressing gown's nubby fabric to her face, she imagined it still smelled of Rob.

"Silly cow," she said aloud. What had Rob left her that she should want any reminders of him? It surprised her that she still missed his physical presence. Not just sex (although that had been scarce enough since that day two years ago when she'd come home to find Rob's things gone and a note on the kitchen table), but the quick touch, the hand on her hair, having something other than a hot-water bottle to warm her feet against at night. Work and looking after Toby left not much time for becoming reacquainted with dating.

The thought of Toby brought her attention back to the untidy pile of bills before her on the kitchen table. Gemma got up and poured herself more coffee, wrapping her hands around the chipped Thistle mug (a souvenir of her honeymoon in Inverness). Nearly nine o'clock on Sunday morning and Toby not up yet-last night's visit to her mum and dad's had exhausted him. Her sister's three wild ones had wound him to a fever pitch and Gemma had carried him kicking and screaming to the car, only to have him fall asleep in mid-shriek a few minutes later.

She contemplated the bills again, then carried her mug to the back door and stood looking out into the garden. Toby's plastic tricycle lay overturned in a muddy patch. Rob hadn't sent his support check for three months now, and the fees for Toby's day care were becoming more than she could manage. The mortgage on the house was steep, and she paid a sitter for Toby when she worked overtime as well. Rob's last phone had been disconnected, and when Gemma checked his flat she found he'd moved and left no forwarding address. The car dealership where he'd worked as a salesman gave her the same story, he'd given notice and disappeared.

Gemma felt panic hovering at the edge of her thoughts, waiting to pounce when she let her guard down. She'd taken such pride in her self-sufficiency, ignoring the importance of Rob's help because it didn't fit with the super-mum image she'd built for herself. Now she was reaping the consequences. Be practical, she told herself, look at your options. Selling the house and finding less expensive care for Toby didn't mean the end of the world, yet she still felt the weight of failure like a stone on her chest.

The loud burring of the kitchen phone jerked her out of the doldrums. She set her coffee on the countertop and grabbed the receiver off the extension, hoping not to wake Toby.

"Gemma? I'm sure ringing you two mornings in a row is a right nuisance, but I wondered if you'd like to make a couple of visits with me today."

She found that another early morning call from Kincaid didn't surprise her, nor did his off-duty voice. It held a trace of hesitancy she never heard at work. "Still unofficial?" she asked.

"Um, until tomorrow, at least. But I've had the p.m. result. Morphine overdose."

Gemma retrieved her cup and took a sip of tepid coffee. So he had been right about that, at least, and she'd been wrong in thinking his closeness to the situation might have clouded his judgement.

"I know you still think I'm making mountains out of molehills," he said into her silence, and Gemma heard the trace of amusement in his voice.

"Who did you have in mind?"

"Felicity Howarth, Jasmine's nurse, in Kew. And brother Theo, down in Surrey. It's a lovely day for a run," he added, cajoling.

"Mummy." Toby had padded into the kitchen on bare feet and stood sleep-flushed and tousled, holding his blanket.

"Come here, love." Gemma knelt and hugged him.

"Sorry?" Kincaid said, sounding startled.

Gemma laughed. "It's Toby. He's just got up." This wouldn't be an expedition for Toby-she'd have to ask her mum to keep him, and then her overworked conscience would give her hell for neglecting him.

"Gemma?"

"I'd have to make arrangements for Toby."

"I'll pick you up. What time?"

"No." She'd never had Kincaid to her house, and after seeing his flat yesterday she felt even more reluctant. "I mean," she said, realizing how abrupt she'd sounded, "I'll have to run Toby to my mum's and then I might as well come to the flat."

They rang off, and Gemma lauded Kincaid's tact in not reminding her that running Toby up to Leyton High Street hardly made it necessary for her to drive to Hampstead.

It seemed that Kew had tempted a good portion of London's populace to initiate rites of spring. Gemma, sitting in the passenger seat of Kincaid's MG with her face turned up to the sun, included herself in the observation. She had to keep reminding herself that she hadn't come along for her own indulgence, and made an effort to keep her eyes on the road rather than Kincaid's profile. Normally she preferred to drive him, but when she'd reached the Hampstead flat he'd insisted she leave her car and had loaded her briskly into the Midget, saying, "Relax, Gemma. It's your day off, after all." She had given in without too much difficulty.

They circled Kew Green, jockeying for position in the traffic. The roads leading off to Kew Gardens and the river were chock-a-block with cars, but once they cleared the Green's south end they left some of the congestion behind. They wound their way south and east through the side streets toward Felicity Howarth's address, moving past large detached houses with gardens, then less elegant semidetached, arriving finally in a cul-de-sac of terraced houses. Uncollected litter cluttered the sidewalks, and the houses had an air of mean shabbiness, as if their owners had given up making an effort.

Gemma looked at Kincaid in surprise. "She's a private nurse? Have you got the right address?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Let's give it a try."

Felicity Howarth's basement flat, unlike most of its neighbors, showed signs of some attention. The steps were swept, the door painted a glossy, dark green and the brass knocker polished. Kincaid rang the bell and after a few moments Felicity opened the door.

She stared at Kincaid as if she couldn't quite place him, then her face cleared. "Mr. Kincaid?"

Gemma, who from Kincaid's description had been expecting an elegant and uniformed model of starched efficiency, had her perceptions abruptly altered. Although Felicity Howarth's height and coloring might be striking under other circumstances, today found her not at her best. She wore faded sweats, no make-up, had a smudge of dirt across her forehead, and Gemma thought she looked tired and not overly pleased to see them.

"Doing a bit in the garden," she said apologetically, wiping more dirt across her forehead in an effort to rub off the smudge.

Kincaid introduced Gemma simply by her name, then said, "I'd like to talk to you about Jasmine."

"I guess you'd better come in." Felicity led them into her sitting room, said, "Let me wash up," then hesitated as she was turning away and added, "Like some coffee? I was just about to make some for myself."

Gemma and Kincaid took advantage of the opportunity to look around the room. It was neat and scrupulously clean, as Gemma could testify after she surreptitiously ran a finger along the edge of a bookshelf-it came away without a smudge of dust. The furniture was of good quality but not new, and the ornaments more likely to be family hand-me-downs, it seemed to Gemma, than chosen with a particular decorating scheme in mind. A Sunday Observer lay scattered across the sofa, the only evidence of untidy occupation.