"You wouldn't dare make anything of it." Gemma had glared at him as they got in the car. "Lots of people love that film and don't go about poisoning their relatives."

Kincaid had to admit he found it difficult to imagine that Theo had got himself inconspicuously to London, murdered his sister, and managed to return home in time to watch a much anticipated video. He mulled it over as he drove, playing out various unlikely scenarios.

By the time they reached Hampstead he'd come up with nothing more definite than a resolve to discover if Theo were really as unaware of Jasmine's affairs as he claimed. He'd see Jasmine's solicitor straight away.

Kincaid couldn't persuade Gemma to stay when they reached the Hampstead flat, not even by tempting her with an offer of a drink on the balcony. She'd been restive on the drive back from Surrey, checking her watch often. What had started as a pleasant day had gradually deteriorated, and Kincaid had the feeling he'd failed her in some unknown expectation.

Perhaps she was still cross with him for bullying Theo, and truthfully he couldn't blame her. He'd only intended to gather a little information, but the man's helplessness made him feel awkward and inadequate, and that in turn irritated him.

Kincaid opened Gemma's car door and closed it as she got in. He stood, resting his hands on the open windowsill, so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. "Thanks for coming with me, Gemma."

"Not much help, I'm afraid." She smiled and turned the key in the ignition. "Mind now, don't forget to look after the cat," she said as she pulled away, but Kincaid thought both the smile and the admonition seemed absent-minded.

He took the reminder to heart. After retrieving a beer and a stack of blue journals from his flat, he quietly let himself in Jasmine's door. Sid, curled in the middle of the hospital bed, began a nimbly purr when Kincaid stepped into the room "Actually glad to see me this time, are you?" Kincaid addressed him. "Or just hungry, more likely." He spooned some tinned food into a bowl and set it down. The cat unbent enough to allow Kincaid to scratch behind his ears before turning all his attention to the bowl.

Beer in hand and journals tucked under his arm, Kincaid opened the French doors and sat down on the top step overlooking the empty garden. Leaning against the rail, as Jasmine had so often done, he began to read.

September 22, 1957

It's cold here. Cold all the bloody time, even though Aunt May says it's a "fair autumn." My hands and feet hurt from the chill and these stupid woolen clothes itch. I've come up in little red bumps all over. At least I'll never be as pale as these English, with their skin like raw potatoes, faces blank as shuttered windows, voices like rusty saws scraping.

May's given me a bed in the cottage attic, Theo the spare room. She says it's because he's the youngest, but she favors him. Me she disliked from the moment she set eyes on my face.

I lie in the little bed at night and listen to the sound the wind makes in the rafters, and think about going barefoot in the dust, about cool, cotton dresses, and coconut milk, and pomegranates, and passionfruit, and the way the sunlight came through the green bamboo blinds in the Mohur Street house and made my room look like it was under water.

She says I've got to stay in school till I'm sixteen, it's the law. The girls don't speak to me except to make rude remarks. The boys just look.

Theo's fared better. He goes out with some of the boys after school. He's even starting to sound a bit like them.

I'd leave here the day I'm sixteen but I can't leave Theo in May's clutches. She's got plans for him, she's already worried about his marks, filling his head with talk about university.

We did fine, Theo and I, without any interference from her, and we will again, I swear it.

Chapter Eight

Monday dawned cold and blustery, ending the idyllic weather that had accompanied Jasmine's death. Kincaid knotted his tie and shrugged into a wool jacket with a sense of relief mingled with anticipation. He studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, expecting to find some visible mark of the weekend's slow passage, but the blue eyes staring back at him looked ordinary and not quite awake. With a last pass of the hairbrush, he judged himself presentable. Pausing only to pick up keys and wallet and to dump his unfinished coffee in the sink, he left the flat.

He took the tube, and exited at St. James Park. A few minutes walk brought him into the cold shadow of the steel and concrete tower which housed New Scotland Yard. The pavements were deserted except for the uniformed guard standing sentinel before the glass doors. Litter rattled as it blew in the gutter. Not exactly a comforting sight, the Yard, but then Kincaid didn't suppose the architects had succor in mind. He gave a casual wave to the guard and entered the building.

The short walk had given him time to marshal his arguments and he went straight to his Chief Superintendent's office. Denis Childs's secretary, a plump, dark-haired girl, looked up from her typing and beamed at him. "Morning, Mr. Kincaid. What can I do for you?"

The Chief Superintendent had a talent for choosing staff both good natured and efficient, and they kept his political machinery well-oiled. "Is he in, Holly?" Kincaid nodded toward the closed door of the inner office.

"Reading his reports, I should think. Nothing pressing on this morning. Just give the door a tap." She'd turned back to the keyboard before she finished her sentence, her fingers flying over the keys.

The Chief Superintendent had done his office in Scandinavian Modern, all blond wood, cane, and greenery, and Kincaid suspected his motivation was more a matter of playing against convention than strong preference.

Denis Childs reclined in the chair behind his desk, report propped on his crossed knee, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on the desk's edge. Childs's bulk made the furniture seem insubstantial, the subtle color scheme paling to anemic against his dark hair and lively brown eyes.

"What's up, Duncan? Pull up a chair." He flicked over the last page of the report and tossed it into his out-tray, stubbed out the cigarette and folded his hands across his middle, preparing to listen, as he usually did, with his attention fully engaged.

After settling himself in the visitor's armchair, Kincaid recounted the details of Jasmine's death and his subsequent actions.

"I'd like to make an official inquiry," he concluded. "Shouldn't require much manpower, just Gemma and myself, really."

Childs considered a moment before he spoke, steepling his fingers over his belly. "Sounds like a fairly straightforward suicide. You know we usually look the other way in these cases-nothing to be gained by pursuing the matter, particularly for the family. However, if there is any direct evidence that the young woman-what was her name?"

"Margaret Bellamy."

"-that Margaret Bellamy was present and physically assisted your friend's suicide in any way, we would have to press charges."

"I can't rule that out. She says she wasn't there that evening, but she has no corroboration." Kincaid shifted in his seat and the chair creaked alarmingly. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why mention the suicide pact? She need never have said anything, and I doubt I would have felt uneasy enough to order an autopsy."

"Shock?" Childs suggested, lighting a Player's from the pack on his desk and squinting at Kincaid through the smoke.

Kincaid shrugged in irritation. "She was shocked, yes, and probably not emotionally competent at the best of times, but she's not stupid. She must know the law. And that," he sat forward in the chair and gripped the arms, "is what really bothers me. Jasmine would have known the risk involved for Meg. I've read Exit's literature"- Kincaid ignored his chiefs raised eyebrows at that -"and they recommend most strongly that one let friends and family know one's intentions, and leave indemnifying documents in case of suspicion."