"Suicide note?"

"Not necessarily… not if she wanted it to be thought a natural death. But Exit suggests a detailed statement of intent, signed and dated, in case the death is questioned. We're not talking about a scrawled 'just can't cope any-more' note. Jasmine left not a shred that I've been able to find."

Childs sighed and gently swiveled his chair back and forth. "And you feel that's not in character? When people are ill they don't always behave-"

"You're not the first to suggest that, but I doubt I ever met anyone more rational than Jasmine, and you could certainly consider suicide as a rational decision for someone terminally ill."

"Have you spoken to her solicitor? She might have left the indemnifying documents with him."

"First on my list," Kincaid said, relieved at the interview's direction. He knew how reluctantly his chief let go a problem once he started to worry at it.

"I'll authorize a warrant to access the solicitor's files. Anything left for the forensics lads?"

Kincaid snorted. "It'd take a miracle, would have even in the first place. The place is clean. There are a couple of nearly full vials of morphine in the fridge, very unlikely there's enough missing to account for Jasmine's death. I'll bring them in, but I doubt very much we'll find anyone's prints who didn't have normal access. If it was murder, it was done very carefully." He chewed his thumb for a moment while he thought. "If Jasmine killed herself, what did she do with the empty morphine vial? I've done a fairly thorough search."

Childs tilted his chair forward and ground out the stub of his cigarette. "I can spare you a few days, if nothing major comes in. I'll put Sullivan on this morning's lot, he's due for a headache." The wickedly benign smile accompanying the last comment made Kincaid glad not to be in Bill Sullivan's shoes.

"Gemma?" Kincaid asked.

"The last time I assigned her to Sullivan I got a right bollicking. Two redheads do not a team make, at least not these two. You can have her for a couple of days, if she'll put up with you-and mind you, this is only as long as I can spare you."

"Right," Kincaid said, standing up to go. "Thanks, guv."

Kincaid found Gemma already in his office, ensconced in the chair behind his desk. When she started to rise, he waved her back into the chair and propped himself on the edge of his battered desk. His office decor had never progressed beyond functional-he never seemed to get around to requisitioning more than bookcases from the Yard.

Every available inch of space in the small cubicle housed books. His mother's book graveyard, Kincaid thought as he surveyed the volumes jammed into the shelves without rhyme or classification. They arrived regularly in the post from Cheshire, always something she had 'just happened to come across' in the shop. From do-it-yourself plumbing manuals to Russian sci-fi, they ran the gamut of his mother's enthusiasms. In her battle for his continuing education Kincaid saw his mother's disappointment in his refusal to attend university, and he could never quite bring himself to return the books or give them away. And although he teased his mum about her obsessions, one couldn't grow up with books as he had and not love them for their own sakes.

Gemma closed the folder she'd been scanning and handed it to Kincaid. "Jasmine's p.m. report. No evidence of puncture marks, so the morphine must have been administered through the catheter."

"No surprise there."

"And I've been to the coroner's office. The inquest is set for Wednesday." Gemma stood up and brushed some crumbs off the blotter, then picked up a coffee mug bearing lipstick traces on its rim. She'd traded her usual tailored outfit for a long, navy cardigan and a printed skirt in some soft material.

"Quick off the mark this morning, aren't you?" Kincaid grinned at her. "Second breakfast?"

Gemma ignored the dig. "I heard you'd gone straight in to see the boss. Did he okay it?"

Kincaid sobered. "We've a couple of days, if nothing comes in that Sullivan can't handle. The rest are up to their eyeballs." He went around the desk and took the chair Gemma had vacated, leaning back and ticking items off on his fingers. "Jasmine's solicitor first off-I'll take that one. I'd like you to go round the borough planning office where Meg and Jasmine worked and see Meg. Find out what Jasmine told her about the legality of assisted suicide. Then interview whoever else seems likely. But first I want you to trace the lovely Roger Leveson-Gower. See what you make of him." Smiling at the thought of pitting Gemma's temper against Leveson-Gower's snide sarcasm, Kincaid added, "Maybe he'll tell you where he was on Thursday evening. He bloody well won't tell me."

Kincaid found the Bayswater address, a ground floor flat in a once-residential townhouse, without difficulty. To his surprise, the brass nameplate simply bore the legend "Antony Thomas, Solicitor." Somehow he'd expected a high-powered string of names.

The receptionist took Kincaid's name, her dark eyes widening as she looked at his warrant card. Very young, very pretty, very likely Pakistani, Kincaid thought. She glanced at him nervously every so often as he waited patiently in the straight-backed chair. When her intercom buzzed she ushered him into the inner office with obvious relief.

"What can I do for you, Superintendent?" Antony Thomas greeted Kincaid with a smile and a handshake. "Do have a seat. Though if it's police business I can't imagine how I could help."

Kincaid sat in the wing chair angled comfortably in front of the desk and considered Thomas. Another preconception shattered, although why his knowledge of Jasmine should have led him to expect a gruff old family retainer, he didn't know. Antony Thomas was slender, middle-aged, with a fringe of dark hair surrounding a shiny, bald pate, and a trace of Welsh lilt in his voice.

"Not entirely official business, Mr. Thomas," Kincaid began, and proceeded to tell him the circumstances of Jasmine Dent's death.

Thomas absorbed the tale in silence, and when Kincaid had finished sat a few moments longer, pulling at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke his voice was soft, the lilt more pronounced. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr. Kincaid. I knew her situation, of course, but still one is never quite prepared. Had you known Jasmine long?"

The question surprised Kincaid. "Not long, no. Just since her illness forced her to leave work."

Thomas sighed and looked down as he straightened the pens on his blotter. "I knew her a very long time, Mr. Kincaid. More than twenty years. My office was in the same street as the chartered accountant she worked for at the time-Jasmine always had a head for figures. She first came to me over the settlement of her aunt's estate. What a lovely girl she was then, you should have seen her." He raised his head, his brown eyes engaging Kincaid's. "I was already married, with two small children," he passed a hand over the top of his head and smiled, "and hair, if you can believe that, but I must admit I was sorely tempted. Not to give you the wrong impression-I'm sure the fantasy was strictly on my part. But we did become friends over the years."

"Did she talk to you about suicide, Mr. Thomas? Or give you any documents stating her intent to commit suicide?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, she did not. I would have been very distressed."

Kincaid crossed his foot over his knee and straightened the crease in his trouser leg, thinking how best to approach the next bit. "I know it's a delicate matter, Mr. Thomas, but I need to know how Jasmine left her affairs, and if she carried any life insurance. I found no copy of a will or insurance policy in the flat." He pulled the warrant from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it across the desk to Thomas. "I think you'll find everything in order."