Chapter Sixteen

"You didn't know he served in India?" Gemma swiveled in Kincaid's chair, having usurped it when she arrived before him at the Yard.

"Until Jasmine died I'd hardly passed the time of day with him," Kincaid said rather defensively from the visitor's chair on the other side of his desk. "Why would I have thought to ask him that? And if you're going to take over my office," he added, "make yourself useful and put out a request for his service records."

The phone rang as Gemma reached for it, the distinctive double-burr stilling her hand for a moment in mid-air. Lifting the receiver, she said, "Superintendent Kincaid's office" in her most efficient manner, then pulling pad and pen toward her began to write. "I'll pass it along. Ta." She reread her scribbled notes, then looked at Kincaid. "A Mrs. Alice Finney left a message for you with the switchboard. Said there was no need for you to call her back, she just wanted to tell you she remembered his name. It was Timothy Franklin."

"That's it?"

Gemma raised an eyebrow. "What's that all about?"

"A boy that Jasmine seems to have been involved with just before she cleared out of Dorset like the hounds of hell were after her. Give Dorset Constabulary a ring and see if they can trace him. And while you're at it," he continued before she could protest, "get on to the Constable at Abinger Hammer. Theo Dent doesn't have a driver's license- I checked-but I'd like to know if he bought a ticket at the local station last Thursday night, or if he called a taxi, or if anyone else might have driven him to a different station or loaned him a car." He stopped, waiting for Gemma's pen to catch up. "And find out if he owns a bicycle."

"I don't think-"

"I know you don't, but I'd like to check it out anyway. Theo Dent may be as innocent as Mother Teresa, but Jasmine's death bailed him out too bloody conveniently for my liking. Don't worry," he added with a grin, "we'll get on to our Roger. This morning, in fact. We've an appointment with the head at his old school before lunch. It was the best I could do. No college or university, and he never seems to have held a steady job."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Gemma said acidly.

"Did you drive this morning?"

"No. You?"

He shook his head. "We'll sign a car out, the sooner the better. There's one stop I'd like to make along the way."

Kincaid watched Gemma's obvious enjoyment as she eased the Rover through traffic. "Makes a nice change, doesn't it?"

"A covered wagon would be an improvement over my Escort," she said as she slipped into a parking space along Tottenham Court Road. "Not bad for a Thursday morning. I expected to have to queue for it. And thank heavens the rain's stopped." The thin haze covering the morning sun showed promise of burning off in the course of the day.

Martha Trevellyan answered the door almost before the sound of the buzzer had died away, showing not the least surprise at finding coppers on her doorstep. Kincaid wondered if she'd seen them crossing the road from the flat's front window.

"Sergeant James." She smiled at Gemma and motioned them in. "I hope I look a bit more business-like than the last time you dropped by," she said, gesturing to her sweater and skirt. "I've even managed make-up. What can I do for you?"

Kincaid introduced himself, then said, "Just a quick question-won't take up more than a moment of your time." He looked around at the neat living/office area, thinking that the lack of personal clutter matched Martha Trevellyan's brisk manner. He sensed, though, that some of the briskness might be manufactured, and that Martha Trevellyan was a bit more wary of them than she'd like to admit. "I assume you had references for Felicity Howarth. You hadn't any indication of problems with terminal patients? No carelessness in administering drugs, anything of that nature?"

She stared at Kincaid, mouth open in shock. "Of course not! I'd never take on someone without a clean record. My business depends on the quality of the care. And Felicity wasn't only experienced-she had special training."

"What sort of special training?" Gemma asked, pulling out her notebook and pen. "I didn't know there was such a thing."

"There's a training course just for the care of the terminally ill. Felicity was a graduate. It's in Winchester or Exeter, something like that." She moved toward her desk, then pulled her hand back and folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I'd like for more of my nurses to be as well qualified, but it's difficult. The demand becomes greater all the time."

"You've quit smoking again, haven't you?" Gemma said, nodding toward the clean and polished ashtray on the desk.

"I'm still reaching for them. Hand's faster than the brain." Martha smiled apologetically. "My resolution won't last long, though, if my morning keeps on tike this."

"Can you remember exactly where Felicity took this training?" Kincaid asked, content to let Gemma diffuse the tension he'd generated. It had served its purpose. Martha's initial reaction to his question had been unguarded enough to convince him of its sincerity.

"I don't need to remember. I've got it right here in my file." Pulling open a drawer, she flipped through the brightly colored files with practiced ease. "Here it is. Not Winchester. Dorchester. I always get those two confused." She handed a piece of paper to Gemma. "Copy the address if you need it, but as far as I know it's a very reputable course. Do you need the references from physicians as well?"

"Please."

"I'd stake my reputation on Felicity Howarth's competence," Martha said slowly. "I feel that strongly about it. In fact," she added a bit ruefully, "I suppose I already have."

"I don't think you've any cause to worry, Ms. Trevellyan." Kincaid smiled at her, paving the way for a graceful exit. "We're just tidying up loose ends."

By the time they reached Richmond the haze had dissipated and pale sunlight filtered through the fringe of leaves overhanging the road. Kincaid checked the map. "Petersham's just a bit further on, and according to the directions they gave me over the phone, the school's just off the main road."

"I've heard that one before. Your navigational skills leave something to be desired."

He looked up at her profile. Although her gaze was fixed intently on the road, the corner of her mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. "You can't drive and navigate both, so you'll just have to live with my deficiencies, won't you?"

Shortly after they entered Petersham, a high, red-brick wall began to run alongside the road on their right. "Slow down, Gemma. The entrance should be along here." A sharp right turn through an open gate revealed an expanse of green lawns, symmetrically laid out red-brick buildings, and beyond the school, shining in the sun, the Thames.

"Oh my," said Gemma as she parked the car, "our Roger did have a difficult time of things, didn't he?"

A secretary showed them to a book-lined study with long French windows overlooking the river. They waited in silence. Gemma stood watching the swans moving languidly on the water, and Kincaid noticed that the black jersey she wore made the contrast more evident between her bright hair and pale skin.

The door swung open and the head charged into the room, black gown flapping like crow's wings. About Kincaid's age, with thinning hair, glasses and an incipient paunch, he radiated gale-force energy. "I'm Martin Farrow." He shook their hands in turn with a quick, firm grip. "What can I do for you?"

Kincaid decided this man wouldn't appreciate wasted words. "One of your former students, Roger Leveson-Gower-do you remember him? I'm afraid it's been a good ten years."