Excusing herself, she pushed through the group and out the front entrance, but MacCrimmon was right behind her.

"Buy you a drink, Inspector?" he asked, looking as innocent as a puppy.

"You think I'd have a drink with you after that headline the other day?"

"Just doing my job. Surely you're not cross with me for that? Come on"- he gestured towards the pub across the street- "you look like you could use a break."

"Thanks very much," she replied acidly, although it was hard to stay angry in the face of his good-natured cheek. Still, she wasn't about to be seen in the pub with a tabloid journalist. "Look, Tom, I don't have anything more for you than I've said. But I promise I'll let you know when I do, if you keep a civil pen in your head in the meantime."

"That's a hard thing to ask of me, Inspector," he said with a grin. "But I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will," Gemma muttered, leaving him on the steps. She hurried on to the car park and locked herself in her car, starting the engine with a sigh of relief. Her interview with the super and her meeting with Gerry Franks had affected her more than she cared to admit; she was glad of the refuge.

Her phone rang and she answered swiftly, seeing that it was Kincaid. "I'm so glad it's you. You won't believe what happened to me this afternoon-"

Static cut them off. When she could hear him again, he was saying, "-reason for ringing. Doug Cullen and his girlfriend have invited us for dinner on Saturday night-"

"Saturday? We're moving on Saturday!"

"All the better. Kit can watch Toby, and we won't have to cook. A nice gesture on Cullen's part, I thought. I'll tell him about seven, all right? See you tonight, love."

The phone went dead, but Gemma sat for a long moment with it pressed to her ear, thinking thoughts of murder.

He walked around the edge of the little town of Rye, perched on its sandstone cliff, as he had for the past three days. Here three rivers met, and at one time the sea had lapped at the town's base, but the courses of the rivers had changed and the sea had retreated, now a silver thread on the southern horizon.

Between the town and the sea lay the marsh, sheep-dotted, thick with seabirds. Alex knew every footpath through its reaches; it was the territory of his solitary childhood and of his dreams. If he stumbled occasionally as some memory of Dawn pierced the connection between muscles and brain, his body seemed to right itself and plod on of its own accord.

But to his surprise, it was Karl's face he saw vividly now. In spite of his reputation as a sharp businessman, Karl Arrowood had always seemed to treat him fairly- had, in fact, gone out of his way to share his knowledge of antiques and to refer business to him. Alex realized that he'd never seriously allowed himself to contemplate his betrayal of a friend, or Karl's reaction if he'd learned the truth- nor had he paid attention to Dawn's increasing uneasiness about her husband. How could he have been so stupid? So blind?

In the distance he could see the cloverleaf towers of Henry VIII's Camber Castle, floating like a mirage, and beyond that rose the low green hill that hid the ancient Cinque Port of Winchelsea in its folds.

When he reached Winchelsea Beach he stood, looking out over the gray, rolling water, unaware of the cold until his hands and feet lost all sensation.

Then he turned back the way he had come, reaching Rye as dusk settled over its cobbled streets and red tile roofs. Feeling invisible in the dying light, he climbed up into the town. From the lookout on Watchbell Street he could see lights wink on along the quay and the Channel, and somehow his very isolation gave him strength.

At last the cold and dark drove him down again, and he made his way home, drifting through the footpaths as insubstantially as a ghost. Smoke curled from Jane's chimney, and as he stepped into the house he smelled something savory baking in the oven, but when he called out there was no answer. Jane must be in the greenhouse, tending the potted cyclamens and azaleas she had carefully nurtured for the Christmas market.

Another scent drew him forward, into the sitting room, something green and sharp and fresh. Alex stood rooted, gazing at the tree that filled the room, the glass star at its tip sparkling against the dark vault of the kiln. His life seemed to telescope before him, compounding his loss. There was Dawn, his childhood, and something beyond memory that even now he could not bear to look at directly.

Alex fell to his knees before the tree, overcome by great, wrenching sobs that tore at his throat and pierced his chest.

Suddenly Jane was there, smelling of cold and earth. "Oh, Alex," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She tried to put an arm round him but he pulled away.

"No. I'm sorry." His mind felt suddenly clear again, as if the static that had fogged it for days had vanished. "I've got to go back. There are things-"

"Fern rang this afternoon. She said the police are looking for you, they've even put out an alert for your car-"

"The police? What do they want with me?"

"I'm sure they hope you know something about the murder. The sooner you talk with them, the sooner you'll be able to clear things up."

It hadn't occurred to him that the police might think him a witness- or a suspect. Well, he would go back to London first thing the next morning, and he would talk to them. But his purpose had become clear, and he'd no intention of letting the police or anyone else interfere with his agenda.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gemma lay in bed, staring at the partially opened slats of the blinds and hoping for the faint gray streaks that would presage dawn. Kincaid slept with his back to her, his breathing comfortingly steady. From the next room she could hear Toby's occasional snort; he was getting over a slight cold.

At last she gave in and tilted her head so that she could see the luminous face of the bedside clock; she groaned. It was only bloody five o'clock. Daylight was still a good two hours off, and it looked as if sleep had deserted her for the night.

Nor had they gone to bed at a reasonable hour the previous evening. Still furious with Kincaid over the business of Doug Cullen's invitation, she'd turned on him as soon as he arrived to help her pack.

"How could you? How could you accept a dinner invitation in the midst of moving house? We'll be tired, and filthy, and I've only so much time to get the new house sorted-"

"But I thought it would give you a break-"

"It's our first evening in the new house as a family!"

His face fell. "Of course, you're right. It was really stupid of me. I'll ring Doug straight away and say we can't come." He flipped open his phone and stepped outside.

Gemma knew she should be pleased at his capitulation, but her face flamed as she imagined his conversation with Cullen. When he returned a moment later, she spat, "Now I feel a right bitch. They'll have made arrangements already-"

"Gemma, they'll understand." He frowned at her. "It's not like you to be unreasonable-"

"So now I'm unreasonable?" She turned away and began rolling a wineglass in a sheet of newspaper, her fingers trembling.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." He came to stand beside her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"