Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“Uh huh. Evie says Cassie told her that if she, I mean Evie, played her cards right, she just might do half as well. A bitch, Evie called her. Not exactly what I’d call strong on family loyalty.”

“Um,” Kincaid said, “I can see where Cassie might merit that description. That it?”

“Just about, sir. I’ve written it up.”

“Well, keep at it, Gemma. You never now what you might turn up. What’s next?”

“The Sterrett Clinic, where Hannah Alcock works.”

“Call in when you can. I’ve got to go. There’s someone banging on the bloody door.”

Kincaid yanked the door open, annoyed before he saw who it was, resigned to a thoroughly unpleasant few minutes afterwards. Chief Inspector Nash stood there, a messenger not sent by the gods. His retribution, thought Kincaid, had arrived.

“Well, laddie. Quite the lay-about, aren’t we. Just got up?”

“Chief Inspector Nash. Do come in. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sure it is, laddie.” Nash traded sarcasm for sarcasm, and sat deliberately down on one of the suite’s dining room chairs, uninvited. Kincaid grimaced, repelled by the sight of the few greasy strands of hair stretched across Nash’s shiny scalp.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Kincaid asked, not wanting to give Nash the advantage of opening the conversation.

“Pretty fancy accommodation. Must be nice on a superintendent’s salary.” He minced the title.

“Chief Inspector,” Kincaid said slowly. “Come off it.” He propped himself against the arm of the sofa. “What’s up. You didn’t come here to compliment me on my taste.”

Nash considered him, the black eyes glinting with what might have been humor in someone else. “The lab report’s in. No evidence of fingerprints on plug, cord or heater. It seems,” Nash paused for effect, “that you were right. Coroner’s refused to give a verdict of suicide.” Nash settled himself more comfortably on the chair and appeared to change the subject.

“The Chief Constable’s had a word in my ear. How fortunate it is that Superintendent Kincaid just happened to be on the scene and offered to assist us with our inquiries. You’re considered quite the wonder boy with the higher ups, according to him. But you listen to me, laddie,” Nash straightened up in the chair, all the malice in evidence now, “I don’t appreciate wonder boys on my patch. I don’t appreciate you going around with your trumped up condolences to Mrs. Wade so you could poke around where you had no right. Your rank and your fancy opinions,” he jabbed a finger at Kincaid, “don’t mean shit to me, laddie. And if you don’t stay out of my business I’ll see you’re sorry for it.

“As far as I’m concerned, if the little bugger didn’t kill himself, he was blackmailing somebody and got what he deserved. And I don’t need any help from you to find out who.”

Nash put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, poised, Kincaid thought, for his spring at the jugular, when a frantic pounding sounded at the front door. Kincaid pushed himself off the edge of the sofa and went quickly to open it. Three times a charm, he thought hopefully.

Inspector Raskin stood panting at the door, his tie askew, his hair falling almost over one eye in a rakish comma. “Chief Inspector Nash?” he said, in between gasps for breath, and when Kincaid nodded, followed him into the suite. Raskin looked from Nash to Kincaid and spoke, finally, into the distance between them.

“It’s Penny MacKenzie. Down at the tennis court. She’s dead.”

Kincaid clung to his disbelief until they reached the tennis court. Hannah sat against the court’s wire wall, her knees drawn up and her hands clasped together above her breasts, her face slack with shock. Penny’s small body lay beneath the net, touched with some quality of stillness that was utterly, inarguably final. Kincaid felt his breath rush out as if he’d been punched in the chest.

“Miss Alcock came pelting across the garden into the drive just as I got out of my car.” Inspector Raskin nodded his head toward Hannah as he spoke quietly to Kincaid. “She said she thought Miss MacKenzie was dead and I came down with her at once.”

Kincaid hesitated for a moment, then went to Hannah and sank down on his knees beside her. “Hannah. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.” She looked about her with a puzzled expression. “I told Inspector Raskin I’d stay while he fetched you. I don’t remember sitting down.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“There’s not much. I’d gone for a walk after I left you this morning, thinking, not paying much attention to things. I saw her as I came down the path.”

“What happened then?”

“I went to her. At first I thought she might have been taken ill, fainted or something. Then I saw her head.” Hannah stopped and swallowed. “But still, I thought she might be breathing, so I felt her chest, then her throat for a pulse. Her skin felt cool.” Hannah began to shiver. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Kincaid reached over and tucked the lapels of her heavy cardigan more tightly together. “I’m sure you did everything you could for her. The important thing now is to look after you. You’ve had quite a shock.” He looked around. Raskin knelt over Penny’s body, not touching her, and Nash, having stopped to phone divisional headquarters, had not yet appeared. “But I’m afraid you’d better stay at least until Chief Inspector Nash arrives. He’ll want a statement from you. Why don’t I take you up there?” He nodded toward the bench on the path above the court and helped Hannah to her feet.

“Duncan,” Hannah turned to him as he pushed aside the gate for her, “it couldn’t have been an accident, could it? She couldn’t have fallen and hit her head?”

“I don’t know yet, love, but I doubt it very much.”

“But why?” Hannah’s fingers tightened convulsively on his arm. “Why would somebody want to hurt Penny?”

Why, indeed, thought Kincaid as he made his way back to the court. Because Penny had seen or heard something that threatened someone’s security, and if he hadn’t been so dense, he’d have found out what it was.

Kincaid squatted reluctantly beside Raskin.

Penny lay on her right side, her fist curled beneath her cheek, her bright blue eyes closed. Only the awkward angle of her legs indicated something amiss, until one saw the back of her head. The indentation, though small, had bled freely, and a little blood had puddled beneath her. A tennis racquet lay a few inches from her outstretched left hand, as if she had fallen in the midst of a leaping volley at the net. A smear of blood showed rust-colored on the racquet’s edge. Penny’s binoculars lay partially beneath her side, and Kincaid fought the sudden urge to move them, as if it mattered whether or not she were comfortable. “Oh, Christ,” he said, his eyes stinging and his throat suddenly contracting. He pressed his fingers underneath his cheekbones until the pressure eased.

“Hmmm.” Raskin didn’t look up, his gaze focused intently on the injury to Penny’s skull. “Not nice. Not nice at all, I don’t think. I’d say she was standing at the net, possibly looking at something through her binoculars, when chummy snuck up behind.”

“And I’d say,” added Kincaid, when he could trust himself to speak again, “that chummy has had a run of bloody good luck. Acts on impulse, grabs the first thing to hand and what do you know, it works. But it might not have. That portable heater might have blown every fuse in the house and shorted itself out without frying Sebastian. And Penny…” He looked away. “… It wasn’t that hard a blow. I’ve seen people walk to hospital with head injuries worse than that.”