Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

Kincaid stared at her, his momentum temporarily halted. “Gemma, it’s not your case.”

“Someone needs to do it. Someone should already have done it.”

He frowned at the implied criticism. “We’ve had other priorities. You know this is a long shot. If you were working the case you’d have a bit more perspective.”

Gemma knew he was probably right, but she didn’t like being dismissed. And besides, she was too curious now to let it go. “Maybe you need someone without perspective, then. And what harm can it do? It’ll save your team a job.”

“All right, go,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “We’ll talk about it when I get home. Then you can tell me how I’m going to clear this with DI Bell.”

“Anyone would think the woman was going to bite your head off,” Gemma retorted.

“Oh, I think she might do much worse than that.” He flashed his familiar grin at her as he folded himself into the little car. “You’d better hope I’m still intact by the time this case is over.”

It was only as he drove away that Gemma realized she was going to miss yet another piano lesson. “Bloody hell,” she swore as she glanced at her watch, wondering if she could go by the hospital and still get back in time to take the boys to Erika’s for tea. She could, she decided, if she didn’t dally.

She rang Wendy, her piano teacher, and made her excuses, then went in search of Winnie.

Gemma found her in the tiny church office, staring in dismay at the stacks of leaflets covering her desk. “The printer’s made a mistake on the Order of Service,” she explained. “Again. Oh, well, perhaps no one will notice we’re singing a hymn about crossing the barren dessert.”

Gemma laughed. “Maybe they’ll think you’ve run out of buns to serve at coffee hour.” She went on to update Winnie on her plans, then added, “I feel guilty, leaving Fanny like that. If this were an ordinary case – if we had a definite identification of a victim, or even some evidence of foul play – I’d have a constable or a family liaison officer stay with her until we could get a friend or family member in.”

With a sigh, Winnie said, “Except in this case, there doesn’t seem to be anyone. It’s usually only the elderly who are so isolated. I’ve offered to have volunteers from the congregation take it in turn to stay with her, but she won’t have it. I’m learning that Fanny can be unexpectedly stubborn when she has a mind to it.”

Gemma perched on the edge of Winnie’s visitor’s chair. “I know she lost her parents, but do you suppose she had any friends before her illness?”

“She lost touch with her coworkers, obviously. She was hospitalized for months. And I suppose other friends may have drifted away because they didn’t know what to say or do – I suspect that happens more often than we care to think. But I’ve never heard her mention anyone other than Elaine. It’s as if Fanny’s life started when Elaine Holland moved into her house.”

“Winnie, doesn’t the relationship between these two women strike you as odd?”

“If you’re implying that two single women living together must be lesbians,” Winnie said a little tartly, “I thought that sort of sentiment went out with our parents’ generation.”

“And our parents may have been right more often than we credit,” Gemma replied with a quick smile, “because it was socially unacceptable to tell the truth. But that’s less true now, especially as neither Elaine nor Fanny has family to disapprove. And anyway, it’s not their sexual orientation that worries me, it’s the whole emotional setup. It just feels wrong. There’s Elaine’s secretiveness, and Fanny’s dependence… At first, it seemed that Elaine was taking advantage of Fanny, but now I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to wonder who really pulled the strings in the relationship.”

Winnie fingered the small silver cross she wore over her clerical collar, a habit Gemma had observed when she was thinking. After a moment, she said, “Fanny had no trouble going against Elaine when it was something that mattered to her, like having me bring in Communion on Sundays. Elaine didn’t care for that at all.”

“I think there was more going on here than Fanny’s told either of us. The question is, does it have anything to do with Elaine’s disappearance? Maybe if you could talk to Fanny-”

“Gemma, you know I couldn’t pass on anything Fanny told me in confidence.”

“No,” Gemma agreed ruefully, “I suppose not. But you could encourage her to talk to me. That wouldn’t be against regulations.”

Winnie smothered a laugh. “It’s not the God police, you know. It’s my conscience that’s the issue. But I promise I’ll try.” Then, sobering, she gazed at Gemma for a moment before she said, “Gemma, about this body in the warehouse. I know you said it was only a possibility… but do you really think Elaine Holland is dead?”

As he drove to Borough station, Kincaid rang his longtime contact in the Home Office lab, Konrad Mueller. Mueller, in spite of his Germanic name, was half Egyptian and, although in his late thirties, still lived the life of a lad in a flat overlooking the Grand Union Canal.

Kincaid had met him in his early days at Scotland Yard, when Mueller had been working as a crime scene tech, and had watched his rise through the forensic science service with interest. He’d kept up the connection, although he tried not to ask favors too often.

He’d made a point, however, of getting Mueller’s home phone number when he discovered they were nearly neighbors, thinking he’d invite him round for drinks some weekend, and now his forethought came in handy.

Rather to his surprise, Mueller picked up right away. When Kincaid explained what he wanted, Mueller gave a gusty sigh audible over the phone.

“You do realize there’s a football match tomorrow, mate?” he asked, sounding aggrieved. “Not to mention the fact that I just met this really hot chick at the supermarket and made a date for tonight.”

The odd contrast between Mueller’s olive skin and the gelled spikes of his bleached-blond hair didn’t seem to deter women. Kincaid had never known him not to have at least two on the string.

“I wouldn’t ask, Konnie,” he said, “but I’ve got the AC’s office breathing down my neck on this one, and I can’t get anywhere with it until I have a positive ID on the victim. You won’t have to run the sample against the database,” he added, knowing that was the most time-consuming factor in the DNA testing process. “I just need a simple match.”

After a pause in which Kincaid could hear the insistent thump of techno music in the background, Mueller gave in with another resigned sigh. “All right, mate. I’ll see if I can get to the lab sometime tomorrow. But you owe me big-time for this one.”

“Anything short of providing you with your own personal harem,” Kincaid agreed, ringing off with a grin.

When he reached Borough station, he turned his samples over to Bell’s sergeant, Sarah, with a request to send them directly to Mueller at the lab.

After taking down his instructions, she directed him to an interview room that had been set up with a television and a VCR in readiness for Yarwood’s visit. As Kincaid opened the door, Cullen was saying something in Bell’s ear and she was laughing in response. It was the first time Kincaid had seen her face lit by a genuine smile, and he realized she was actually quite pretty when she wasn’t brooding like a disgruntled hawk.

Then the pair registered his presence. Both their faces froze into the instant solemnity of guilty children.

“Spoiled the party, have I?” Kincaid asked. Seeing their blank expressions, he couldn’t resist taking the piss a bit more. “Are you two going to let me in on the secret?”