Nocturne with Bonus Material (4 page)

Just as Freddie opened the Audi's door, thunder clapped and the sky opened up. He sprinted for the cottage, sliding into the porch as if he'd just made a wicket and shaking the water from his hair.

No lights showed through the stained glass in the door. The bell didn't work—he'd never managed to fix it—so he banged on the wood surround with his fist.

“Becca. Becca! Answer the bloody door.”

When there was no response, he fumbled for his keys and put the heavy door key in the lock.

“Becca, I'm coming in,” he called as he swung the door open.

The cottage was cold and silent.

Her handbag sat on the bench below the coat rack, where she always dropped it when she came in from work. A gray suit jacket had been tossed carelessly beside it, but otherwise, the sitting room looked undisturbed. Her yellow rowing fleece was missing from the coat hook, as was her pink Leander hat.

He called out again, glancing quickly into the kitchen and dining room. A stack of unopened mail sat on the buffet, a rinsed cup and plate in the sink, and on the worktop a bag of cat food for the neighbor's cat she sometimes fed.

The cottage felt, in some way he couldn't explain, profoundly empty of human presence. But he climbed the stairs and looked into the bedroom and the bathroom. The bed was made, the skirt that matched the jacket he'd seen downstairs lay across the chair, along with a white blouse and a tangled pair of tights.

The bath was dry, but the air held the faintest trace of Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue cologne, one of Becca's few vanities.

He opened the door to the spare room that had once been his office, whistling in surprise when he saw the weights and the ergometer. She was serious about training, then. Really serious.

So what the hell had she gone and done?

Clattering back down the stairs, he grabbed a spare anorak from the coat hook and went out into the garden, ducking his head against the driving rain. Becca's neighbor's lawn had the river frontage, but he checked it just in case she'd pulled the boat up there. Seeing nothing but upturned garden furniture, he ran back to the cottage and pulled his phone out with cold and fumbling fingers. Thunder rumbled and shook the cottage.

Becca wouldn't thank him for ringing her boss, Superintendent Peter Gaskill, but he couldn't think what else to do next. He didn't know Gaskill well, as Becca had been assigned to his team a short time before the divorce, but he'd met the man at police functions and the occasional dinner party.

Freddie's call was shunted through by the department's secretary. When Gaskill picked up, Freddie identified himself, then said, “Look, Peter, sorry to bother you. But I've been trying to reach Becca since yesterday, and I'm a bit worried. I wondered if perhaps there'd been an emergency at work . . .” It sounded unlikely even as he said it. He explained about the boat, adding that Becca didn't seem to have been home since the previous evening, and that her car was still in the drive.

“We had a staff meeting this morning, an important one,” Gaskill said. “She didn't show or return my calls, and I've never known her to miss a meeting. You're certain she's not at home?”

“I'm in the cottage now.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, as if Gaskill was deliberating. Then he said, “So what you're telling me is that Becca went out on the river last night, in the dark, alone in a racing shell, and that neither she nor the boat have been seen since.”

Hearing it stated so baldly, Freddie felt chilled to the bone. Any arguments about her competency died on his lips. “Yes.”

“You stay there,” Gaskill told him. “I'm calling in the local force.”

Two families, for the most part strangers to one another, had spent a long weekend cooped up together in the rambling vicarage that anchored the hamlet of Compton Grenville, near Glastonbury in Somerset, while rain rumbled and poured and the water rose around them. The scene, thought Detective Inspector Gemma James, had had all the makings of an Agatha Christie murder mystery.

“Or maybe a horror film,” she said aloud to her friend and new cousin-in-law, Winnie Montfort, who stood at the old farmhouse sink in the vicarage kitchen, up to her elbows in suds. Winnie, a Church of England vicar, was married to Duncan Kincaid's cousin Jack.

And Gemma was now married to Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, a fact that still caused her a flutter of wonder when she reminded herself of it. Married. Really and truly. And three times, which Duncan still made a point of teasing her about. She touched her ring, liking the physical reminder.

They'd begun as professional partners, Gemma a detective sergeant assigned to Duncan's Scotland Yard Major Crimes team. When their relationship had become personal—much against Gemma's better judgment in those early days—Gemma had applied for detective inspector. Her promotion had been a mixed blessing. It had ended their working partnership, but it had allowed them to make their personal relationship public.

Still, Gemma had harbored deep reservations about commitment. They had both failed at first marriages; they both had sons who had been subjected to enough change and loss. And she had resisted, sometimes obstinately, what she saw as a loss of autonomy.

But Duncan had been patient, and with time Gemma had come to see that what they had was worth preserving at any risk.

So, at last, on a lovely day the past August, they'd had an informal blessing of their partnership in the garden of their home in London's Notting Hill. A few weeks later, they'd made it legal in the Chelsea register office.

And now, in late October, with the older children on half-term break from school, Winnie and Jack had invited Duncan and Gemma and their respective families to Compton Grenville so that Winnie could give their marriage the formal celebration she felt it deserved.

The ceremony in Winnie's church on Saturday afternoon had been everything Gemma had wanted; simple, personal, and heart-felt, it had sealed their partnership in a way that was somehow different. Third time's the charm, as Duncan kept telling her. And perhaps he was right, because now circumstances had brought another child into their lives, little not-quite-three-year-old Charlotte Malik.

Winnie turned from the mountain of breakfast dishes, the result of the gargantuan farewell breakfast she'd made for the weekend's guests. “A horror film? What?” Winnie, having wiped suds on the end of her nose, looked comically quizzical.

The green and tomato-red vicarage kitchen was a comfortable, and comforting, place, and Winnie was a good friend who had seen Gemma through some difficult times.

On this Tuesday morning, with the visit almost over and everyone gone except Duncan's parents, Gemma and Winnie had finally snagged a moment alone for a gossipy postmortem of the weekend. Gemma had offered to do the washing-up, but Winnie had insisted that Gemma enjoy a last few minutes with Winnie and Jack's baby daughter.

Gemma settled little Constance more comfortably in her lap. “Well, maybe horror film is a bit steep,” she amended, smiling. But her amusement faded as she thought about the blot on an otherwise perfect weekend. “Sometimes,” she said, “my sister is just a bitch.”

Winnie stripped off her washing-up gloves and came to sit at the table beside her, reaching for Constance. “Here, don't throttle the baby by proxy.”

“Sorry,” Gemma said sheepishly. She kissed Constance's fuzzy head before handing her over. “It's just that she's infuriating. Cyn, I mean, not Constance.”

“Well, I can understand Cyn feeling a little uncomfortable this weekend. She and your parents were the outsiders—”

“Uncomfortable?” Gemma shook her head. “You're too diplomatic. That's a nice way of saying she behaved like an absolute harpy.” Before Winnie could protest, she went on. “But it's not just that. She's been horrible since we found out Mum was ill.” Their mother, Vi, had been diagnosed with leukemia the previous spring. “I realize that's Cyn's way of dealing with her own worry. I can understand that, even though I want to strangle her. But now, with Charlotte, there's no excuse.”

“What about Charlotte?” Winnie asked, her kind face suddenly creased with concern.

“I think Cyn told her kids not to play with her. Didn't you notice?”

“Well, I did think they seemed a little . . . awkward—”

“How could she? They're going to be cousins, for heaven's sake.” The anger in Gemma's voice made Constance screw up her little face in a frown. Gemma took a calming breath, then reached out to stroke the baby's cheek with a finger. “Sorry, lovey.” Constance had Winnie's English-rose complexion, Jack's bright blue eyes, and the downy beginnings of Jack's blond hair.

But Charlotte, with her caramel curls and light-brown skin, was every bit as beautiful, and a wave of fury swept over Gemma at the idea that anyone could think differently, or treat her differently, because of her color. “I heard Cyn call Charlotte something unrepeatable,” she admitted. “I could just kill her.”

“Gemma, you must have been prepared—”

“Oh, we were warned, all right. The social worker was very thorough. ‘Mixed-race children are sometimes not accepted by adoptive parents' extended families,' ” she quoted. “But I suppose I'd seen too many
rainbow children
adverts,” she added with a sigh. If her sister had been rude, her parents had remained standoffish with the child, which upset Gemma deeply. “Charlotte's been through enough without this.”

She and Duncan had become foster parents to the little girl in August, after their investigation into the disappearance of her parents.

“How is she doing, really?” Winnie asked, jiggling Constance, who was beginning to fuss. “This weekend has been so hectic that I've never really had a chance to ask, or to say how lovely she is.”

“Yes,” said Gemma, her voice softening. “She is, isn't she?” Her arms felt suddenly empty without the baby, and she watched Winnie holding her daughter with an affection tinged only very slightly with envy. “But—” She hesitated, listening to the happy childish shrieks coming from the back garden. Charlotte's excited shouts rose unmistakably over the boys'. Perhaps, thought Gemma, she
was
overreacting, making too much of normal adjustment issues.

“But?” prompted Winnie, settling Constance over her shoulder.

“She doesn't sleep well,” Gemma confessed. “She dreams, I think, and sometimes when she wakes, she's inconsolable. She—” Gemma stopped, making an effort to steady her suddenly wobbly voice. “She calls out for her mummy and daddy. It makes me feel so—so—” She shrugged.

“Helpless. Yes, I can imagine. But she's becoming very attached to you. I've seen that.”

“Sometimes a bit too attached, I'm afraid. Downright clingy.”

She and Duncan had agreed that they'd take family leave in turns until they felt Charlotte was secure enough in her new situation to attend child care during the day.

Gemma had gladly taken the first stint, but she was due to return to her post as detective inspector at Notting Hill Police Station the following week, and she felt a little guilty over how much she was looking forward to work and adult company. She worried whether she was really doing the right thing in planning to go back to work. “I just hope Duncan will be able to cope on his own.”

“Give the man credit,” Winnie said with a grin, nodding towards the garden, where Duncan and Jack were stomping in puddles with the children. “He seems to be doing pretty well. He obviously adores Charlotte. And if the two of you are going to make this commitment, she needs to be as bonded to him as she is to you.” She gave Gemma a searching glance. “You
are
sure about this? There must be other placements that would keep her out of her grandmother's clutches.”

Gemma leaned forward, hugging herself to stop an involuntary shiver. “I cannot imagine being without her,” she said with complete certainty. “And I wouldn't trust anyone else to keep her safe, although I don't think it's likely that Charlotte's family is going to have much leverage anytime soon.”

Charlotte's grandmother and her uncles had been arrested in August, and it looked as though they would be playing Happy Families in prison for a good while to come.

“We're officially fostering for the time being,” Gemma went on. Hesitating, she added, “But we intend to apply for permanent custody, and eventually adoption. I just hope my family will come round, and that nothing will happen to muck up Duncan's leave—” She was interrupted by a loud crash, then the clump of feet in the hall.

“Toby, boots off,” Gemma heard Duncan shout, but it was too late. Her six-year-old son cannoned through the door, his red Wellies mud-spattered, his blond hair sticking straight up in damp spikes. He looked, as usual, like an imp from hell.

The door swung open again, this time revealing Charlotte, who had obediently removed her boots. In her striped socks and pink mac, she ran straight to Gemma and climbed into her lap. She wrapped her arms round Gemma's neck in a fierce hug, as she did whenever they had been separated for more than a few minutes. But when she looked up, she was beaming, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. Gemma thought she had never seen the child look happier.

“I jumped biggest,” Charlotte announced.

“Did not,” said Toby. At his grand age, he considered himself superior in all ways.

Duncan came into the kitchen. Tall, tousled, and as red-cheeked from the cold as the children, he looked quite as damp as Toby, if a bit cleaner. Glancing out the window, Gemma saw that the rain was coming down harder than ever.

“You, sport,” Duncan said severely to Toby, “are incorrigible.” Pointing at the muddy boot prints on the floor, he pulled some towels from the kitchen roll and handed them over. “Apologize to Auntie Winnie and mop up. And then”—looking almost as impish as Toby, he grinned at Gemma and abandoned his policeman voice—“Dad's ordered us all outside, rain or not. He's stagemanaging at his most annoyingly coy, and he's roped in Jack and Kit. Knowing Dad, I shudder to think.” He rolled his eyes for emphasis, and Gemma couldn't help but smile. She had adored Duncan's dad from the moment she'd met him, but Hugh Kincaid was not always the most practical of souls.