tone became less conciliatory, “someone could have been in a hurry for something. What do you know about Jasmine’s estate, Theo?”
“Estate?” Theo’s face was blank with incomprehension.
“Come on, man. Don’t look so bloody baffled.” Kincaid rose and paced the small room. “Surely you must have some ideahow Jasmine intended to dispose of her property. She told me she’d made some good investments over the years, and she had a good bit of equity in the flat. Will it all come to you?”
“I don’t know.” Theo looked up at Kincaid, and it seemed to Gemma as if he had shrunk before her eyes. “She made the down payment on the mortgage here. I was broke, really down on my luck.” He turned and spoke to Gemma, seeking understanding. “Some things hadn’t worked out, you know? I never really thought about what would happen if she died.”
Kincaid’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief and he opened his mouth to protest, then changed his tack. “What were you doing on Thursday evening?”
“Thursday?”
“The night Jasmine died, Theo,” Kincaid prompted.
“I was here, of course. Where else would I be?” Theo sounded thoroughly frightened now, near to tears.
“Start at the beginning,” said Gemma, moved to bail Theo out. “What time do you close the shop?”
“About half-five, usually.”
“So you closed up that day about half-past five? And then what did you do?”
“Well, I tidied up a bit and locked the till, and then I went across the road for my supper.” Theo, visibly relaxing, looked expectantly to Gemma for his catechism. Kincaid had moved to the window and stood gazing down into the street.
“Across the street? I don’t remember seeing a restaurant—”
“No, no. There’s only the pub at night. The tea shop closes at five. I always go across to the pub for my supper. Good food, and I can’t cook much here,” he gestured toward the curtain, “just a hot-plate, really.”
“I thought you said you didn’t drink much,” said Kincaid from the window.
Theo flushed. “I don’t. Just the odd half-pint of sweet cider.”
Gemma took charge again. “What did you do when you finished your meal? Have you a car?”
The question seemed to anger Theo. “No, I don’t have a bloody car, if it’s anyone else’s business. I came back here. There’s not much else to do in Abinger Hammer. And besides,” he smiled at Gemma, his brief spurt of temper evaporating, and nodded toward the VCR, “I had a new film. Arrived at the shop that afternoon. Random Harvest , 1942. Ronald Coleman and Greer Garson. Great stuff. There’s this shell-shocked World War I officer and he’s saved from spending his life in an asylum by this music-hall sing—never mind.
“That’s it. I watched the film. I read a bit, then I went to sleep.” He looked at Kincaid, who had come back to perch on the arm of the easy-chair. “Satisfied?”
“Sorry,” said Kincaid, standing and holding out his hand to Theo, “I just like to get things straight. I’m afraid you’ll have to appear at the inquest. I’ll let you know the details.”
“It was nice to meet you, Theo. I’m sorry about your sister.” Gemma took Theo’s hand, surprised to find it ice-cold in the overheated room.
Theo followed them down the steep stairs, and Gemma had a last glance at the brambly honey pot before Theo shut the shop door behind them.
They left the shop without speaking and started down the footpath toward the river. Kincaid walked with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, not looking at Gemma.
“You suckered me into playing good cop-bad cop with that poor man. And after he was so touchingly grateful to you. Is that what you had in mind when you asked me to come?” Gemma stopped, forcing him to turn and meet her eyes.
“No. Partly habit, I suppose. I feel like I’ve beaten a child. But Christ, Gemma. How could anyone really be so bloody gormless? You can’t believe he never gave a thought to what
“Estate?” Theo’s face was blank with incomprehension.
“Come on, man. Don’t look so bloody baffled.” Kincaid rose and paced the small room. “Surely you must have some ideahow Jasmine intended to dispose of her property. She told me she’d made some good investments over the years, and she had a good bit of equity in the flat. Will it all come to you?”
“I don’t know.” Theo looked up at Kincaid, and it seemed to Gemma as if he had shrunk before her eyes. “She made the down payment on the mortgage here. I was broke, really down on my luck.” He turned and spoke to Gemma, seeking understanding. “Some things hadn’t worked out, you know? I never really thought about what would happen if she died.”
Kincaid’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief and he opened his mouth to protest, then changed his tack. “What were you doing on Thursday evening?”
“Thursday?”
“The night Jasmine died, Theo,” Kincaid prompted.
“I was here, of course. Where else would I be?” Theo sounded thoroughly frightened now, near to tears.
“Start at the beginning,” said Gemma, moved to bail Theo out. “What time do you close the shop?”
“About half-five, usually.”
“So you closed up that day about half-past five? And then what did you do?”
“Well, I tidied up a bit and locked the till, and then I went across the road for my supper.” Theo, visibly relaxing, looked expectantly to Gemma for his catechism. Kincaid had moved to the window and stood gazing down into the street.
“Across the street? I don’t remember seeing a restaurant—”
“No, no. There’s only the pub at night. The tea shop closes at five. I always go across to the pub for my supper. Good food, and I can’t cook much here,” he gestured toward the curtain, “just a hot-plate, really.”
“I thought you said you didn’t drink much,” said Kincaid from the window.
Theo flushed. “I don’t. Just the odd half-pint of sweet cider.”
Gemma took charge again. “What did you do when you finished your meal? Have you a car?”
The question seemed to anger Theo. “No, I don’t have a bloody car, if it’s anyone else’s business. I came back here. There’s not much else to do in Abinger Hammer. And besides,” he smiled at Gemma, his brief spurt of temper evaporating, and nodded toward the VCR, “I had a new film. Arrived at the shop that afternoon. Random Harvest , 1942. Ronald Coleman and Greer Garson. Great stuff. There’s this shell-shocked World War I officer and he’s saved from spending his life in an asylum by this music-hall sing—never mind.
“That’s it. I watched the film. I read a bit, then I went to sleep.” He looked at Kincaid, who had come back to perch on the arm of the easy-chair. “Satisfied?”
“Sorry,” said Kincaid, standing and holding out his hand to Theo, “I just like to get things straight. I’m afraid you’ll have to appear at the inquest. I’ll let you know the details.”
“It was nice to meet you, Theo. I’m sorry about your sister.” Gemma took Theo’s hand, surprised to find it ice-cold in the overheated room.
Theo followed them down the steep stairs, and Gemma had a last glance at the brambly honey pot before Theo shut the shop door behind them.
They left the shop without speaking and started down the footpath toward the river. Kincaid walked with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, not looking at Gemma.
“You suckered me into playing good cop-bad cop with that poor man. And after he was so touchingly grateful to you. Is that what you had in mind when you asked me to come?” Gemma stopped, forcing him to turn and meet her eyes.
“No. Partly habit, I suppose. I feel like I’ve beaten a child. But Christ, Gemma. How could anyone really be so bloody gormless? You can’t believe he never gave a thought to what
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