patch.”
“You’re bloody right!” Gemma hissed at him, careful to keep her voice lowered on Toby’s account. But Kincaid looked so crushed that she felt some of her anger evaporate. “It’s not that, really. It’s that you’d never have done something like that without discussing it with me when we worked together.”
“It would never have come up. I handled this badly, love. I’m sorry.”
She folded her arms across her chest, considering him. It would be nice to work as a team again, but she didn’t want to risk damaging her still tenuous authority with her staff. “What about my team?”
“You’ll communicate with them directly. And I’ll try not to step on your toes.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Can’t you think of me as a bonus? A good resource?”
He always knew when to be diplomatic, she thought grudgingly, but then that was one of the things that made him good at his job. “All right. I’ll hold you to that. First you can tell me everything you remember about that earlier case. And then you can go with me to see Dawn Arrowood’s parents.”
“H ERE WE ARE .” G EMMA STOPPED THE CAR IN FRONT OF A TERRACED house of dark brick in East Croyden. It was an ordinary neighborhood, a universe away from the elegance of the Arrowoods’ house in Notting Hill.
Gemma’s face was set as she climbed from the car. Kincaid knew she was dreading this interview, but it was a necessity they couldn’t avoid. The street was quiet as he rang the bell, the air filled with the scents of Sunday lunches in the oven.
The man who came to the door was in his fifties, graying, slightly heavyset, and dressed in shirt and tie as if he had just come back from an ordinary Sunday church service.
“Mr. Smith?” asked Gemma, showing her warrant card. “We’d like to talk with you and your wife, if you feel up to it.”
The man nodded without speaking and led them through into the sitting room, saying, “Joanie, it’s the police.” Sorrow was palpable in the air. A Christmas tree in the corner and a string of cards across the mantel seemed cruelly and inappropriately cheerful.
Dawn’s mother rose from the sofa, and Kincaid saw that she had been looking through a photo album. Kincaid could see that until yesterday Joan Smith might have had a shadow of her daughter’s beauty; her thinness might have been expressed as elegance. But grief had sucked her dry, left her gaunt and brittle and looking more than her age.
“Have you found him?” she demanded. “The monster that killed our daughter?”
“No, Mrs. Smith, I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you,but we hoped you could tell us a bit about Dawn.” Gemma was at her most gentle, and Kincaid was content to listen, and watch. “Could we sit down?” Gemma asked, and Mrs. Smith sank obediently back to the sofa, clutching the photo album. Kincaid saw that the crowded room was filled with pictures of Dawn from babyhood on, an adored only child.
“Could you tell us when you last saw your daughter?” Gemma directed the question towards them both, but it was the mother who answered.
“Two weeks ago. She came for Sunday lunch. She didn’t often come on a weekend, because
he
didn’t like it, but he was away on some sort of a business trip.”
“Karl didn’t like your daughter to visit you?” Gemma clarified, her brow creased in a frown.
“Weren’t good enough, were we? Clarence manages a supermarket, and does a good job of it, but that meant nothing to Karl Arrowood. He wanted nothing to do with us.”
Her husband sat beside her, watching her, and every so often he gave a slow, wounded shake of his head as she spoke, as if he were depending on her to express what he could not.
“Do you know that he never came here once? And we were never invited to their house? Not even for Christmas or holidays! Oh, Dawn would make excuses, saying he’d planned a business dinner, or that they had to go to France or to some posh country house.
“You’re bloody right!” Gemma hissed at him, careful to keep her voice lowered on Toby’s account. But Kincaid looked so crushed that she felt some of her anger evaporate. “It’s not that, really. It’s that you’d never have done something like that without discussing it with me when we worked together.”
“It would never have come up. I handled this badly, love. I’m sorry.”
She folded her arms across her chest, considering him. It would be nice to work as a team again, but she didn’t want to risk damaging her still tenuous authority with her staff. “What about my team?”
“You’ll communicate with them directly. And I’ll try not to step on your toes.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Can’t you think of me as a bonus? A good resource?”
He always knew when to be diplomatic, she thought grudgingly, but then that was one of the things that made him good at his job. “All right. I’ll hold you to that. First you can tell me everything you remember about that earlier case. And then you can go with me to see Dawn Arrowood’s parents.”
“H ERE WE ARE .” G EMMA STOPPED THE CAR IN FRONT OF A TERRACED house of dark brick in East Croyden. It was an ordinary neighborhood, a universe away from the elegance of the Arrowoods’ house in Notting Hill.
Gemma’s face was set as she climbed from the car. Kincaid knew she was dreading this interview, but it was a necessity they couldn’t avoid. The street was quiet as he rang the bell, the air filled with the scents of Sunday lunches in the oven.
The man who came to the door was in his fifties, graying, slightly heavyset, and dressed in shirt and tie as if he had just come back from an ordinary Sunday church service.
“Mr. Smith?” asked Gemma, showing her warrant card. “We’d like to talk with you and your wife, if you feel up to it.”
The man nodded without speaking and led them through into the sitting room, saying, “Joanie, it’s the police.” Sorrow was palpable in the air. A Christmas tree in the corner and a string of cards across the mantel seemed cruelly and inappropriately cheerful.
Dawn’s mother rose from the sofa, and Kincaid saw that she had been looking through a photo album. Kincaid could see that until yesterday Joan Smith might have had a shadow of her daughter’s beauty; her thinness might have been expressed as elegance. But grief had sucked her dry, left her gaunt and brittle and looking more than her age.
“Have you found him?” she demanded. “The monster that killed our daughter?”
“No, Mrs. Smith, I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you,but we hoped you could tell us a bit about Dawn.” Gemma was at her most gentle, and Kincaid was content to listen, and watch. “Could we sit down?” Gemma asked, and Mrs. Smith sank obediently back to the sofa, clutching the photo album. Kincaid saw that the crowded room was filled with pictures of Dawn from babyhood on, an adored only child.
“Could you tell us when you last saw your daughter?” Gemma directed the question towards them both, but it was the mother who answered.
“Two weeks ago. She came for Sunday lunch. She didn’t often come on a weekend, because
he
didn’t like it, but he was away on some sort of a business trip.”
“Karl didn’t like your daughter to visit you?” Gemma clarified, her brow creased in a frown.
“Weren’t good enough, were we? Clarence manages a supermarket, and does a good job of it, but that meant nothing to Karl Arrowood. He wanted nothing to do with us.”
Her husband sat beside her, watching her, and every so often he gave a slow, wounded shake of his head as she spoke, as if he were depending on her to express what he could not.
“Do you know that he never came here once? And we were never invited to their house? Not even for Christmas or holidays! Oh, Dawn would make excuses, saying he’d planned a business dinner, or that they had to go to France or to some posh country house.
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