Leave the Grave Green

He pulled up in front of the address Gemma had given, studying the house before him. A detached Victorian built of smooth honey-colored stone, it was one of a hodgepodge of houses lying rather incongruously between two of Islington’s Georgian crescents. Its two bow-fronted windows caught the late afternoon sun, and an iron fence surrounded the well-tended garden. From the front steps two large black dogs of indeterminate breed regarded him alertly, ready to protest if he should cross the bounds of the gate. Remembering Gemma’s description, he left the car in the nearest space and walked around the corner, following the garden wall.

The garage doors were painted a cheerful daffodil yellow, as was the smaller door to their left. Above it a discreet, black number 2 satisfied him that he had indeed found the right place. He knocked, and when no one answered, he sat down on the step leading up to the garden, eased his back into a comfortable position against the bars of the narrow gate and prepared to wait.

He heard her car before he saw it. “You’ll get a ticket, parking on the double-yellows,” he said as she opened the door.

“Not when it’s my own garage I’m blocking. What are you doing here, guv?”

She unbuckled Toby’s seat belt and he clambered across her, shouting with excitement.

“Nice to be appreciated,” Kincaid said, slapping Toby’s palm, then lifting him up and tousling the straight, fair hair. “Your engine’s developing a bit of a knock,” he continued to Gemma as she locked the Escort.

She grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Not just yet, anyway.” They stood awkwardly for a moment, Gemma clutching a bouquet of pink roses to her chest, and as the silence lengthened he grew ever more uncomfortable.

Why had he thought he could breach her carefully maintained barriers without consequence? His invasion seemed to stand between them, tangible as stone. He said, “I’m sorry. I’ll not come in. It’s just that I couldn’t reach you, and I thought we should connect.” Feeling more apologetic by the second, he added, “I could take you and Toby for something to eat.”

“Don’t be daft.” She dug in her handbag for her keys. “Do come in, please.” Smiling at him, she unlocked the door and stood back. Toby darted between them with a whoop. “This is it,” she said as she entered behind him.

Her clothes hung on an open rack beside the door. Brushing against a dress, he smelled for an instant the floral scent of the perfume she usually wore. He took his time, looking around with pleasure, considering. The simplicity surprised him, yet in some way it did not. “It suits you,” he said finally. “I like it.”

Gemma moved as if released, crossing the room to the tiny closet of a kitchen, filling a vase with water for the roses. “So do I. So does Toby, I think,” she said, nodding at her son, who was busily yanking out drawers from the bank beneath the garden windows. “But I’ve had a particularly severe thrashing from my mum this afternoon. She doesn’t think it a suitable place for a child.”

“On the contrary,” he said, wandering about the room on a closer tour of inspection. “There’s something rather childlike about it, like a playhouse. Or a ship’s cabin, where everything has its place.”

Gemma laughed. “I told her my granddad would have loved it. He was in the navy.” She placed the roses on the small coffee table, the splash of pink the single accent in the black and gray room.

“Red would have been the obvious choice,” he said, smiling.

“Too boring.” Two pairs of cotton knickers, a bit faded and frayed about the elastic, hung suspended in front of the radiator. Flushing, Gemma snatched them down and tucked them away in a drawer beside the bed. She lit lamps and closed the blinds, shutting out the twilit garden. “I’ll just get changed.”

“Let me take you out.” He still felt he needed to make amends. “If you don’t already have plans,” he added, giving her an easy out. “Or we’ll have a quick drink and catch up, and I’ll be on my way.”

She stood for a moment, jacket in one hand and hanger in the other, looking around the room as if assessing the possibilities. “No. There’s a Europa just around the corner. We’ll pick up a few things and cook.” She hung the jacket up decisively, then pulled jeans and a sweater from a chest beneath the rack.

“Here?” he asked, eyeing the kitchen dubiously.

“Coward. All it takes is a bit of practice. You’ll see.”

“It does have its limitations,” Gemma admitted as they pulled chairs up to the half-moon table. “But you learn to adapt. And it’s I not as though I have time to do much fancy cooking.” She looked pointedly at Kincaid as she filled his wineglass.

“Copper’s life. You’ll get no sympathy from me,” he said with a grin, but in truth he admired her determination. With its long, unpredictable hours and heavy caseload, CID was a tough proposition for a single mother, and he thought Gemma managed remarkably well. It didn’t do to let his compassion show, however, as she bristled at anything she could construe as special treatment.