Leave the Grave Green

Eyeing the curving chrome-and-black leather article dubiously, Kincaid said, “Are you sure it’s not an instrument of torture? Or a sculpture?” But when he lowered himself gingerly into it, he found it enormously comfortable.

His expression must have given him away, because Gemma laughed and said, “You didn’t trust me.”

She pulled a dining chair near him and they chatted amiably, finishing their wine. He felt at peace, free of the restless tension that had disturbed him earlier, reluctant to maneuver himself out of the chair and go home. But when he saw her smother a yawn, he said, “Early start for both of us. I’d better be off.” She didn’t demur.

It was only as he drove home that he realized he hadn’t told her of Sharon Doyle’s accusations that Julia Swann had killed her husband. Hysteria, he thought, shrugging. Not worth recounting.

A small voice reminded him that neither had he told her of Julia’s illness after her brother’s death, and his only excuse for this omission was that telling the vicar’s story smacked of betrayal in a way he couldn’t explain.

Backstage at the Coliseum should have prepared Gemma for Lilian Baylis House, but Alison’s description had misled her. “A big, old house, a bit difficult to get to. Used to be a recording studio for Decca Records.” From that Gemma envisioned a genteel place, set back in a large garden, populated by ghosts of rock stars.

“Bit difficult to get to” had proved to be more than an understatement. Not even her well-thumbed London A to Z

prevented her from arriving a half-hour late for her appointment with Tommy Godwin, flustered, her hair escaping from its clip and her breath coming hard after a three-block sprint from the only available parking space. She felt the beginnings of a blister where her new shoe rubbed her heel.

The dark blue sign with its white ENO legend identified the house easily enough, which was just as well, as it bore no resemblance whatsoever to Gemma’s fantasy. A square, heavy house with soot-darkened red brick, it stood sandwiched between a dry cleaners and an auto-parts shop in a busy shopping street just off the Finchley Road.

Squelching the thought that she might not have become so hopelessly muddled if she’d had her mind on her driving instead of Kincaid’s visit the previous evening, she tucked a stray hair into place and pulled open the door.

A man leaned against the doorjamb of the receptionist’s cubicle, chatting with a young woman in jeans. “Ah,” he said, straightening up and holding a hand out to Gemma, “I see we won’t have to send your colleagues out searching for you, after all, Sergeant. It is Sergeant James, is it not?” He looked down the considerable length of his nose at her, as if assuring himself he hadn’t made a mistake. “Had a bit of trouble getting here, I’d say, from the look of you.” As the young woman handed Gemma a clipboard similar to the one Danny had used at the Coliseum, he looked at her and shook his head. “You really should have warned her, Sheila. Not even London’s finest can be expected to navigate the wilds north of the Finchley Road without a snag.”

“It was rather dreadful,” Gemma said with feeling. “I knew where you were, but I couldn’t get here from there, if you see what I mean. I’m still not quite sure how I did.”

“No doubt you’d like to powder your nose,” he said, “before you have your wicked way with me. I’m Tommy Godwin, by the way.”

“So I’d gathered,” retorted Gemma, escaping gratefully to the loo. Once safely behind the closed door, she surveyed her reflection in the fly-specked mirror with dismay. Her navy suit, Marks and Sparks best, might as well have been jumble sale beside Tommy Godwin’s casual elegance. Everything about the man, from the nubby silk of his sport jacket to the warm shine of his leather slip-on shoes, spoke of taste, and of the money spent to indulge it. Even his tall, thin frame lent itself to the act, and his fair, graying hair was sleekly and expensively barbered. A swipe of lipstick and a comb provided little defense, but Gemma did the best she could, then squared her shoulders and went out to regain charge of her interview.

She found him in the same relaxed posture as before. “Well then, Sergeant, feeling better?”

“Much, thank you. Is there somewhere we could have a word?”

“We might steal five uninterrupted minutes in my office. Up the stairs, if you don’t mind.” He propelled her forward with a light hand upon her back, and Gemma felt she’d once again been out-maneuvered. “This is officially the buying office, the costume coordinator’s domain,” he continued, ushering her through a door at the top of the stairs, “but we all use it. As you might guess.”

Every available inch of the small room seemed to be covered—papers and costume sketches spilled from the worktables onto the floor, bolts of fabric leaned together in corners like old drunkards propping one another up and shelves on the walls held rows of large black books.