Leave the Grave Green

Last night. Julia. Oh, bloody hell. What have I done.? How could he have been so unprofessional? With the thought came the memory of Trevor Simons’s words, “I never meant to do it. It was just… Julia,” and of his own rather supercilious comments about the man’s loss of judgment.

He closed his eyes. Never, in all his years on the job, had he crossed that line, hadn’t even thought, really, that he needed to protect himself from the temptation. Yet even in his self-reproach he found that there was a part of him that felt no remorse, for their union had been clean and healing, a solace for old wounds and a destruction of barriers too long held.

It was not until he entered the Chequers’ dining room and saw Gemma seated alone at a table that he remembered the message he’d left for her yesterday. When had she arrived, and how long had she waited for him?

Sitting down across from her, he said, “You’re an early bird,” with as much aplomb as he could manage. “We’ll need to get on to High Wycombe as soon as we can. They’re holding Kenneth Hicks for questioning.”

Gemma answered him without a trace of her usual morning cheeriness. “I know. I’ve spoken to Jack Makepeace already.”

“Are you all right, Gemma?”

“Headache.” She nibbled without much enthusiasm on a piece of dry toast.

“Tony pour you one drink too many?” he said, attempting to humor her, but she merely shrugged. “Look,” he said, wondering if the flush of guilt he felt were visible, “I’m sorry about last night. I was… delayed.” She must have rushed here from London and waited for him, might even have been worried about him, and he had sent no word. “I should have rung you. It was thoughtless of me.” Tilting his head, he studied her, measuring her mood. “Shall I grovel some more? Would a bed of hot coals do?”

This time she smiled and he gave an inward sigh of relief. Searching for a change of subject, he said, “Tell me about Tommy Godwin.” Just then his breakfast arrived, and he tucked into eggs and bacon while Gemma gave him a brief recounting of her interview.

“I took a statement, and I’ve had the forensics lads go over his flat and car.”

“I saw Sharon Doyle again, and Trevor Simons,” he said through a mouthful of toast. “And Julia. Connor went home again after his scuffle with Tommy, Gemma. It looks as though Tommy Godwin’s out of the frame unless we can prove he met Con again later. He did ring someone from the flat, though—problem is, we’ve no earthly idea who it was.”

Julia. There had been a familiarity, an unconscious intimacy, in the way Kincaid said her name. Gemma tried to concentrate on her driving, tried to ignore the certainty that was growing in the pit of her stomach. Surely she was imagining things? And what if it were true? Why should it matter so much to her if Duncan Kincaid had formed a less-than-professional relationship with a suspect in a murder investigation? It was common enough—she’d seen it happen with other officers—and she’d never thought he was infallible. Had she?

“Grow up, Gemma,” she said under her breath. He was human, and male, and she should never have forgotten that even gods sometimes have feet of clay. But those reminders made her feel no less miserable, and she was thankful when the High Wycombe roundabouts claimed all her attention.

“I’ve had Hicks warming up nicely for you the last half-hour,” Jack Makepeace said in greeting when they found him in his office. He shook their hands, and Gemma thought he gave hers an extra little squeeze. “Thought it would do him a world of good. Too bad he didn’t quite manage to finish his breakfast.” Makepeace winked at Gemma. “He’s made his phone call—his mum, or so he says—but the cavalry’s not come to the rescue.”

Having been briefed earlier on the telephone by Makepeace, Kincaid had brought Gemma up to date in the car and suggested that she begin the interview. “He doesn’t care for women,” Kincaid said as Makepeace left them at the nondescript door of Room A. “I want you to upset his balance a bit, prime him for me.”

One interview room seldom differed much from another—they could be expected to meet some variation of small and square, and to smell of stale cigarette smoke and human sweat, but when Gemma entered the room she swallowed convulsively, fighting the instinctive urge to cover her nose. Unshaven and all too obviously unbathed, Kenneth Hicks reeked of fear.

“Christ,” Kincaid muttered in Gemma’s ear as he came in behind her. “We should’ve brought masks.” He coughed, then added at full volume as he pulled out a chair for Gemma, “Hullo, Kenneth. Like the accommodations? Not quite up to the Hilton, I’m afraid, but then what can you do?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hicks said succinctly. His voice was nasal, and Gemma pegged his accent as South London.