Read Online A Share in Death by Deborah Crombie - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Crombie
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directness of a child whose feelings have been hurt. “You misled us.”
Cassie, who seemed to have temporarily abandoned her managerial distinction and banded with the herd, chimed in. “Oh, he’s full of surprises, is our Detective Superintendent Kincaid. All chummy with the local police, johnny-on-the-spot to the rescue. A real hero. Unfortunately, it was too late for poor Sebastian.” Her voice was light and mocking. She had recovered her control, all traces of the morning’s outburst erased. Her hair and make-up were exquisitely done and she wore rust, a matching skirt and blouse of some dull material with a webbing of fine, brown lines running through the solid color.
“I resent being treated like some common criminal, shut up together and then interrogated. And fingerprinted, for God’s sake. It’s disgraceful.” Eddie Lyle sounded aggrieved, as if Sebastian’s death had been designed merely to inconvenience him.
“You have no idea what it was like—” began Maureen, then blushed, remembering that Kincaid knew exactly what it was like.
“What have they found out? Your friends told us we were to ‘make ourselves available’ until cause of death is established. I must say it’s a hell of a way to spend one’s holiday,” said Graham Frazer. His flat, heavy face gave no hints as to what went on in the mind behind it, but his voice sounded somewhat less aggressive.
No one had offered Kincaid a drink, although they clutched theirs like protective talismans, so he answered Frazer over his shoulder as he walked to the bar and made himself a whiskey. “Look, I don’t know any more about this than the rest of you. It was purely circumstance that I happened to be first down this morning.”
“That’s all very well for you to say,” Eddie Lyle said querulously, “but you weren’t subjected to—”
“I had to make a statement just as all of you did, signed and sworn,” Kincaid interrupted as he rejoined them, then took a sip of his whiskey. No single malt scotch for the honor bar, this was the rawest of blends and it scorched his throat as it went down.
Kincaid noticed that Patrick Rennie hadn’t yet spoken, though he followed the conversation with interest. Watching which way the wind blew, thought Kincaid, with a politician’s prudence. The man looked more human than he had last night, in a pull-over and rumpled cords, his blond hair a little tousled, but how much wasmanufactured image and how much the real man Kincaid couldn’t tell.
Rennie stepped in now as mediator. “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid has had just as difficult a day as any of us, and has no intention of making this a busman’s holiday. I feel we’re all being rather unfair.”
“Thanks.” Kincaid met his eyes and was surprised to see a gleam of knowing humor. A smooth operator, no doubt, but perhaps Rennie didn’t take himself too seriously, after all. There was no answering spark in Marta Rennie’s eyes. She watched her husband, but unsmilingly, not privy to the brief connection between the two men. Kincaid sensed some tension between the Rennies, but unless his overactive imagination was playing him up again, there were strange little eddies and currents of unease running all through the group, more than he felt could be accounted for by the awkwardness following Sebastian’s death.
“How are the children?” Kincaid turned to John Hunsinger, who was hovering on the edge of the group as he had last night.
“More excited than upset, at least for the day. Their dreams may be a different story.” Hunsinger’s voice was deep and a little gravelly, as if unused to wear. “They said you—”
“You were very kind to them,” Maureen broke in, “They’ve put you right up in the ranks with Doctor Who. What’s horrible is that we didn’t even realize they were gone. They could have been …”
“Where are they now?” Kincaid asked.
“Emma MacKenzie’s taken them on a nature walk. Birdwatching. Can you believe
Cassie, who seemed to have temporarily abandoned her managerial distinction and banded with the herd, chimed in. “Oh, he’s full of surprises, is our Detective Superintendent Kincaid. All chummy with the local police, johnny-on-the-spot to the rescue. A real hero. Unfortunately, it was too late for poor Sebastian.” Her voice was light and mocking. She had recovered her control, all traces of the morning’s outburst erased. Her hair and make-up were exquisitely done and she wore rust, a matching skirt and blouse of some dull material with a webbing of fine, brown lines running through the solid color.
“I resent being treated like some common criminal, shut up together and then interrogated. And fingerprinted, for God’s sake. It’s disgraceful.” Eddie Lyle sounded aggrieved, as if Sebastian’s death had been designed merely to inconvenience him.
“You have no idea what it was like—” began Maureen, then blushed, remembering that Kincaid knew exactly what it was like.
“What have they found out? Your friends told us we were to ‘make ourselves available’ until cause of death is established. I must say it’s a hell of a way to spend one’s holiday,” said Graham Frazer. His flat, heavy face gave no hints as to what went on in the mind behind it, but his voice sounded somewhat less aggressive.
No one had offered Kincaid a drink, although they clutched theirs like protective talismans, so he answered Frazer over his shoulder as he walked to the bar and made himself a whiskey. “Look, I don’t know any more about this than the rest of you. It was purely circumstance that I happened to be first down this morning.”
“That’s all very well for you to say,” Eddie Lyle said querulously, “but you weren’t subjected to—”
“I had to make a statement just as all of you did, signed and sworn,” Kincaid interrupted as he rejoined them, then took a sip of his whiskey. No single malt scotch for the honor bar, this was the rawest of blends and it scorched his throat as it went down.
Kincaid noticed that Patrick Rennie hadn’t yet spoken, though he followed the conversation with interest. Watching which way the wind blew, thought Kincaid, with a politician’s prudence. The man looked more human than he had last night, in a pull-over and rumpled cords, his blond hair a little tousled, but how much wasmanufactured image and how much the real man Kincaid couldn’t tell.
Rennie stepped in now as mediator. “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid has had just as difficult a day as any of us, and has no intention of making this a busman’s holiday. I feel we’re all being rather unfair.”
“Thanks.” Kincaid met his eyes and was surprised to see a gleam of knowing humor. A smooth operator, no doubt, but perhaps Rennie didn’t take himself too seriously, after all. There was no answering spark in Marta Rennie’s eyes. She watched her husband, but unsmilingly, not privy to the brief connection between the two men. Kincaid sensed some tension between the Rennies, but unless his overactive imagination was playing him up again, there were strange little eddies and currents of unease running all through the group, more than he felt could be accounted for by the awkwardness following Sebastian’s death.
“How are the children?” Kincaid turned to John Hunsinger, who was hovering on the edge of the group as he had last night.
“More excited than upset, at least for the day. Their dreams may be a different story.” Hunsinger’s voice was deep and a little gravelly, as if unused to wear. “They said you—”
“You were very kind to them,” Maureen broke in, “They’ve put you right up in the ranks with Doctor Who. What’s horrible is that we didn’t even realize they were gone. They could have been …”
“Where are they now?” Kincaid asked.
“Emma MacKenzie’s taken them on a nature walk. Birdwatching. Can you believe
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