And Justice There Is None Read Free

that was all, and if it so happened that it brought her a bit closer to Marc, so be it.
    I NSPECTOR G EMMA J AMES LEFT THE NOTTING H ILL P OLICE S TATION AT six o’clock on the dot, an occurrence unusual enough to cause the desk sergeant to raise his eyebrows.
    “What’s up, guv?” he asked. “Got a hot date?”
    “As a matter of fact, I have,” she replied, grinning. “And for once I’m determined not to be late.”
    Kincaid had rung her from the Yard an hour ago and asked her to meet him at an address a few blocks from the station. He’d given her no explanation, only insisted that she be prompt, and that alone had been enough to arouse her curiosity. A superintendent leading Scotland Yard’s murder inquiries, Duncan’s schedule was as demanding as hers, if not more so, and they were both accustomed to working long hours.
    Of course she had been trying to cut back, due to what Kincaid only half-teasingly referred to as her “delicate condition,” but without much success. She had no intention of announcing her pregnancy to her superiors until she absolutely had to, and then she’d be even less inclined to beg off work.
    And if an unplanned pregnancy weren’t disastrous enough for the career prospects of a newly promoted detective inspector, Gemma suspected her unmarried state would garner even less favor with her superiors. At least when Toby had come along she’d been married to his dad.
    Checking the address she’d scribbled on a scrap of paper, she walked down Ladbroke Grove until she reached St. John’s Gardens, then turned left. The old church stood sentinel on the summit ofNotting Hill, and even on such a dreary evening Gemma loved the calm of the place. But Kincaid’s directions sent her onwards, down the hill to the west, and after a few blocks she began checking the house numbers.
    She saw his MG first, its top buttoned up tight against the damp, and then across the street the address he had given her. It was the end house of a terrace, but faced on St. John’s rather than the cross street. Porch light and street lamp illuminated dark brown brick set off by gleaming white trim, and a front door the vivid color of cherries. Through the trees that grew between the house and the pavement, she glimpsed a small balcony on the second floor.
    Duncan opened the door before she could ring. “What, are you clairvoyant?” she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.
    “Among my many talents.” He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.
    “What’s this all about? Are we meeting someone here?”
    “Not exactly,” he answered. His grin made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. “Let’s have a look round, shall we?”
    The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma’s heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always longed for. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.
    The dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Provençal; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, she saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.
    “Nice, yes?” Kincaid queried.
    Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. “Mmmm.”
    Undeterred, he continued his tour. “And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo.” When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study orlibrary. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.
    “I’d put the telly here, wouldn’t you?” he went on cheerfully. “So as not to spoil the