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“Problem with the insurance?” Kincaid commented easily, as if it was to be expected, but Spender’s reply was wary.
“Not that I know of. It’s just these things take time. You know how it is.”
Kincaid gazed at the building, hands in the pockets of his Burberry. “Word has it the leases haven’t sold as fast as Mr. Yarwood had hoped.”
“It’s too soon to say that.” Spender’s voice held the first trace of irritation. “There’s no doubt they’d have sold, a place this close to the South Bank and London Bridge Station.”
“Let’s get back to the furniture, shall we?” said Maura, grinding her teeth. “How did you leave it yesterday?”
“Piled in the middle of the bloody room, wasn’t it? To give us as much working space as possible.”
“It didn’t occur to you it was a fire danger?”
“What else were we going to do with the stuff? Put it out in the street for a traffic hazard?”
“What about your crew? Any of them smoke?”
“Look, Inspector.” Spender took a breath and seemed to gain another inch or two in height. The friendly aura had vanished. “None of my lads left a fag end to smolder and set that furniture alight, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ve more sense than that, and I’ve told you I checked the building over before I locked up. We left nothing out of place.”
“And you’re absolutely positive you locked both doors?” she asked.
“Of course I’m bloody sure. Do you take me for an idiot?”
Maura saw Sergeant Cullen glance at her and thought she read a trace of amusement. “Mr. Spender,” she began tightly, “we do need your cooperation here-”
“Mr. Spender, excuse me,” Kincaid broke in with his easy smile. “You may be able to account for your key, but surely there’s more than one?”
Following Wi
How odd, she mused as she picked up her stride, that she should find herself on the edge of Southwark, when Duncan had only that morning been summoned out to a case in the same borough. And odder still, the call from Wi
Fortunately, Gemma hadn’t anything too pressing for a Friday afternoon, and as her lunch usually consisted of a sandwich brought up from the canteen, she didn’t feel terribly guilty about taking a longer than usual lunch break. She had, in fact, been feeling rather restless and unsettled, and was glad for an excuse to stretch her legs and breathe in the cool, damp air flowing from the river.
She and Duncan had managed to see Wi
There had been times that evening, watching the group around her candlelit dining room table, when she’d felt like a child playing dress-up. But if she’d felt like an impostor in her own home, she had also, rather to her surprise, enjoyed herself. Not that she was in any danger of turning into Stella Fairchild-Priestly, the queen of hostesses, but perhaps her social life had begun to evolve past spag bol and a bottle of plonk.
Of course, she and Wi
Reaching The Cut, she turned left, passing the Old Vic Theatre on one side and a council estate on the other. Wi
The Cut, for all its unusual name, was an unremarkable street, lined with small grocer’s shops, cafés, dry cleaners, newsagents. Damp squares of betting slips littered the pavement outside a bookie’s premises, like giant confetti, and Gemma thought she smelled a faint tang of smoke beneath the traffic fumes.
Just as she spotted the pub’s name above an unassuming shop front, she saw Wi
Her face lit with pleasure at Gemma’s approach, and she gave her a quick hug. “Gemma, thanks for coming. They’re holding a table for us – I’ve just checked.”
“Busy place?” Gemma asked as she followed her inside.
“It’s gaining quite a reputation as a gastro pub,” Wi
The bar, with simple wooden tables and an upright piano in the corner, took up the right-hand side of the space, while partially drawn velvet drapes marked off the restaurant area to the left. A waiter seated them at a small table near the back of the restaurant and handed them laminated menu cards.
When they’d ordered – pollock and greens for Gemma, a chicken and mushroom pie for Wi
“’Fraid not. The commission in Bristol is keeping him busy. He may not get away again until the job’s complete.”
“Can you not go to him?”
“I only have one day off a week – not long enough to go to Glastonbury and back. And even that day is subject to emergencies.”
“Sounds a bit like the police,” Gemma said ruefully. “Good thing you picked an understanding bloke.”
“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Wi
“We’ve a preliminary hearing scheduled next week.” As if their family situation weren’t already complicated enough, Kit’s maternal grandmother, Eugenia Potts, had filed for custody of thirteen-year-old Kit. Since Kit’s legal guardian, Ian McClellan, had moved to Canada, he had allowed Kit to live with Duncan, his natural father, and Gemma.
Eugenia, however, appeared to blame Duncan for her daughter’s death, and could not bear the idea of her grandson living happily with his father. And although Kit despised his grandmother, he’d not been willing to take the DNA test that would prove Duncan’s paternity without a doubt, thus giving Duncan clear legal rights.
Kit’s stubbor