Chapter Text
Detective Inspector Kate Miskin could murder a cup of tea. She’d been up before dawn cajoling her three-month-old back to sleep and had barely got him settled again before her sergeant had knocked on the front door.
As they drove up the M20 into London, an eager, restless energy was palpable between them. It wasn’t very often they had a murder case on their patch in Kent and this one was high-profile enough to turn some influential heads— whether in admiration or disappointment depended on their result.
They arrived in the city at peak rush hour, fighting their way to the centre. After interviewing the victim’s colleague at the British Museum, they had time to kill before attending the funeral and Kate trained her eye on the passing buildings until she spotted a cafe. The damp spring air hurried them inside, with orders for mugs of tea and a bacon sandwich.
“First impressions?” she asked.
“Cagey. There’s something he’s holding back.” Her sergeant tapped the counter thoughtfully. “Or maybe he’s not that comfortable talking to people. Can you imagine looking at bits of clay pots every day? Alone with all those brushes, microscopes, books.”
It was a fair assessment, thought Kate, although she disagreed about the solitude. She had always liked books and study, had aspired to some kind of higher learning, but it hadn’t been something she or her grandmother could afford. It was her English teacher who’d suggested she might suit one of the helping professions: teaching, nursing, social work, or the police. Kate had chosen the latter, as it didn’t require additional, costly, education.
“What did he mean by ‘academic integrity’?”
“Cheating, probably,” she said. “Plagiarism. We should get the papers sent over and have an expert confirm it.” It would be time-consuming, and put a dent in their budget. But if true, a strong motive and an early lead.
The waitress set down their orders and Kate reached for her tea, feeling strength return as her hands wrapped around the heated cup, the last of the morning’s weariness dissipating with her first sip.
“Looks like you needed that,” her sergeant said over a mouthful of bacon sandwich. “Little lad still keeping you up?”
She chuckled, nodding. “He’s an early bird, like his dad.”
“That sounds like our John, when he was that age. Waking the missus at all hours.”
Kate knew what would come next. Since she’d returned from leave, her usually gruff sergeant had become a self-appointed expert on childrearing despite the fact that, by all accounts, it was his wife who’d done the lion’s share. But he was a kind-hearted man and so Kate allowed the occasional unsolicited parenting advice, listening, as she did now, with polite yet divided attention.
It wasn’t that she was ungrateful. But she was keenly aware that her sergeant would never consider broaching the topic with a male DI, just as he would never understand the balancing act she now performed. Kate had made a promise that having a family wouldn’t derail her career. As much as Ryan had brought new meaning to her life, policing gave her purpose. And so at home she was a present, loving mum, while at work she intentionally abandoned all thoughts of nappies and strained peas to focus on being a fair, competent cop.
“Thanks, Nige,” she said when he’d finished his interlude. “Damian and I are actually taking turns caring for Ryan when he wakes.” She watched her sergeant’s eyebrows knit together at this modern arrangement. “That way neither of us is too sleep deprived for long. Yesterday was my turn. It’s making me a bit more tired than usual but nothing a good cuppa can’t fix.”
She gave him an encouraging smile then pulled her notebook towards her and opened to the list she’d made earlier that morning.
“At the funeral today, I’d like us to split up since we need to keep tabs on quite a few people. If the daughter-in-law shows, talk to her. I’d like to arrange for her to come to the station and answer some questions. We need to know whether she was in the country the night of the murder and if she knew about the second will.”
They passed the next quarter of an hour planning their strategy and trying new theories before it was time for their next appointment.
While Nigel went to the loo, she was able to settle the bill without his protest and stood waiting by the door looking absently out the window. Across the street, an elderly couple ascended the steps of an elegant Victorian mansion block. Their departing taxi waited for a cyclist to pass, then pulled into traffic before another vehicle took its place at the kerb—a Jaguar, in racing green.
Kate straightened, her attention caught. She’d recognize that car anywhere, and the man now emerging from it: Commander Adam Dalgliesh. His tall frame was wrapped in an overcoat, his features set in their usual expression of solemnity. With unhurried confidence, he walked around to the passenger’s side and leant against the bonnet, glancing once down the sidewalk then up at the building’s facade.
Something more than fondness swept over her as memories stirred. Back when she was a sergeant and an after-hours callout still felt like an adventure, she’d step outside her apartment to find the Jaguar idling, a seat waiting just for her, and Dalgliesh ready to whisk them away to another mystery they’d solve together. It seemed a lifetime ago.
With a start, she realized it had almost been a full year since their last meeting, at Larkshill. She’d been unsettled by the change in him: although warm and gracious, his countenance was decidedly careworn, his conversation more reserved. The long shadow of grief remained, but in her absence it seemed he had become only more entrenched in it, as though there was no other way to be.
He’d asked for news of the baby, and she’d promised to write. Intended to. But her leave had been short and on her return to the force she’d been thrown right back into the thick of it. There hadn’t been time. And deep down, she wasn’t sure whether he would want to know her son—that very word carried so much history for him.
The front door to the block of flats opened and a woman descended the stairs. Slight, dark blonde, she carried a bouquet of white lilies that fairly glowed against a long black coat. At her appearance, Dalgliesh took a step away from the car and she met him with a half-embrace, cradling the flowers in her other arm, and he returned the gesture. Kate watched with interest at the affection in it, the familiarity. He spoke a few words, then opened the door to the Jaguar and held the bouquet as the woman settled into the passenger’s seat. There was an ease to his movements. Practiced, as though they’d done this before. As though …
“Ready, boss?”
Kate turned at the sound of Nigel’s voice. “Yes.” She checked her watch. “We’ll be just in time.”
“Should I drive?”
She shook her head with a smile. “You’re navigator.”
As they left the cafe, she glanced back across the street but the car and its occupants had moved on, leaving her with more than the case to ponder on the journey.
* * *
Kate had never considered it an inconvenience to attend the funeral of those whose death she was investigating, although she knew some officers did. Besides the obvious opportunity to gather insight on the victim and observe possible suspects, she enjoyed the quiet contemplation that interrupted an otherwise hectic schedule.
Today they were in Highgate, a place she found more beautiful than depressing, its twinned gothic chapels stretching towards the heavens as they walked through the gates. She liked meandering through the more ancient sections, spotting statues peeking through overgrown shrubbery, gnarled tree roots crooked around stone; the natural world reclaiming its own.
But this latest burial was to be in the more orderly East cemetery. She and Nigel positioned themselves strategically among the crowd of mourners, close enough to observe but not to attract interest in their presence.
Already, there was tension between those gathered. A man with sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses hesitantly stepped towards the widow with intention to speak, but she turned her head in disgust and shifted closer to her son, the brim of her hat tilted down, a physical shield against further conversation. Her movement created a new sightline in the crowd, and through the sea of heads and shoulders Kate recognized a couple only a few rows away. Dalgliesh and the woman from the flats. As they approached a singular headstone, the flowers, their dark attire, and the date all fell into place: the anniversary.
Kate didn’t know much about Dalgliesh’s wife other than the sparse account he’d given her, spoken as though every word had been prised from him. He’d wanted to “correct the gossip”, although in truth there was little to go around. Pathologist Miles Kynaston was the sole member of the force who knew the full tragedy. By chance he’d been working at the hospital that fateful morning and had abandoned his scheduled work to escort the baby and his mother to the mortuary—the only person who could reason with Dalgliesh to let them go. Nothing more had been said, but as always Kate learned the most from silence and gesture. And then there was his poetry, heartbreaking and raw, which spoke the loudest of all.
Dalgliesh stood alone before the grave. The woman had placed her flowers at its base and retreated a polite distance while he lowered his head. For a moment Kate thought to turn away—somehow this public display of grief felt more intrusive than the private suffering she’d witnessed during their time together. But then she saw him look back and extend a hand, which the woman took, and the two of them stood before the stone marker, their shoulders touching. A burden shared is a burden halved, she thought, and was glad for him.
The wake was held at a pub nearby, a historic public house made up of rooms cobbled together from various centuries. The former cellar, now converted to private seating, had been reserved for the funeral party. Its vaulted, whitewashed ceiling felt cavernous and the windowless walls shielded them from the rest of the patrons.
The widow was insistent that they speak with a friend of her late husband’s who had travelled from Rome for the funeral, and afterwards, the son wanted a private word. Kate and Nigel followed him around the corner and into the front parlour. The rooms here were cheerier, the ornate wood panelling darkened and polished with age, bookended by two brick fires that staved off the chill outside. A framed poster on the wall proclaimed the establishment’s storied past along with famous guests, including Byron, Shelley and Keats.
They reminded Kate of her own poet-detective and, as if manifested, Dalgliesh appeared in her field of vision sitting at a corner table near the back of the pub. While she believed in coincidences, this was one too many; fate, it seemed, was sending her a message.
“Nige,” she said once they’d finished with the son. “I’ve just seen someone I know. Give me a minute?”
“Boss,” he replied and jerked his head in the direction of the bar where she knew he’d take the opportunity to sample the ale and withdraw any relevant information from the publican.
Dalgliesh was seated with his earlier companion, the remnants of a meal now being cleared from the table by a server. They were angled slightly towards each other, close without touching, the distance between carrying a shared intimacy Kate observed but didn’t name.
She had spent many evenings with him at similar tables in pubs across the country, pouring over case files and taking turns buying rounds. It was the closest she had been to seeing the brilliant detective at leisure; although because they were still on the job, and he was her senior officer, he had never truly lowered his guard.
So it was a strange moment when he glanced up, by chance or intuition, and looked upon her with surprise. A fleeting expression, which he recovered. By the time he’d gotten to his feet, his face had softened into a rare smile.
“Kate.”
She grinned in response. “Thought that was you.”
“You’re back in London.”
“Just for the day. With my sergeant.” She gestured behind her.
He nodded and paused briefly, before exchanging a look with the woman beside him. She had been quietly observing, her gaze flicking between them as though making an assessment.
“This is Emma,” he said.
“Hello.” She rose and Kate took her offered hand. “You were at the Met—Adam’s partner. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Oh, I—only the good things, I hope.”
A slightly pained expression crossed Dalgliesh’s face. “There are only good things, Kate.”
Emma gestured at an empty chair, smiling warmly. “Join us, if you’d like?” she said.
Kate obliged, assessing her table-mate with carefully disguised curiosity. She was dressed suitably for the occasion in a black cashmere jumper, accented by a silk scarf and earrings of hammered gold inlaid with mother of pearl. The overall effect was of an understated elegance—Kate suspected Emma might belong to one of his literary circles.
They were of similar age, but following that, it was a study in opposites: fair and blue-eyed to his dark; affable where he was taciturn. Emma held herself with the same calm assurance that gave Dalgliesh his natural authority, but with her the effect was more sociable, drawing those around her into an easy confidence as they conversed.
“You’re no longer with South division?” Dalgliesh asked.
“Not anymore, transferred to North Kent. My decision. Well, ours. It’s closer to Damian’s parents and we need the childcare now.”
Something flickered behind his eyes as she said it. A question he didn’t ask but Kate understood instantly.
“We had a boy, Ryan. Nearly four months old already, if you can believe it. Hold on—I have a photo.”
She dug into her handbag and withdrew a polaroid. It was taken by their friends the week they’d brought Ryan home, just her and Damian on the sofa holding their son up towards the camera; their first photo as a family.
She slid it across the tabletop, and for one panicked moment she thought she’d misjudged. He didn’t reach for it—only looked down, his head dipping slightly. Then Emma drew the photograph closer, angling it so they could both see, and he leaned in towards her.
“He’s beautiful,” she said. “How perfect.”
“Thank you.”
Dalgliesh reserved judgment for a few seconds more, making a careful study of each figure. Then he raised his head. “You look very happy.”
“I am.” Kate hesitated, then added lightly, “I mean, the sleep could be better. But he’s everything we wanted.”
“You’ll adjust,” he said kindly, eyes fixed on hers with that unwavering focus so characteristic of him—as though he could see the truth before it was spoken.
She swallowed. “Actually, it’s work that’s been more difficult. Just … with some of my officers.”
The room buzzed around them, indistinct chatter and the clink of glasses, while she considered her words. She hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t told anyone except Damian and only then at her most exasperated.
“I know I shouldn’t complain. They’re being nice. It’s just—” She exhaled, letting the words fall. “I don’t want any special treatment or advice. I’m not an invalid. I’m their DI, who also happens to be a mum. But it feels like I have to prove myself again.”
“You don’t.”
“I know.” She shook her head, then flashed him a weak smile. “Sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.” But she did. Their relationship had been borne on this instinct—his knowing she had something to say and then giving her the space to share it freely. He regarded her now, a neutral observation.
“Your work will speak for itself,” he said gently. “Nothing more is owed.”
She sighed, nodding. Suddenly, a swell of gratitude rose inside her and she swiftly retrieved the polaroid from the table, taking longer than was necessary to replace it in her handbag until she’d regained composure.
Emma stood up quietly. “I’ll get those drinks,” she murmured to Dalgliesh, her hand resting on his shoulder. To Kate, she asked: “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you. I should be getting back.”
Kate looked to Dalgliesh but his attention had shifted, following Emma as she crossed the room. In that brief moment, his face was unguarded, and she saw on it that tenderest of emotions he once told her his grief would not permit. Finally, it seemed, he no longer felt the need to hold himself in reserve.
“How long have you been together?” she asked.
He looked back to her, inscrutable once more. “Ten months.”
She noted the time—since Larkshill—and wondered if that was coincidence or catalyst.
“You seem really good together. Comfortable.”
“We are.” Happiness tugged at the corner of his mouth, then enveloped his features. “A lucky break.”
“If anyone deserves one, you do.”
It was a gratuitous remark, and like always, he didn’t quite know what to do with it—evasively turning his head and shifting in his chair like an embarrassed schoolboy. Kate well remembered this aversion to compliments, odd for a man of his abilities and distinction, but it was endearing to see him so affected. She waited for the inevitable deflection, and so was startled when he responded with real feeling.
“I owe you one, Kate.”
“Sir?”
“The last time we worked together, on the Larkshill case, you said something very profound about my perspective on relationships.” He looked to see if she was following. “Sadness and destruction?”
“I remember.”
“It changed me, Kate. I hadn’t realized how clouded my judgment had become. Confusing grief with blame. You opened my eyes to it.”
She opened her mouth to speak but he raised a hand towards her, wanting to continue.
“Emma and I wouldn’t be what we are, if it wasn’t for that revelation. You saved me. Again.” He absently rubbed at the spot below his shoulder where she knew there must be a scar. Now he left space for her to respond but she found there was a lump in her throat.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she managed. “That’s what partners—friends—do. We don’t keep tabs, we look out for one another.”
At once, she saw her words had landed true. His gaze softened as he looked upon her, the moment suspended between them, warm and companionable. Then he inclined his head towards something behind her.
“Better not keep your sergeant waiting.”
Kate glanced back. Nigel had finished at the bar and was hovering conspicuously by the door. She had taken enough of their time.
“It was good to see you,” she said and stood, lingering at the table. “The both of you.”
The lunch rush was in full swing as Kate slowly picked her way back through the room, squeezing past tables heaving with patrons, aware of how much lighter she felt now, as though the jumble of emotions she’d been carrying had rearranged into a tidy, more manageable bundle.
She met Emma returning from the bar, a glass of white wine in one hand, a whiskey in the other.
“He’ll have been glad to see you,” she said, slowing as they drew close.
An idea sprang to mind, one Kate hadn’t dared to consider, but now, in present company, might be possible. “Do you think he’d like to see Ryan sometime?” she asked.
Emma’s eyes wandered toward the table. “I think,” she said carefully, “he wouldn’t invite himself. But he’d be honoured that you thought of him.”
It confirmed what she suspected, and hoped for. Kate nodded, the idea starting to resemble a plan. “Ok. After this case, when things are more settled.”
At the mention of work, Emma pressed her lips together and glanced at the floor. “Listen, Kate …”
When she looked up, her expression was more earnest. “People will make assumptions. But that’s not on you to change them. Don’t waste—” She stopped, seemed to re-consider, then concluded: “It’s best to spend that energy on yourself.”
Kate could see Emma hadn’t intended for a reply, and so no further words passed between them, except an air of quiet recognition before they each went their separate ways.
“Ready to go?” Nigel asked as she approached. “I think we’ve got as much as we can from this lot.”
“Yes,” Kate replied, leading the way out the door and into the street beyond. “It’s enough to go on.”
In fact, it was more than she’d hoped for.