A Killing of Innocents

Book 19: Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James Novels

by Deborah Crombie

Genres: Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

New York Times bestseller Deborah Crombie returns with a new novel focusing on Scotland Yard detectives Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James as they must solve the stabbing death of a young woman before panic spreads across London.

On a rainy November evening, a young woman hurries through the crowd in London’s historic Russell Square. Out of the darkness, someone jostles her, then brushes past. A moment later, she stumbles, collapsing against a tree. When a young mother finds her body and alerts the police, Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid and his sergeant, Doug Cullen, are called to the scene. The victim, Sasha Johnson, is a trainee doctor at a nearby hospital, and she’s been stabbed.

Kincaid immediately calls his detective wife, Gemma James, who has recently been assigned to a task force on knife crime. Along with her partner, detective sergeant Melody Talbot, Gemma joins the investigation. But Sasha Johnson doesn’t fit the profile of the typical knife crime victim. Single, successful, daughter of a black professional family, she has no history of abusive relationships or any connection to gangs. She had her secrets, though, and Kincaid uncovers an awkward connection to his Notting Hill friends Wesley and Betty Howard.

As the detectives unravel Sasha’s tangled relationships, another stabbing puts London in a panic, and Kincaid’s team needs all their resources to find the killer stalking the dark streets of Bloomsbury. 

Supplemental enhancement PDF accompanies the audiobook.

Release date: February 7, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

She stood looking down at her daughter, sleeping, damp hair tangled, her duvet kicked half off. The child had never slept easily. But those nights of walking and rocking, walking and rocking, were too distant now, a memory she struggled to grasp, just as she struggled to recall the warm weight of her baby in her arms. Now the half-light from the open bedroom door made hieroglyphics of the unicorns dancing across her rumpled pajamas, as if the beasts were dancing in scattered moonlight.

How could she bear to leave her little girl, perhaps for months? But she must, she knew she must. She needed to be herself, needed room to breathe, room to think, room to make decisions without the constant weight of his displeasure.

She felt his presence even before she heard his footstep in the hall and his shadow blocked the light behind her. He grasped her shoulders. “You won’t go.”

She didn’t turn, tried to stop herself flinching. “I have to. You know I have to. I can help—”

“That’s your God complex, my dear,” he said softly. “Your place is here. A mother. A wife.”

“Yes, but—” Her protest died away as his fingers bit into the soft flesh of her upper arms.

His voice was a whisper now, a breath in her ear. “If you do this, you will regret it. I can promise you that.”

*  *  *

Duncan Kincaid stretched the paperwork-induced kinks from his neck and took an appreciative sip of beer. The Victorian pub in Lamb’s Conduit Street was beginning to fill up with Friday happy-hour drinkers, most of whom seemed to be refugee staff from Great Ormond Street Hospital across the street. Kincaid himself was on his way home from Holborn Police Station but had agreed to meet his detective sergeant, Doug Cullen, for a quick debriefing on an interview Doug had taken that afternoon in Theobalds Road. The team was tidying up a few loose ends from a case, the knifing of an elderly Asian shop owner during the robbery of his corner shop. The assailants had been vicious but not too bright—balaclavas had covered their faces but

not the distinctive tattoo on the knife-wielder’s hand, caught on the shop’s CCTV. The pair had spent the meager proceeds of the robbery on six-packs of lager bought in a shop in the next road, this time maskless.

Idiots. It was the sort of senseless crime that made Kincaid feel weary. Taking another sip of his pint, he glanced at his watch. Doug was late. The young woman sitting alone at the next table seemed to mimic him, checking her own watch, then her mobile, with a frown of irritation. In spite of the blustery November evening, the room was warm from the fire and she had shrugged off her fur-trimmed anorak to reveal hospital scrubs. Their pale green color set off her dark skin and the dark twists of her hair. A doctor, he thought, as the nursing staff were usually in uniform, and he revised his guess at her age up a few years. When she tucked her mobile back in her bag, he looked away, aware that he’d been staring.

The door nearest the fire swung open, bringing a blast of cold, damp air and a flurry of brown leaves. The young woman looked up, her face expectant, but it was Doug Cullen, his anorak and fair hair beaded with moisture, his cheeks pink from the cold. Oblivious, Doug slid into the chair opposite Kincaid and pulled off his spattered glasses. “Bugger of a day,” he said, wiping the lenses with a handkerchief. He nodded at Kincaid’s glass. “Whatever you’re drinking, I could use one.”

“Bloomsbury IPA. My shout,” Kincaid told him, standing. As he made his way to the crowded bar, he saw the young woman begin to gather her things. When he turned back a few minutes later, pints in hand, she had gone.

*  *  *

With her back to the warmth of the pub, she hesitated. She checked her mobile once more, then sent a quick text.

Turning, she glanced back inside. The nice-looking white bloke who’d been studying her was at the bar. She’d have taken him for a cop even if she hadn’t glimpsed the blue lanyard tucked into his suit jacket. And married, too—she’d seen the glint of the ring on his left hand. Figured, she thought with a grimace. Turning away from the lamp-lit window, she crossed the street, huddled into her coat, and headed north.

She’d turned into Guilford Street when her mobile pinged with an answer. The usual? Give me 15, yeah?

Sending a thumbs-up in reply, she tucked her mobile back into her bag and quickened her step. She could just make it to the café if she cut across Russell Square. When she reached the Fitzroy, she jogged around the corner and entered the square from the northeast corner.

It was fully dark now, the lights of the splash fountain obscured by the after-work crowd, all heads-down and hurrying. Shivering, she remembered summer evenings

spent lounging on the grass or sipping wine on the patio at Caffè Tropea. As if to mock her, a gust of wind splattered her with droplets of water from the trees along the walk.

A cyclist zipped past her, so close she felt a breeze from the disturbed air. She spun round, meaning to shout at him, but he was gone. Mad bastards, all of them, cyclists, and God knew she’d mopped up enough of them in A and E.

As she turned back, someone bumped her hard from the front, gripping her shoulder as she staggered from the force of the impact. Before she could protest, the dark blur of a figure was gone, swallowed in the crowd as quickly as the cyclist.

Her heart gave an odd little skip. “What the—” she whispered, but the words died in her throat. Then the edges of her vision blurred, and she was falling.

*  *  *

“Mummy.” Trevor tugged at the hem of her coat.

Lesley Banks gave a sigh of exasperation and kept her eyes fixed on the screen of her mobile. “Honestly, Trev,” she snapped. “Amuse yourself for one minute, can’t you? You’re a big boy now.” One of her staff at the hotel had just sent her a text saying she couldn’t come in for evening shift and Lesley had got to sort it out straight away. The walk across the square was the only time she didn’t have to keep her eye—and her hand—firmly fixed on her five-year-old.

“But Mummy—”

“Trev, just look at the pretty fountain, okay?” she said, scrolling through her contacts for someone who might be willing to fill a shift at short notice.

“Mummy.” Trevor’s tug was more insistent. Something in his voice made her look away from her screen. “Mummy, I think that lady isn’t well.”

“What lady is that, love?”

Trevor pointed. “That lady over there, by the tree.”

Lesley made out a dark shape beneath the trees just beyond the illumination cast by the fountain’s lights. She shook her head. “Not our business, love.”

“But Mummy.” Trevor scuffed at the leaves. “She walked funny. And then she fell down.”

“Look, baby, it’s probably someone who’s just had a bit too much—” Lesley stopped. Why teach your children to be kind if you weren’t prepared to be bothered yourself? With a sigh, she pocketed her mobile and grasped Trevor’s hand. “Okay, let’s have a look.” Taking a few steps closer, she called out, “Miss? Are you okay, miss?”

There was no movement from the shape. Her eyes had adjusted and now she could make out legs, and the outline of a boot. Lesley hesitated. There was something about that stillness that struck her as wrong. Even drunks weren’t usually completely unresponsive. She glanced round, suddenly hoping for a supportive fellow Samaritan, but the crowd had thinned while she’d been dithering.

She could call 999, of course, but she’d look an idiot if it were a rough sleeper merely the worse for wear. And if the woman really was ill, well, she’d had first-aid training—you had to these days in the hotel business, didn’t you?

Loosening Trevor’s hand, she put him behind her and said, “You stay right here, baby, while Mummy checks on the lady.”

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the intervening ground and knelt. “Miss,” she said.

When there was no reply, Lesley put tentative fingers on the woman’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. The figure, loose as a jelly, rolled face-up. The flopping arm brushed Lesley’s knees.

Lesley jerked back, her hand to her mouth. “Oh Christ,” she gasped. Behind her, Trevor began to cry.

 

Chapter Two

Lesley was aware of her son crying, and of people beginning to gather, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the young woman’s face. There was no tension in the features, and the eyes stared blankly upwards. Tentatively, Lesley reached out, felt the woman’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. But it hadn’t been five minutes since she had fallen. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Swallowing against the blood pounding in her ears, Lesley glanced back. “CPR,” she said, but it came out a hoarse whisper. She tried again. “Does anyone know CPR? She needs help.”

The couple hovering behind Trevor shook their heads and the woman took a step back, looking frightened.

Trevor’s wails had subsided and he was inching towards her. “Trev,” Lesley said as gently as she could. “Stay behind Mummy, okay? I’m going to help the lady.” To the couple, she added, “Ring 999. Tell them to hurry.”

*  *  *

The call came as Kincaid and Doug were putting on their coats, preparing to brave the windy damp for the short walk back to Holborn Station. Kincaid’s heart sank when he saw the name on the screen—Simon Gikas, his team’s efficient case manager. Hopefully, it was just paperwork. He’d promised Gemma he’d make the tail end of Toby’s ballet rehearsal.

“Simon, what’s up?” he asked, stepping out onto the pavement, Doug on his heels.

“Guv, I wasn’t sure if you’d gone for the day. But we’ve had a call, a knifing in Russell Square. I thought you might want to take this one yourself.”

“A fatality?”

“Yeah. A young woman, near the café. A passerby thought she was ill, tried to help.”

“Bugger,” Kincaid muttered. Doug looked at him questioningly.

“Guv, I can route it—”

“No, no, you did the right thing, Simon. Where’s Sidana?” Detective Inspector Jasmine Sidana was his second in command.

She’s on her way. She’d already left for home, so she might be a few minutes. I’ll just ring Cullen—”

“No need. He’s with me. We’re just down Lamb’s Conduit.”

“Should I send a car?” Simon asked.

Kincaid deliberated. It was a short enough walk, but still, a car would be faster. “Yes. We’ll meet them at the station. Make sure uniform seals off both entrances to the square, will you?” When he’d rung off, he met Doug Cullen’s inquiring glance. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a murder.”

*  *  *

The car dropped them at the north corner of the square, nearest the Caffè Tropea. The blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles lit the ornate facade of the Fitzroy Hotel and cast an eerie glow on the glistening leaves of the trees at the square’s edge. Thanking the driver, Kincaid got out, then studied the scene for a moment. The two PCs manning a hastily strung tape at the gate had their hands full keeping the evening commuters out. Kincaid showed his ID to the female officer.

“Sir,” she said, looking relieved to see him.

“Anyone giving you a hard time?” he asked.

“Just the usual. Some curious, some just want to get home and this is their normal route.”

“Backup?”

“On the way, sir.”

“Good. If anyone volunteers information, get their names and addresses. Radio the same instructions to the other gate, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” She stepped aside, keying her shoulder mic as Kincaid and Cullen ducked under the tape.

They followed the central pathway, passing the Tropea, where lights still shone merrily through the large windows. The outside terrace, however, was empty, the chairs tipped in against the moisture-slicked tabletops. A solitary smoker stood huddled under the awning, mobile to his ear.

Once they reached the fountain, Kincaid saw people clustered to one side of the path. Two uniformed officers separated the onlookers from the ambulance crew in their safety-green jackets. Beyond the medics, Kincaid saw a dark shape against the base of a tree.

When they’d identified themselves to the PCs, Kincaid approached the medics. “I’m Detective Superintendent Kincaid,” he said, “and this is Detective Sergeant Cullen, Holborn CID.”

“Chris Burns.” The older of the two men gave them a nod of greeting. “This is my partner, John Ho.”

“Mind filling me in on what we’ve got here?” Kincaid asked.

“Female, mid- to late twenties in my estimation. A puncture wound to the chest. My guess is that it nicked her aorta. The pathologist will be able to tell you. A passerby”—he tipped his head towards a woman who stood some distance away from the other onlookers, a small boy at her side—“saw her fall and administered CPR, but there was no response. No joy for us, either, so we had the supervisor call time of death.”

“She’s wearing scrubs, by the way,” put in Ho. “And a Coram lanyard.” This was the small hospital just down Guilford Street from Great Ormond Street Hospital.

Kincaid felt the first prickle of unease. Frowning, he switched on his mobile phone torch and crossed to the body. She lay on her back, her coat open to the pale green of her hospital tunic. Her face was turned away slightly, but he recognized her instantly.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, stepping back and nearly treading on Doug’s toes.

“What is it?” Doug moved closer and Kincaid heard the sharp exhalation of his breath. “Shit. Isn’t that the girl from the pub?”

“I’m afraid so.” Kincaid squatted in damp grass, frowning as he studied her. “And this can’t have happened, what, more than a quarter of an hour after she left? She must have walked straight here.” He tried to wrap his mind round the idea that this young woman had lain dying while they were sipping their pints.

“Who would do such a thing? Surely it’s not a gang k

nifing?”

Kincaid pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from his coat pocket and slipped them on. The woman’s lanyard had been pushed to one side when the medics cut open her tunic. Carefully, he lifted it by the edge and examined it. Her face stared back at him from the photo, her lips curved in a friendly half smile. “Sasha,” he said quietly. “Her name is Sasha Johnson. SpR.” He looked up at Chris Burns, the medic, who had come to stand beside them. “What’s that?”

“Specialty registrar. It means she was a trainee doctor.”

So he had been right, Kincaid thought without satisfaction. He moved the focus of his torch from her face to her torso. The medics had pulled her tunic up, but the wound was barely visible. “There’s not much blood.”

“No,” replied Burns. “Most of the bleeding would have been internal.”

Just as Kincaid straightened up with a sigh, his phone pinged with a text from Simon Gikas. Rashid Kaleem on the way.

“We’re in luck,” Kincaid said to Doug. “Simon’s got Rashid.” The young pathologist was, in Kincaid’s opinion, the best in the city now that Kincaid’s friend Kate Ling had left the service. He’d met Kaleem during an investigation in the East End more than a year ago. That had been the case that brought Kincaid and Gemma their foster daughter, Charlotte.

Kincaid thanked the medics, then turned to Doug. “Make sure the SOCOs are on their way, and have uniform start

setting up a perimeter. I want to have a word with our Good Samaritan so we can release her.” The little boy had begun to whine and tug on his mother’s hand. “And where the hell is Sidana? Find out, will you?” he added over his shoulder as he turned away.

The witness stood, gathering her son into her side. She was white, slender, with mousy-fair hair pulled back from a high forehead. “I’m Detective Superintendent Kincaid,” he said, extending a hand. Her fingers felt icy in his, and her face was pale and pinched with cold.

“Lesley Banks,” she answered. “And this is Trevor.” The boy’s hair was as straight and white-blond as Toby’s, but he looked closer to Charlotte’s age.

Kincaid leaned down to the child’s level. “Hi, Trevor. What a good boy you are to take care of your mum. I’ll bet you’re”—Kincaid make a show of thinking—“six.”

“No, I’m five!” Trevor puffed up his chest and peered at Kincaid. “And a half. Are you a policeman?”

“I am. And I need you and your mum to tell me what happened to the lady.”

“Mummy says she’d dead,” Trevor told him. “Our budgie died. He fell over in his cage. The lady fell over, too.”

“Did you see her fall over?” Kincaid asked, with a quick glance at the boy’s mother.

Trevor nodded. “She walked funny. And then she fell down. I told Mummy.”

“You’re very observant, Trevor. Did—”

“I told Mummy the lady looked ill but Mummy said she had too much—”

“Hush, Trev,” put in Lesley Banks, looking embarrassed. She gave Kincaid an apologetic shrug. “Well, you’d think that. But Trev said she looked fine and then she collapsed, so I thought I’d better have a look.” She shivered. “But she was too still. I couldn’t find a pulse.”

“So you started CPR?”

Lesley nodded. “I’ve had the training. I manage a hotel and we have to be prepared.”

“Who called 999?”

“I’m not sure. I just shouted for someone to ring. It seemed like forever before they came, but I kept up the compressions.”

“You were counting, Mummy,” Trevor said helpfully.

“Yes, I was.” She gave him a squeeze. “And you were very brave.”

Kincaid bent down to the boy again. “Trevor, I want you to think very hard, okay? You said the lady was fine and then she fell down. Did you see anyone with her before that?”

Trevor screwed his face into a frown. “There were lots of people. They were hurrying. I think maybe a man bumped into her.”

“And she fell down after that?”

Trevor nodded.

“Can you tell me what the man looked like?”

The boy glanced up at his mother.

“Go on, love,” she said. “Tell Mr. Kincaid what you told me.”

“He had a hood.”

“You mean like a hoodie?” Kincaid asked. “A sweatshirt?”

Trevor shook his head, his blond hair flopping on his brow. “No. It was a big coat. Like mine, but bigger.” He touched the front of his ordinary winter anorak.

“Was it blue, like yours?”

“No . . . I don’t know. It was dark.” Trevor’s voice quavered a bit.

“One more question, okay, Trevor? Did you see which way the man went, after he bumped the lady?”

“That way.” Without hesitation, Trevor pointed towards the square’s north entrance.

“Thank you, son. You’ve been a big help.” Kincaid turned to Ms. Banks again. “Did you see this man as well?”

Lesley Banks sighed. “No. I was on my mobile. A work problem. Trev was bored, and he notices things when he’s bored. And”—she paused, then shrugged—“he has an active imagination. That’s why I didn’t think there was anything wrong at first. If I’d been quicker . . .”

“I don’t think there was anything you could have done,” Kincaid told her.

With a glance at her son, she said quietly, “I heard the ambulance men say she was”—she mouthed the word—“stabbed. Is it true?” Tightening her grip on Trevor, she glanced round at the now almost-empty square. “I’d never have thought it wasn’t safe here.”

“I promise we’ll do our best to find out what happened. If you’ll give my sergeant your information, someone will be in touch to take a formal statement. And if you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to ring me.” He handed her his card. Before he turned away, he touched her arm lightly. “And thank you for what you did. Not everyone would have stopped.”

*  *  *

Gemma James sat on the floor, watching half a dozen children wearing oversized mouse heads prance across the floor of the rehearsal room in the Tabernacle Community Center in Notting Hill. The boys all wore identical white T-shirts and black leggings, but even with his face hidden by the slightly moth-eaten mouse head, she could easily pick out her seven-year-old son, Toby. There was something just a bit more precise in his movements, something that was definitively Toby.

The ballet school had started rehearsals for the Christmas production of The Nutcracker a month earlier, but tonight was the first time the children had tried the battle scene between the mouse army and the Hussars while wearing the awkward costumes. Cues had been missed, tears had been

shed, and several of the little mice had blundered into one another.

Gemma had long since decided that the ballet master, Mr. Charles, had the patience of a saint. He was dancing the part of Herr Drosselmeyer as well as directing the production, and yet he never seemed to get ruffled. Wishing she had half his calm, she stretched her aching back against the rehearsal-room wall. Her legs had gone all pins and needles, and if she didn’t get up soon she was going to be paralyzed. The few other parents on the sidelines looked equally fidgety. And just where the hell, she wondered, was Duncan?

He’d promised he’d be there to see Toby’s first appearance in the mouse head. Toby was also dancing in the opening party scene, but for him that paled in comparison to the thrill of wearing the mouse costume and wielding a plastic sword. He was the youngest of the Mice, cast because he’d progressed so rapidly in the short time he’d been dancing. Mr. Charles said Toby was a natural, and Gemma’s feelings about her son’s potential talent kept her swinging wildly between pride and dread. She had an idea just how demanding a serious commitment to dance could be, thanks to their friend Jess Cusick. A few years older, Jess was dancing the part of Fritz, the Stahlbaums’ mischievous son, but Gemma knew he had his heart set on dancing the Nutcracker Prince in the next season or two.

The rehearsal-room door inched open, its squeak disguised by the thump of the piano, and Gemma’s friend MacKenzie Williams slipped through the gap. Wearing dancer’s leggings and an oversized T-shirt, and looking much more limber than Gemma felt, MacKenzie sank down to the floor beside her. “How’s it going?” she whispered.

“Interminably,” Gemma answered with a roll of her eyes, but she grinned. MacKenzie’s good humor was infectious. She was also the most persuasive person Gemma had ever met, but not even MacKenzie at the height of her powers had been able to talk Gemma into dancing one of the grown-up partygoers. MacKenzie, however, was none other than Mrs. Stahlbaum, Clara and Fritz’s elegant mother, and she’d talked her husband, Bill, into taking the part of Mr. Stahlbaum.

“Did you see Kit and Charlotte?” Gemma asked.

“In the café. Kit’s helping Stephanie with her homework.”

“I’ll bet he is.” Kit’s recent willingness to come to ballet rehearsals had little to do with interest in the production and everything to do with the pretty fifteen-year-old ballerina dancing Clara.

On the floor, the scene was nearing its end. The Mice, overcome by the Hussars, fell dramatically to the floor, waving their feet in the air as they expired. Gemma checked her mobile again—still nothing from Duncan. Well, it was a good thing that she, at least, had been able to get away early.

Her new job tracking and identifying knife crime in Greater London had at first sounded glamorous but had turned out to mean mind-numbingly dull days spent at a computer terminal at the new Met headquarters, poring over reports.

Gemma missed the CID team at Brixton, as well as boots-on-the-ground investigating. Most of all, she missed the easy camaraderie she and her friend Melody had shared when working on a case. Melody hardly spoke these days, and seemed to conveniently disappear whenever it was time for lunch or a break. Gemma guessed it was due to the spectacular breakup with her boyfriend on their recent long weekend away. Every time she thought she might ask, Melody had an excuse not to talk.

Gemma must have sighed aloud, because MacKenzie gave her a concerned look. “You okay?”

“Just thinking about work.”

MacKenzie shook her head. “More likely thinking about giving Duncan a bollocking, would be my guess. Will Toby be dreadfully disappointed?”

“Oh, no. Cops’ kids.” Gemma shrugged. “They know how it is. Besides, I took a video.”

Just as Mr. Charles clapped his hands and called out, “Once more, positions, please,” Gemma’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was Duncan, but he wasn’t apologizing for being late.

Got something for you. Russell Square, if you can make it.

*  *  *

Opening the fridge door and peering into the empty interior, Melody Talbot wondered how she had managed to make such a balls-up of her life. The bare shelves stared back at her, unhelpfully. A dried-out piece of cheese, a tub of carrot salad from M&S that seemed to be growing mold, one egg, and a crystalized jar of marmalade. It was pathetic. Not even Jamie Oliver could make a dinner out of that.

And she was pathetic as well, she thought. Home alone—again—on a Friday evening, with nothing on but a date with Deliveroo.

Just a few months ago she’d had a boyfriend, a social life of sorts, and a job that she liked. Even if the guitarist boyfriend had been touring, she’d had phone calls and video chats to look forward to. Now, nothing beckoned to her other than a cheap unopened bottle of wine on the countertop, and that was company she knew she’d regret.

Melody knew she was responsible for her breakup with Andy Monahan. She’d been stupidly jealous and, worse, she’d been untruthful. The fact that it had been a sin of omission hadn’t made it any less damaging. When she’d first met Andy, it hadn’t seemed important that she tell him who her parents were. After all, the fact that her father was the publisher of a major national newspaper—which her mother actually owned—was not something that she’d ever shared willingly. The longer she’d put off telling Andy,

however, the harder it got, and when he learned the truth, he’d been furious.

Crossing to the bay window, she looked down at Portobello Road. Her flat was on the back of a mansion block facing on Kensington Park Road, which ran parallel to Portobello Road. The location was a nuisance on market days when the sound of the crowds started at daybreak, but tonight the road was empty and quiet, the glow from the streetlamps dimmed by the heavy mist. She should put on her coat and go out. It was only a few steps round to the Sun in Splendour. Fish and chips, a glass of crisp white wine—she’d feel the better for it. But the thought of standing out like a sore thumb as she battled the after-work crowd for a single table dissuaded her.

Suddenly, she had a better idea.

Grabbing her mobile from the coffee table, she pulled up Doug Cullen’s number and tapped the Call icon. The number rang and rang. Just when she thought the call would go to voicemail, Doug picked up, sounding breathless.

“Hullo? Melody? Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and you haven’t returned my calls, that’s why.” Doug sounded thoroughly irritated.

“I’ve been busy,” she said. ...