Nocturne with Bonus Material by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deborah Crombie
then the clump of feet in the hall.
âToby, boots off,â Gemma heard Duncan shout, but it was too late. Her six-year-old son cannoned through the door, his red Wellies mud-spattered, his blond hair sticking straight up in damp spikes. He looked, as usual, like an imp from hell.
The door swung open again, this time revealing Charlotte, who had obediently removed her boots. In her striped socks and pink mac, she ran straight to Gemma and climbed into her lap. She wrapped her arms round Gemmaâs neck in a fierce hug, as she did whenever they had been separated for more than a few minutes. But when she looked up, she was beaming, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. Gemma thought she had never seen the child look happier.
âI jumped biggest,â Charlotte announced.
âDid not,â said Toby. At his grand age, he considered himself superior in all ways.
Duncan came into the kitchen. Tall, tousled, and as red-cheeked from the cold as the children, he looked quite as damp as Toby, if a bit cleaner. Glancing out the window, Gemma saw that the rain was coming down harder than ever.
âYou, sport,â Duncan said severely to Toby, âare incorrigible.â Pointing at the muddy boot prints on the floor, he pulled some towels from the kitchen roll and handed them over. âApologize to Auntie Winnie and mop up. And thenââlooking almost as impish as Toby, he grinned at Gemma and abandoned his policeman voiceââDadâs ordered us all outside, rain or not. Heâs stagemanaging at his most annoyingly coy, and heâs roped in Jack and Kit. Knowing Dad, I shudder to think.â He rolled his eyes for emphasis, and Gemma couldnât help but smile. She had adored Duncanâs dad from the moment sheâd met him, but Hugh Kincaid was not always the most practical of souls.
âHe says he has a surprise for us,â Duncan went on. âAnd that we are absolutely, positively, going to love it. I think weâd better go see what heâs done.â ... The rain came in waves that spattered against the windows of the converted boatshed like buckshot.
Kieran Connolly clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the sound, but the rumble of thunder over Henley made him shudder. It was just rain, he told himself, and he would be fine. Just fine, and the shed had withstood worse.
It was one of several such structures scrunched between the summer cottages on the small islands that dotted the Thames between Henley and Marsh Lock. Built of wood siding on a concrete pad, it had not been meant for human habitation, but it suited Kieran well enough. The single space provided him with a workshop, a camp bed, a woodstove, a primus, and a primitive toilet and shower. There was nothing more he neededâalthough he suspected that if Finn had been given his choice, heâd have preferred someplace that allowed him a run in the park without having to motor from island to shore in the little skiff Kieran kept tied up at his small floating dock.
Not that Finn couldnât have swum the distance. A Labrador retriever, he was bred to it, but Kieran had taught him not to go in the water without permission. Otherwise, Kieran wouldnât have been able to leave him when he rowed, as he did every morning, or heâd be sculling up and down the Thames with a big black dog paddling in his wake.
Almost every morning, Kieran amended, when the thunder rumbled again. He didnât go out in storms. The boatshed shook in another gust and the windows rattled in concert. He jerked involuntarily, pain searing his hand. Glancing down, he saw a spot of blood on the fine sandpaper heâd been using to smooth a fiberglass patch on the old Aylings double he had upside down on trestles. Heâd sanded his own damned knuckles. Shit. His hands were shaking again.
Finn whined and pushed his blunt snout against Kieranâs knee. The thunder cracked again and the shed vibrated like a
âToby, boots off,â Gemma heard Duncan shout, but it was too late. Her six-year-old son cannoned through the door, his red Wellies mud-spattered, his blond hair sticking straight up in damp spikes. He looked, as usual, like an imp from hell.
The door swung open again, this time revealing Charlotte, who had obediently removed her boots. In her striped socks and pink mac, she ran straight to Gemma and climbed into her lap. She wrapped her arms round Gemmaâs neck in a fierce hug, as she did whenever they had been separated for more than a few minutes. But when she looked up, she was beaming, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. Gemma thought she had never seen the child look happier.
âI jumped biggest,â Charlotte announced.
âDid not,â said Toby. At his grand age, he considered himself superior in all ways.
Duncan came into the kitchen. Tall, tousled, and as red-cheeked from the cold as the children, he looked quite as damp as Toby, if a bit cleaner. Glancing out the window, Gemma saw that the rain was coming down harder than ever.
âYou, sport,â Duncan said severely to Toby, âare incorrigible.â Pointing at the muddy boot prints on the floor, he pulled some towels from the kitchen roll and handed them over. âApologize to Auntie Winnie and mop up. And thenââlooking almost as impish as Toby, he grinned at Gemma and abandoned his policeman voiceââDadâs ordered us all outside, rain or not. Heâs stagemanaging at his most annoyingly coy, and heâs roped in Jack and Kit. Knowing Dad, I shudder to think.â He rolled his eyes for emphasis, and Gemma couldnât help but smile. She had adored Duncanâs dad from the moment sheâd met him, but Hugh Kincaid was not always the most practical of souls.
âHe says he has a surprise for us,â Duncan went on. âAnd that we are absolutely, positively, going to love it. I think weâd better go see what heâs done.â ... The rain came in waves that spattered against the windows of the converted boatshed like buckshot.
Kieran Connolly clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the sound, but the rumble of thunder over Henley made him shudder. It was just rain, he told himself, and he would be fine. Just fine, and the shed had withstood worse.
It was one of several such structures scrunched between the summer cottages on the small islands that dotted the Thames between Henley and Marsh Lock. Built of wood siding on a concrete pad, it had not been meant for human habitation, but it suited Kieran well enough. The single space provided him with a workshop, a camp bed, a woodstove, a primus, and a primitive toilet and shower. There was nothing more he neededâalthough he suspected that if Finn had been given his choice, heâd have preferred someplace that allowed him a run in the park without having to motor from island to shore in the little skiff Kieran kept tied up at his small floating dock.
Not that Finn couldnât have swum the distance. A Labrador retriever, he was bred to it, but Kieran had taught him not to go in the water without permission. Otherwise, Kieran wouldnât have been able to leave him when he rowed, as he did every morning, or heâd be sculling up and down the Thames with a big black dog paddling in his wake.
Almost every morning, Kieran amended, when the thunder rumbled again. He didnât go out in storms. The boatshed shook in another gust and the windows rattled in concert. He jerked involuntarily, pain searing his hand. Glancing down, he saw a spot of blood on the fine sandpaper heâd been using to smooth a fiberglass patch on the old Aylings double he had upside down on trestles. Heâd sanded his own damned knuckles. Shit. His hands were shaking again.
Finn whined and pushed his blunt snout against Kieranâs knee. The thunder cracked again and the shed vibrated like a