“Ouch… Mmmm… That’s not fair.” Gemma gave a halfhearted protest as she turned slightly away from him, allowing him better access to the tender spot.

“Of course it is.” He scooted a bit closer and moved his hand to the back of her neck. “You can go first thing in the morning, give Toby his breakfast. And in the meantime-” The telephone rang and Kincaid froze, fingers resting lightly on Gemma’s shoulder. “Bloody hell.”

Gemma groaned. “Oh, no. Not another one, not tonight. Surely someone else can take it.” But she reached for her handbag and made sure her beeper was switched on.

“Might as well know the worst, I suppose.” With a sigh Kincaid pushed himself up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. Gemma heard him say brusquely, “Kincaid,” after he lifted the cordless phone from its cradle, then with puzzled intonation, “Yes? Hullo?”

Wrong number, thought Gemma, sinking back into the cushions. But Kincaid came into the sitting room, phone still held to his ear, his brow creased in a frown.

“Yes,” he said, then, “No, that’s quite all right. I was just surprised. It has been a long time,” he added, a touch of irony in his voice. He walked to the balcony door and pulled aside the curtain, looking into the night as he listened. Gemma could see the tension in the line of his back. “Yes, I’m well, thanks. But I don’t see how I can possibly help you. If it’s a police matter, you should call your local-” He listened once more, the pause longer this time. Gemma sat forwards, a tingle of apprehension running through her body.

“All right,” he said finally, giving in to some entreaty. “Right. Hang on.” Coming back to the coffee table, he picked up his notepad and scribbled something Gemma couldn’t decipher upside down. “Right. On Sunday, then. Good-bye.” He pressed the disconnect button and stood looking at Gemma, phone in hand as if he didn’t know what to do with it.