After watching the Major descend the stairs, Kincaid shut his door and leaned against the inside. Even working all night on a nasty case didn't account for the leaden feeling in his limbs and the cotton-wool in his head. Shock, he supposed, the mind's way of holding grief at bay.

He fastened the chain on the door, rammed home the bolt, and lifted the phone out of its cradle as he passed. Shedding clothes, he stumbled into the bedroom. Flies buzzed heavily in and out of the open window. A bar of sunlight lay diagonally across the bed, as substantial as stone. Kincaid fell into it and slept before his face touched the rumpled sheet.

The temperature dropped quickly as the sun set and Kincaid woke with the draft of cool air against his skin. The bit of southern sky he could see through the still-open window was charcoal tinged faintly with pink. He rolled over and looked at the clock, swore, and stumbled out of bed in the direction of the shower.

Fifteen minutes later he'd managed to get himself into jeans and a pullover and was dragging a comb through his damp hair when the bell rang. All his expectations of a male version of Jasmine Dent vanished when he opened the door.

"Mr. Kincaid?" The man's question was hesitant, as if he were afraid he might be rebuffed.

Kincaid examined him, taking in the oval face and small bone structure, but there any resemblance to Jasmine ended. Theo Dent wore an extra layer of padding on his small frame, had a halo of curly brown hair shot with gray, round John Lennon specs, and eyes that were blue rather than brown.

"Mr. Dent." Kincaid held out his hand and Theo gave it a quick jerk. His palm felt damp and Kincaid had the impression that his hand trembled. "Do you have a key to your sister's flat, Mr. Dent?"