A Finer End

upper reaches, south over the rooftops of London, never failed to inspire her. She loved to imagine Hampstead as the village it had once been, a green and leafy retreat, its air free of the noxious fumes and fog that choked London below.
    That vision made a startling contrast to the bowels of Hampstead tube station, the deepest in London. Gemma found a seat on the crowded train and did her best to ignore the hygienic deficiencies of the man next to her, letting the echo of the choir reverberate in her head. So intense had been the demands of the past few months that even half an hour on a train was welcome time to gather her thoughts.
    The death of Kincaid’s ex-wife two months before had left him with an eleven-year-old son whose existence he had not previously suspected. His struggle to deal with the complexities of that relationship, as well as the guilt he felt over the death of the boy’s mother, had put considerable strain on his relationship with Gemma. Then, just when she’d begun to think they’d regained their equilibrium, she’d been faced with a particularly difficult case and her deep sense of connection to one of the suspects.
    In the end, she’d been unwilling to give up the bond she and Kincaid had forged, but the episode had left her feeling unsettled. She sensed change in the offing, and it made her want to dig her heels into the present and hang on.
    She left the tube at Islington, walking slowly through the familiar streets towards her garage flat as the summer evening faded towards twilight. Hazel, her landlady, looked after Gemma’s son, Toby, and the arrangement had given Gemma as idyllic a year as a single, working mum could possibly wish.
    Letting herself into the garden by the garage gate, Gemma thought she might find her son and Hazel’s daughter, Holly, still playing outside. But the flagged patio showed only signs of hastily abandoned toys, and from an open window she heard a squeal of laughter.
    ‘Am I missing a party?’ she teased, peeping in the kitchen door.
    ‘Mummy!’ Toby slid from his chair at the table and darted to her, throwing his arms round her thighs.
    She picked him up for a hug and a nuzzle, noticing that it seemed to take more effort than it had a week ago. ‘I do believe you’ve been eating stones,’ she laughed, pinching him and setting him down with a make-believe groan.
    ‘We made play-dough,’ Hazel explained, coming in from the sitting room. ‘Flour, water, and food colouring. Non-toxic, thank goodness, as I think they’ve eaten more than they’ve modelled. Supper? There’s cheese soup and fresh-baked bread.’
    Hazel Cavendish was one of those women who made everything look effortless, and Gemma had long ago given up envy for unadulterated admiration. ‘Cheese soup’s my favourite,’ she said, ‘but’ — she glanced at the children, Toby insisting that his mottled green lump was a dinosaur, Holly claiming just as adamantly that it was a cat — ‘they seem content enough for a bit. Would you mind if I practised my piano first?’
    ‘Take a glass of wine with you,’ commanded Hazel, pouring her something chilled and white from the fridge.
    Glass in hand, Gemma made her way into the cluttered sitting room. The piano stood at the back, amid the scattered games and toys and squashy, well-worn furniture. It was old, and not in terribly good condition, but Gemma was grateful just to have something to play. There was certainly no room for an instrument in her tiny flat, even had she been able to afford one.
    She slid onto the bench, pushing a strand of hair from her cheek, and poised her fingers over the keyboard. In some small way, she could attempt to reconnect with the feeling she’d had in the church. Her music book stood on the rack — Bosworth’s The Adult Beginner, or ‘the green book’, as she thought of it — open to Prelude in C. She played each note carefully — right hand, left hand... louder, softer — then the last two staves, both hands together. Coordination was still a struggle, but each time she practised it got easier. Her teacher was pleased with her progress, and Gemma guarded her Saturday lesson time fiercely.
    She continued through her exercises, stretching out the brief minutes in which her mind held nothing but the order of the notes and the way they resonated in the air. But all too soon she’d finished, and she knew she’d only been avoiding thinking about the problem she’d been wrestling with for