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alone their parents will be down in a flash, and the less disturbance before the police arrive, the better.”
    Emma considered briefly, absently hugging her folded towel against her body. “All right,” she said, her brisk competence once more in evidence. Her bathing sandals flip-flopped against the tiles as she left.
    She had accepted his authority without question. Well, Kincaid thought, things would get difficult soon enough. He had made a right fool of himself by pretending not to be what he was, and now he would have to face the music. His policeman’s instinct was too ingrained to stifle easily. He could already feel that addictive surge of heightened perception that marked the beginning of a case. Not his case, he reminded himself, with a fierce determination. It wasn’t his jurisdiction and the local lads would only consider him a nuisance, Scotland Yard sticking its nose in, uninvited. He didn’t know any of these people, except, perhaps, Hannah. He didn’t want to have more than a casual connection with them, and he would bloody well not get involved. His conscience pricked. He had liked Sebastian. Suddenly he felt drained and shaken.
    It came to him, in the quiet respite between discovery and official action, that he was suffering a degree of emotional shock. He always felt a surge of pity and anger when first confronted with a corpse, but he had learned to distance it, compartmentalize it. Never before had he faced the body of someone he had known, touched, spoken with just a few hours before. He felt a need to differentiate somehow, to make a personal gesture of acknowledgement. He knelt and touched Sebastian’s bare shoulder, briefly.
    He shivered, his own wet skin chilling now that the first adrenaline rush had passed. No matter what odd kinship he had felt with Sebastian, it didn’t alter the fact that his death wasn’t his responsibility, he had no more official power here than an innocent bystander. And as there was nothing more he could do for Sebastian Wade, he went in to the children.
    *   *   *
    The village constable arrived soon after, still buttoning his uniform tunic. He was a large young man, with a round, rubicund face and a slightly bovine expression. “Now then, what’s all this about a gentleman being drowned in the swimming pool?”
    “He wasn’t drowned,” said Kincaid. He motioned to Emma, who had followed on the constable’s heels, to stay with the children, and opened the pool-area door for the constable. When it had closed behind them, he continued. “He was electrocuted. With some sort of small appliance, I would imagine. I unplugged it from above, before I pulled him out of the water, but I didn’t check to see what it was.”
    “You disturbed the body, sir?” He took the sight of Sebastian, lying like a beached whale on the pool’s edge, in his stride, although Kincaid fancied that his face lost some of its rosy color.
    “Of course I moved the body, man. I had to make sure he was dead.”
    Kincaid’s exasperation moved the constable to assert his official dignity. He drew himself up to his full, and not inconsiderable, height, pulled out his notebook and pencil, and rocked a little on his heels. He cleared his throat, testing his voice for the proper resonance. “And who might you be, sir?” Unfortunately, he had licked his pencil before putting it to the pad, and that rather detracted from the impression of competence and authority he intended to create.
    “My name’s Kincaid. I’m a policeman, Detective Superintendent, Scotland Yard. I’m here on holiday and I just happened to be the first one down this morning, except for the children. And, thank god, they didn’t touch anything.” He had discovered that the childrenwere named Bethany and Brian, and that they had let themselves out of their suite while their parents still slept.
    “To go exploring,” Brian had explained, a tendency to lisp exaggerated by the gap in his front teeth. “We thought