To Dwell in Darkness (12 page)

Tess would be sleeping with the boys, and hopefully as soundly as Geordie. Barking dogs in the middle of the night would rouse everyone.

Gemma knew that some of the kids at Kit's school were starting to tease him about sharing a room with his little brother. But Gemma had shared with her sister until she left home, and the middle-class assumption that every child was entitled to his or her own room irritated her. Fortunately, Kit didn't seem to mind, as long as Toby adhered to Kit's strict “Don't Touch” protocols.

She supposed that on both hers and Duncan's salaries they could afford a nice four-bedroom semidetached somewhere out in the suburbs, but she was not giving up this house for the sake of an extra bedroom. That was assuming she had the option.

The worry that had been nagging her for weeks flooded back. Duncan had heard nothing from Denis Childs, nor had there been any message from Denis's sister, Liz, in Singapore, and they still hadn't learned if Liz had been involved in an accident. They were less than halfway through the five-year lease they'd signed with Liz and her husband, but if something had happened to Liz . . .

Gemma couldn't bear the thought of losing this house. She felt as though her heart was woven into it. The house was a tapestry of all that had changed in their lives since they'd come to live here. A baby lost. A child gained. A marriage she hadn't intended and now couldn't imagine life without. New jobs for her and Duncan, and a future that felt uncertain. Unexpected illnesses—her mum, then Louise, and now Tam seriously hurt. The house had become her fortress, her safety net.

Gemma shook her head and went quietly down the last flight of stairs. No use in borrowing trouble, as her mum would say, and they had enough to worry about now with Tam and Melody both in hospital.

The ground floor was silent as well. But in the light of the hall lamp, she saw Duncan's overcoat thrown over the coat hook by the front door. So he was home, then. Why hadn't he come to bed?

She peeked into the sitting room, in case he'd stretched out on the sofa to keep from waking her. But the sofa was unoccupied except for Sid, who blinked sleepy green eyes at her and curled into a tighter ball.

She tried the French doors and found them locked, although why Duncan would have gone out into the garden at this time of night, she couldn't imagine.

Then, as she went to check the kitchen, she saw the crack of light at the bottom of the study door. She'd left on the green-shaded banker's lamp on the desk, in case she needed to check on the rescued cat. Easing open the door, she stepped inside and closed it behind her.

Her husband lay on his side on the floor, still in his good gray suit and lace-up shoes, beside the box with the mother cat and kittens. The lamplight highlighted the stubble on his chin, and the rise and fall of his chest. He was sound asleep.

But the sound that filled the room was not his breathing, but the deep and regular purring of the cat.

In mid-19th century London, it would be fair to say that St. Pancras was not the most obvious spot to build a new railway station.

—Bbc.co.uk/London/St. Pancras

Gemma woke him with a gentle touch on his shoulder. As he sat up, startled, she said, trying not to laugh, “I think I could make you a bit more comfortable.”

“I didn't mean to fall asleep.” Kincaid seemed disoriented and smelled faintly of beer. He gestured towards the cat. “It's just that she seemed so glad of my company.”

Kneeling beside him, Gemma stroked the mother cat on the snowy white patch under her chin. “She is a love, isn't she?” The kittens were sleeping in an indistinguishable heap. “I hate to think what would have happened if the boys hadn't found her.”

“But the shed's kept locked— Oh, I see.” He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked a little more alert. “They've added breaking and entering to their list of accomplishments, have they?”

“And very good at it, too,” Gemma agreed. “Punishment deferred, this time, although they will have to apologize to the gardener and help him repair the padlock.”

“What on earth are we going to do with the little beasts? The cats, I mean, not the boys,” Kincaid added with a smile.

“Bryony said she'd help find homes for them.”

“I can see that going over well with the little ones.”

“They are besotted,” Gemma admitted. “But I'm not becoming the crazy cat lady with six cats in the house.” Why, she wondered, was it always “crazy cat ladies” and not “crazy cat men”? Were men immune to the too-many-cats syndrome?

“I rather think it would suit you.”

Gemma gave his shoulder a punch. “No. Way.” Then, hesitating, she said, “But maybe we could—” She shook her head. That way lay madness. “No,” she went on firmly, “it's too early to think about it. But for the present, at least, we seem to have become adoptive parents. Bryony said she'd stop by again tomorrow and scan mum here for a chip.”

“Bryony was here?” Kincaid asked.

“Bryony and Wes participated in the Great Rescue. And Wes brought us some of Otto's stroganoff. Are you hungry?”

“I had something at the pub near the station. Doug met me for a drink—he'd just come from seeing Melody. They were keeping her in hospital overnight.”

“I know.” Gemma shivered. “She rang me. She told me what Andy said about Tam, too. How terrible that it should be Tam who was injured. And I don't even want to think what could have happened to Melody or Andy. Do you have any idea who it was or why he did it?”

“Too soon to say.” From his tone, she could tell he wasn't ready to talk about the case.

“Come to bed, then.”

“That is an invitation even more tempting than kittens.” He stood and stretched, then grasped her hand to pull her up. “But I just want to have a look-in on the kids first.”

She knew then that what he'd seen had been very bad indeed.

In spite of his late night, Kincaid was at the station before eight the next morning. Simon Gikas was early as well, and had the search warrant in hand.

“I've arranged for a locksmith, boss,” he said. “How do you want to handle this? How is the search team going to know what belongs to whom, unless they've been kind enough to leave big name tags on their stuff?”

Jasmine Sidana came into the CID room, looking a bit harried, and Kincaid could have sworn she was not happy to see him already there.

Kincaid had been thinking about Gikas's question on the way into work. He'd driven this morning, not wanting to be dependent on the tube for the day's commitments. “DI Sidana, good morning.” He gave Sidana his best smile. “While the search is in progress, I'd like you to have one of the group members in an interview room. Cam would be the best choice, I think. I'll have the SOCOs send you and Simon digital photos. You can have Cam identify items as they go through the flat.”

“But—”

“I know it won't be foolproof, but I don't want any of them at the scene until we've processed it.”

“I meant I expected to conduct the search.” Her jaw was set and she rocked on the balls of her feet. He wondered if she was about to punch him in the middle of the CID room. Had she been as recalcitrant with his predecessor? And if so, had she got away with it?

That was not going to happen on his watch. Keeping his expression pleasant, he said, “And I think you can be more useful interviewing a witness.” He turned back to Gikas. “Any word from DCI Callery?”

“He'll meet you at the search site,” Gikas answered, casting a wary glance at Sidana.

“What about the CCTV?”

“We've found a dozen possible matches to Ryan Marsh's description. But I expect that by the time we get through all the footage, we'll have at least a dozen more that fit ‘male, short brown hair, blue eyes, medium height, medium build, jeans, backpack, and dark hooded sweatshirt.' And we don't have a photo of Marsh to use for facial recognition.”

“Show them to Cam,” Kincaid said to Sidana. “If we don't get a match, run them by the others. If we get a confirmation, send it to me. Sweeney can help you.” He turned back to Gikas. “Any better luck finding records on the elusive Mr. Marsh?”

Gikas shook his head. “We've found a few more Ryan Marshes. But they are all present and accounted for, don't match his physical description, and are not likely to be moonlighting as protesters.”

Before he and Doug Cullen had left the pub last night, Kincaid had asked Doug to do a little digging on the side. Maybe he was paranoid after the events of last autumn in Henley, and then his yet-to-be-explained job transfer, but this whole business of the victim who couldn't be found in any records made him itchily uncomfortable and he wasn't ready to make suppositions to Gikas and the rest of the team.

“Right, then,” he said to Gikas. “Simon, can you set up a monitor in Interview Room A? And Jasmine, if you could run Cam through the CCTV images first. Then we'll send photos over of the flat as soon as we've got them.”

He'd used her given name without thinking, but she was very deliberately organizing her desk and did not respond.

That was bollocks, he thought. But he wasn't going to treat her like a child even though she was acting like one. He had to assume she would do her job and he would get on with his. He grabbed his overcoat off the coatrack and headed for the door.

The building in the Caledonian Road looked even less appealing in the cold gray morning light. It had stopped sleeting, for which Kincaid was thankful, but the wind was still blowing down from Siberia as if Britain had become its designated funnel.

Nick Callery was waiting, stomping his feet and drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup. Beside him stood the uniformed PC who had been posted on the flat overnight, and a balding man wearing a heavy parka and carrying a metal case.

“The chicken shop's already open,” said Callery by way of greeting. He held up his cup. “The coffee won't kill you, and at least it's hot. This is Mel.” He nodded towards the other man.

“Locksmith,” said Mel. “Good to meet you.”

Kincaid took off his gloves to shake his hand. “Can I get you a cup? I take it we're waiting for the SOCOs.”

“On their way, apparently,” answered Callery.

When Mel accepted the offer of coffee, Kincaid went into the chicken shop. Even at this early hour, the odor of hot grease made his throat tighten. How did anyone eat fried chicken for breakfast?

But when he looked at the menu board, he saw that the place did bacon and egg sandwiches. With chips. The thought of bacon reminded him that he had skipped breakfast, leaving Gemma to get the children fed and off to school.

The man behind the counter was Middle Eastern, middle-aged, with a paunch hinting that he indulged in his own fare. But the apron over his expansive middle was clean, as was the serving counter and what Kincaid could see of the kitchen. “I'll have the bacon and egg sandwich, no chips. And two cups of coffee.”

“I cook the bacon and egg fresh,” said the man. “Mind waiting a minute?”

Kincaid saw that there was a griddle in the back. “That's fine.”

The man, who Kincaid guessed was the proprietor, put two slices of bacon on the griddle, cracked an egg onto the hot surface, then sliced a soft roll in half and added it. He then poured two cups of coffee into polystyrene cups and added snap-on lids. “Cream and sugar are over there.” He nodded towards a side counter as he handed Kincaid the cups.

Kincaid took his as it was. He hadn't asked Mel, but the locksmith could come in and add whatever he liked. “Cheers,” he said, accepting the cups. “Back in a tick.”

He walked outside and handed Mel his coffee. The locksmith took a cautious sip, then raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Not bad stuff.”

“There's cream and sugar inside.”

Mel shook his head. “I like mine black as black.”

“Anyone else for a bacon and egg sandwich?”

When Mel and Callery both refused, Kincaid went back inside. There was no sign yet of the SOCOs, and he was glad of the respite from the cold.

“Good coffee,” he told the proprietor.

“We know coffee where I come from,” the man said as he deftly turned the eggs and bacon.

“Where's that?”

“Morocco. But I've been in London for thirty years, and in this place for a decade.”

“Know anything about the group that lives upstairs?” Kincaid asked.

The man gave him a sharp look. “Cop?”

Kincaid nodded. “Detective.”

“I wondered what all the commotion was about last night, and then a copper on the outer door when I got here first thing this morning. I gave him a cup of coffee on the sly when I opened up,” he added with a wink, then said, “They're a quiet enough bunch. What have they been up to?”

“We're not sure yet. Do you own this building?” Kincaid added as he took the wrapped sandwich.

“Me? No. Corporate landlord. KCD, Inc. Stands for King's Cross Development, which means that when this building goes under the wrecking ball, I'll have to find a new place. Or maybe retire.”

A corporate owner? Interesting. Kincaid typed a note into his phone before he opened the wrapping around his sandwich. Then, taking a bite, he said, “Um, delicious,” through a mouthful of perfectly cooked egg and bacon.

“Ta.” The proprietor wiped his hands on his apron and held one out over the counter to Kincaid. “I'm Medhi. Medhi Atias.”

Kincaid set down his coffee and shook Atias's hand. “Duncan Kincaid. So, is this place slated for redevelopment?”

“Has been for years. But things haven't progressed in King's Cross as fast as the planners thought they would. Good for me, as there's not much competition and I get business from the corporate offices that have gone into the area. There's the Driver for upmarket meals, but not many places that serve decent ordinary fare.”