To Dwell in Darkness (20 page)

And that was still a bloody big assumption.

“Did you get the parents' information?” he asked Sidana.

“They live in Battersea. Father's a bank manager.”

“You and Sweeney had better go and see them. Ask about the birthmark. Rashid says it's a possibility. If they say yes, you'd better prepare them for the worst.”

For once, he was glad to let someone else do the job.

Kincaid took a taxi from Holborn to St. Pancras International. If he couldn't see Tam, he wanted confirmation from someone who might have seen Paul Cole. He thought of the waitress Melody had described. If she had been serving tables in the arcade, it was possible she'd caught a glimpse of him.

He had the cabbie let him out at the first Pancras Road entrance, the Eurostar taxi drop-off. There were no longer uniformed officers on duty. He entered with a little jolt of apprehension, but the scene that met him bore no relation to the previous day's chaos.

The concourse positively sparkled. The Marks & Spencer food store was filled with shoppers buying last-minute things for supper or bouquets of flowers. It was late enough in the evening—almost nine o'clock now—that the pedestrian traffic was light. But the travelers and commuters passing through the concourse were chatting or listening to iPods and showed no signs of discomfort.

The temporary stage was gone, and someone was playing the station piano. Bach, Kincaid thought, stopping for a moment to listen. The speaker chimed with regular rail service announcements.

He crossed the arcade. Where yesterday there had been a crime scene, he thought he saw only the faintest shadows of scorch marks on the polished floor. At the café's arcade tables, one man sat reading a newspaper, and a woman at another table was engrossed in texting on her mobile phone.

It was as if all yesterday's terror and anguish had been magically erased, and he found it a little surreal.

Entering the café, he looked round for a waitress that fit the description Melody had given him. There was no one at the
WAIT
TO
BE
SEATED
sign by the front door, so he had a moment to scan.

He recognized her the instant he saw her, not waiting tables, but sitting in the back with what looked like a large cup of coffee or chocolate. She was slight, with dark hair cut boy short, but there was nothing masculine about her. It was a pretty face and a memorable one.

When a young man wearing the café staff's black shirt and trousers came to greet him, he asked to see the manager, deciding it was best not to barge in on the waitress without an introduction. The manager came from the kitchen and Kincaid explained his business quietly, complimenting the staff and the waitress in particular.

“That's Natalie,” the manager, a middle-aged woman, said. “She's a bit cut up today. We're all feeling some reaction”—she shook her head—“I still can't believe what happened. But what Natalie did was exceptional. I told her she should take the day off but she insisted on coming in.”

“Do you mind if I speak to her?”

“No, of course not. I'll just introduce you. Can I get you something while you're talking?”

“Coffee would be great,” he said, looking longingly at the customers drinking glasses of wine and eating delicious-looking sandwiches and salads. He realized that he was starving and that he didn't remember lunch. But he needed his wits about him, and he couldn't very well chomp on a sandwich while interviewing a witness.

The girl looked up as the manager brought Kincaid to her table. When the manager introduced him, she looked slightly alarmed.

“Natalie, do you mind if I sit down?” Kincaid asked.

When Natalie shook her head, Kincaid pulled out a chair.

“I think I saw you yesterday,” she said, frowning.

“I was here, yes. I'm the senior investigating officer. I have a couple of questions for you, but before that, I just want to say what a great job you did helping the people who were injured. The detective who was on the scene said you were brilliant.”

“She wasn't so bad herself.” Natalie smiled, then sobered. “The man who was so badly burned—do you know if he's going to be all right?”

“He's doing well, but just now he's pretty heavily sedated for the pain. But this morning, when he was awake, he told another detective that he saw the victim just before the grenade went off.”

“The medics said it was phosphorus. That's why they checked us over and told us to wash up so thoroughly.”

“Exactly.”

The manager brought Kincaid's coffee, a steaming cup that smelled heavenly. When he'd thanked her and taken a grateful sip, he turned back to Natalie.

“Why would someone do something so horrible?” she asked, with such gravity that he hated not being able to give her an answer.

“We don't know. But we'll have a better idea when we know his identity. Can I show you a photo? This young man has been reported missing, and we can't ask the man in the hospital to look at it until he's feeling better.”

Natalie gripped her cup, looking tense but determined. “Okay.”

Taking out his phone, Kincaid pulled up the photo of Paul Cole and handed the phone across.

Natalie studied it, frowning. “No, I didn't see him before the fire. I was working the tables in the back, and the first thing I knew was that people were screaming and the customers in the front of the café were ducking under the tables.”

“Why didn't you?” Kincaid asked, curious about this girl. “Duck under the tables.”

She looked at him as if the question were unfathomable. “People were
burning
. How could I just hide under a table?” Shaking her head, she went back to gazing at the photo. “But I do recognize him. He comes into the café sometimes, sits in the back writing in a notebook.”

“What sort of notebook?” Kincaid asked, interest quickening.

“Oh, a journal, I think. A plain black one. I always notice when people write in notebooks rather than on laptops because I like journals, too.”

“Did you ever see him with a girl? Very blond. You'd remember her.”

Natalie shook her head. “No, he always comes in by himself. And keeps himself to himself, if you know what I mean. Not unfriendly, really, just very focused on what he's doing.” Her eyes widened as she met Kincaid's gaze. “You don't think . . . it was
him
? I never imagined that it was someone I knew.” She put a hand to her mouth and swallowed. “That's horrible.”

“We're not certain of anything, but we have to follow up leads. Did you know his name?”

“No. He only ever got coffee, and he always paid cash. Oh,” she added suddenly, “I did see him a couple of times with a book about the station. I wondered if he was a history or an architecture student. Or just a train spotter. An anorak.”

Kincaid didn't tell her that at least her first guess was a good one. He wondered if the train spotter observation was valid as well. If the victim was Paul Cole, and if his death was a suicide, might an obsession with trains have driven his choice of location, rather than his association with Matthew Quinn's ecoprotesters? That was far too many ifs for his liking. He needed more information.

Finishing his coffee, he thanked Natalie. “Are you a student at UCL?” he asked on impulse.

She smiled. “English. My parents told me I should learn something useful, so I wait tables.”

“Very wise,” he said, grinning. He gave her his card. “If you think of anything about the incident, you can always reach me.” Standing, he paused for a moment, wondering if he should give unsolicited advice, then thought, why not? “Natalie, what you did yesterday—you have the makings of a good police officer. And university grads get fast-tracked. If you should ever decide you're interested, let me know and I'll point you in the right direction.”

Light shone green-gold through the stained glass panels of Doug Cullen's front door.

After having had her evening tests at UCL hospital, Melody hadn't wanted to stay at Andy's alone, and she hadn't wanted to go home. Having assured Gemma that she'd be fine on her own, she'd dithered at Andy's, feeding Bert the cat, tidying up Andy's small kitchen. Then she'd put on Andy's coat, grabbed her bag, and taken the tube to Notting Hill Gate. She'd walked down the hill to the mansion block that contained her flat and picked up her car without going inside. Then she drove to Putney.

By the time she crossed the Thames and turned into Doug's street, she'd realized she was starving. She stopped at their favorite pub and picked up an assortment of sandwiches. It was only now, having parked and locked her car, that she wondered if coming here had been a good idea.

She should have rung first. What if Doug had company? She knew he'd been seeing Maura Bell, the detective from Southwark, occasionally, but she didn't know how serious it was. She'd taken out her phone to ring him when Doug opened the door.

Not looking the least bit surprised, he said, “Whatever it is that you're doing, you had better come inside. It's bloody freezing out here.”

“How did you know I was here?” Melody asked as she walked up to the door.

“I recognized the sound of your car. Why were you standing gawping on the pavement?”

“I wasn't gawping,” Melody said, incensed, as Doug opened the door. “It just occurred to me that I should have rung first—that I might be intruding.”

“Don't be an arse.” Doug led her into the warmth of the hall and shut the door firmly. “Are you all right?” he asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose and frowning at her. He wore an old raveling woolly jumper and jeans, and his fair hair stuck up in unintentional spikes. “What about your tests?”

“Everything seems okay so far. Gemma went with me. I've just come from hospital.” She walked into the sitting room and gave a little gasp of pleasure. “Oh, thank goodness. You've got the fireplaces going.”

The sitting room and dining room in Doug's little house had been opened up to form one big room, with a small kitchen area in the back. When he'd bought the house, the beautiful fireplaces in each room had been boarded over. Melody had insisted that he restore them, and had helped him find the gas fires and the antique mirrors over the mantels. Now the fires blazed merrily and she could feel the warmth.

Since she'd been here last, he had, she saw, finished painting the two rooms, a lovely green-gold color that she'd suggested would pick up the colors in the front door's stained glass. The ceiling was finished as well. A fall while trying to paint the center rosette himself had been the cause of Doug's broken ankle. “You didn't—”

“No. I had someone in.” He gestured at the boot cast. “Not climbing ladders these days.”

The cream ceiling paint had splashed all over the old carpet when Doug fell, but now the carpet had been pulled up and the polished wood floors gleamed.

“It looks . . . lovely,” said Melody with a pang, knowing it had been too long since she'd visited.

“Maybe you should come more often.” Doug's voice had an edge of sarcasm, and he seemed, as usual, to read her mind.

“Did you do this all on your own?” Melody asked, thinking of Maura Bell and feeling a sudden and uncomfortable stab of jealousy.

“Yes. As per your advice. Take off your coat, unless you're intending to run out again.” He took it from her and put it on the end of the sofa. If he noticed that it wasn't hers, he didn't say. “What have you got in the bag?”

“Oh.” She'd forgotten she was holding it. “Sandwiches from the pub. I thought if you hadn't eaten . . .” She sniffed, then spotted the cardboard container on the coffee table. “Don't tell me. Ramen noodles.”

“I was hungry. And I was busy.” Doug's laptop was open on the ottoman next to his favorite armchair. “But I certainly won't turn down a sandwich. And I have wine
and
beer. The larder is at least well stocked in the liquids department.”

“I'd love tea, actually,” said Melody, sinking gratefully onto the sofa. “Lashings and lashings of tea.”

“Suits me. And that I
can
do.”

As Doug put the kettle on in the kitchen, Melody pulled out the sandwiches. “Smoked Scottish salmon with cucumber and horseradish chive cream,” she called out. “Handmade fish fingers in a roll, and chicken and smoked bacon club.”

Frowning, Doug said, “They don't serve sandwiches after five.”

“I used my wiles on the chef. Desperately hungry police officers on a stakeout. Works every time.”

Doug brought mugs and the steeping pot of tea on a tray, as well as plates for the sandwiches. As Melody shared them out, Doug poured her tea with a little milk, just the way she liked it. “Where's Andy?” he asked, not looking up at her.

She told him about the recording demo at Abbey Road Studios.

Doug whistled. “Big-time.”

“We sort of had a row,” Melody admitted. “He didn't want to do it because of Tam. I told him Tam would kill him if he found out he'd passed up something like that.”

“You must have been convincing.” Doug took a bite of the salmon sandwich and gave her a searching look. “You know what this means, don't you? If Andy and Poppy really do take off—and they deserve to—he'll be gigging all the time. You'll never see him.”

“So I should tell him to pass it up?” She shook her head. “You know I wouldn't do that.”

“No,” said Doug. “You wouldn't.” She thought there was approval in his voice.

Melody chewed a bit of the chicken club, finding that for the first time since yesterday, food tasted delicious. “That wasn't the only thing,” she added hesitantly. “He thinks I'm ashamed of him because I haven't introduced him to my parents.”

Doug took half a fish finger sandwich and looked up at her, considering. “You haven't told him, have you?”