To Dwell in Darkness (21 page)

“No.”

“You're going to have to, you know.”

Melody sighed. “I know.”

“And the longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“I know that, too. But I don't want to think about it just now.” Melody tried the other half of the fish finger bap, then blew across the top of her tea. To change the subject, she nodded at Doug's laptop. “What are you doing?”

He hesitated. “Just a project. I can't really say.”

“You're working on something for Duncan, aren't you? He told me.”

“He did? Oh, well, then.” Doug's relief was obvious, and it occurred to Melody that that was one of the things she liked about him. He was utterly transparent, and God forbid he should ever have to tell a lie.

Doug continued, eagerly now. “I've been trying to get a lead on Ryan Marsh. Duncan told you we thought he might have been an undercover cop?” When Melody nodded, he went on. “He was described as being around thirty, and we have a rough physical description, so I've been searching police cadet classes, starting a dozen years back, to see if I could find a possible match. Undercover cops often keep their first names, and choose a last name similar to their real one, or associated in some way. So far I've been through three years of classes for the Met, with no luck.”

“Sounds like a needle in a haystack. But no worse than what I'm doing.” Melody pulled her own laptop from the large handbag she'd brought in with her. “I'm looking for photos of Matthew Quinn's group in the paper's photo archives. There might be one with someone that fits Marsh's description.”

Doug raised an eyebrow, a gesture that reminded her of Kincaid. “Your idea?” She nodded. “Good one,” he said. “We should keep at it.”

So they did, drinking tea and nibbling sandwiches in companionable silence. Melody took off her boots and curled up on the sofa, scanning through photo after photo. Her eyelids had begun to get heavy from the food, warmth, and comfort when she saw something that made her sit up. The photo was a year old. Archeologists from the Crossrail project had dug up bones at the site of the infamous Bedlam hospital, including a skeleton of a male who appeared to have had crude brain surgery. A few protesters stood at the edge of the safety fencing, holding placards that said
DESTROYING
LONDON
'
S
HISTORY
.

She recognized lanky Matthew Quinn from the photos that Kincaid had sent her, even though he was wearing a cap. There was an older man beside him, perhaps in his fifties but silver-haired. There was no one else she recognized from the group, or anyone that fit the description of Ryan Marsh.

“I've found something,” she said, “but I don't think it's much—”

“Shit.” Doug was looking at his computer screen, not her. “
I've
bloody found something. It wasn't the Met. It was Thames Valley.” He got up, still awkward with his boot cast, and sat beside her with his laptop. As Melody looked at the class photo on the screen, Doug enlarged it. “There. Second from the left, front row. Ten years ago. He was nineteen. His name is Ryan Marlowe. He fits the description.”

Melody stared at the face. Young. Serious beneath light brown hair. She couldn't tell the color of his eyes.

His eyes . . . “Oh, my God,” she whispered. She knew those eyes. They were very blue, and she had last seen them in a haggard and smoke-smudged face, above a blue bandanna.

William Henry Barlow was born near Woolwich, the son of an eminent mathematician and physicist. At sixteen he began work with his father before serving an apprenticeship in mechanical and civil engineering at both the Woolwich and London Dockyards.

—networkrail.co.uk
/VirtualArchive/WH-Barlow

Melody woke from a restless sleep on Andy's futon to the touch of cold flesh against her back.

“Ow,” she said. “You're freezing.” But instead of flinching away, she tucked herself closer, into the curve of his body.

“Tell me about it.” Andy put a bare arm round her, and it was cold, too. “I had to walk all the way to Baker Street before I could find a cab.”

Melody took his hand and brushed her lips against it. His fingers smelled faintly metallic, the way they did when he'd been playing the guitar for hours. “What about Poppy?”

“Caleb drove her back to Twyford. She missed the last train ages ago.”

“What time is it?” She tried to squint at the clock, but Andy pulled the duvet up over her head.

“You don't want to know,” he said, his breath in her ear, the stubble on his chin scraping the side of her cheek.

She pushed the duvet down again and turned onto her back, so that she could see the outline of his face in the dim light of the flat. “So how was it?”

He sat up a little, tucking her head against his shoulder. “It was . . . it was absolutely brilliant,” he said slowly. “I've done some session work at Abbey Road, but I never imagined I'd be there doing my own recording.
Our
recording,” he amended. “Poppy was amazing, and everything just flowed like—like magic. We even roughed out a couple of new songs.”

Melody realized she'd never heard him sound like this. Whenever he'd talked about his music, there had been a reserve, as if he didn't dare believe that things would—or could—actually go right.

She also realized that as much as she'd wanted him to be happy, it frightened her a bit. Was Doug right? Would she lose him to this?

No, she thought, chastising herself. She couldn't go there. She wouldn't go there. And she wouldn't do or say anything to spoil this moment for him. “What about the producer?” she asked. “Was he impressed?”

“He's set up a meeting with Caleb tomorrow. And I'm going to think that Tam will be better by then and that we'll be able to tell him all about it. I'm going to hospital first thing in the morning.” And that was the first time since the accident that she'd heard anything but panic in his voice when he talked about Tam. She bloody well hoped he was right.

“Then you'd better get some sleep, hadn't you?” She didn't want him to ask her where she had been or what she'd been doing. Or what she would be doing in the morning while he was visiting Tam.

“I can think of better things to do than sleep.” He snuggled back down under the duvet and ran his hand across her belly. “What are you doing with all these clothes on, anyway?”

Melody had worn a T-shirt and yoga bottoms to bed. “I was cold.”

“Well, you're not anymore, are you?” he said.

Jasmine Sidana drove straight to the London on Friday morning. She'd arranged to meet Paul Cole's parents there at half past eight.

As she parked her Honda in the hospital car park, she wondered which she had dreaded more—the visit to their home last night or this morning's interview. She didn't do grief well. It made her cross and uncomfortable because she felt awkward. She never knew what to say or do that would offer any solace to the bereaved.

Not, she thought, that it would have made any difference last night. She'd put on her best manner, told Sweeney to keep his mouth shut, and rung the bell of the big Victorian semidetached house in Vardens Road in Battersea. Jasmine liked to look at houses and kept up with real estate values, so she'd whistled to herself as she got out of the car. Even at night she could see that the cream trim on the brown brick was freshly painted, and the tiny front garden perfectly manicured. If the house had had any modernization, it could go for between two and three million pounds. Paul Cole was not a struggling student, it seemed.

The wife had answered. Her expression had been one of instant distaste, and Jasmine had thought the woman might shut the door on them before they had a chance to identify themselves as police officers.

“There's no soliciting,” said Mrs. Cole, her frown deepening as, Jasmine felt certain, she took in the color of Jasmine's skin. “Look. There's a sign.”

There
was
a sign beside the ornate brass bell, in delicate script on a ceramic plaque.

“Mrs. Cole?” Jasmine said. “We're police officers. We'd like to speak to you about your son.”

The distaste turned to dismay, and Jasmine, her face burning, was almost glad of it.

Mrs. Cole's husband came up behind her. If the wife was one of those women who seemed stretched too thin in a desperate fight against aging, the husband was a bit paunchy and sleek. And like Sweeney, he wore too much cologne, although Jasmine guessed his was more expensive. She didn't like it. It made her nose itch.

“What is it, Lisa?” he snapped, and Jasmine couldn't tell if his irritation was directed at them or at his wife.

“We're police officers,” Jasmine repeated. “I'm Detective Inspector Sidana and this is Detective Constable Sweeney.”

“It's about Paul,” whispered Mrs. Cole.

“What's he done now?” There was no fear in the husband's voice, only annoyance.

“May we come in?” said Jasmine. She held out her warrant card and stepped forward so that they had little choice but to step back. She wasn't going to stand freezing on their front step while she questioned them about their son.

With obvious reluctance, Mrs. Cole led them into a formal sitting room that overlooked the street. It was ornate and overfurnished. Every object seemed to be gilded, and Jasmine couldn't imagine that they actually used it for anything other than impressing guests. She sat, uninvited, on a hard, brocaded sofa, and Sweeney gingerly followed suit. The room was cold and Jasmine thought it just as well the Coles hadn't offered to take their coats.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cole, please, I'd like you to sit down,” she said.

Mrs. Cole sank onto a settee opposite. She looked pinched and frightened now, and Jasmine regretted her earlier uncharitable thought.

“Robert, please,” Mrs. Cole said. “She said she's a
detective inspector
.” The wife, it seemed, was brighter than the husband, and had grasped the import. Senior detectives didn't come calling for misdemeanors.

Mr. Cole shook his head and remained with his back to the cold fireplace. “I'll stand. And I'll ask you again, Detective whatever-you-said-your-name-was, what's Paul done this time?”

“We don't know that your son has done anything, Mr. Cole,” answered Sidana, ignoring the deliberate insult with an effort. She hoped Sweeney wouldn't be sniggering over it at his gym. “But some of his friends have reported him missing,” she went on, collecting herself. “Have you seen or heard from him in the last two days?”

“No,” said Mrs. Cole. “I rang him yesterday but it went to voice mail. But sometimes he doesn't ring back for a day or—”

“If these friends you're referring to are those hippie protesters, you can't believe anything they say,” broke in her husband.

“They're ecowarriors, Robert. That's what Paul says.”

“They're dropouts and troublemakers. Paul needs to focus on his degree and do something useful with himself.”

Although Jasmine was inclined to agree with Robert Cole about the protesters, she wasn't going to let this disintegrate into an obviously well-worn family argument. It was apparent that the father neither liked nor knew his son, and that the mother babied him. For the first time, Jasmine felt a twinge of pity for Paul Cole.

“Mr. Cole, you asked me if Paul was in trouble
again
. Has he been in some sort of trouble before?”

“He was warned off for protesting against one of the Crossrail projects. I told him he was lucky he wasn't arrested. Wasting people's time and money. Don't they understand what happens when they put the contractors behind schedule?”

That, thought Jasmine, they understood very well, and was exactly the point.

And now she had to get to hers, as much as she disliked doing it. “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, there was an incident yesterday at St. Pancras International. Do you know if Paul had any plans to attend a demonstration there?”

“I saw it on the news.” Lisa Cole clenched her manicured hands together in her lap. “A man was killed. Surely you don't think Paul had something to do with that?”

Jasmine felt Sweeney stir beside her and shot him a look. “Mrs. Cole,” Jasmine said with unaccustomed gentleness, “we are still attempting to identify the victim. Can you tell me if your son has any distinguishing marks?”

Mrs. Cole's answer had brought them here this morning.

Jasmine had hoped for a chance to speak to the pathologist, Dr. Kaleem, before the Coles arrived. But they were even earlier than she, and were already pacing in the mortuary's family room. Mrs. Cole, although still dressed in designer clothing and perfectly made up, looked as if she hadn't slept. Mr. Cole was red-faced and seemed to be working himself into a temper. “I'll want to speak to your superior about your wasting our time and causing my wife distress,” he said before Jasmine had even got out a “Good morning.”

She'd insisted on coming alone, and was now glad Sweeney wasn't there to see her flush. “Thank you both for coming,” she'd managed to say with a grimace of a smile, when Dr. Kaleem came in and introduced himself to the couple.

He gave Jasmine a courteous nod. “Detective Sidana.”

Jasmine had been prepared to dislike him, first because he'd been called in by Kincaid, and second because he was too good-looking by half and she didn't trust handsome men. But at the scene he had seemed both competent and kind, and now she discovered she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“What is it you want us to see?” said Robert Cole, ignoring Dr. Kaleem's outstretched hand. “I want this nonsense over with.”

What an insufferable bully, Jasmine thought, and then she saw that his hands were shaking. The man was terrified, she realized, and his only defense was to bluster.