To Dwell in Darkness (23 page)

She never talked about herself. Not that everyone in the Caledonian Road gave out a potted history—and even if they did, it didn't mean it was true—but Wren said less than anyone else. But the rest shed clues just as they shed skin and hair, unconsciously. A word here, a word there, a reference to a mother or a father or a sister or something that had happened at school. But not Wren.

He started to watch her, first with a copper's curiosity, because she was a challenge, a puzzle to be solved. She was a Londoner, he was sure of that from her accent, and he guessed south rather than north. Middle class. But then they were mostly a middle-class bunch, living in pseudosqualor, and he thought that any of them could have gone home to beds more comfortable than sleeping bags on the flat's old board floors. Except Wren.

And then he began to watch not just out of idle curiosity, but because he realized he liked her. They all had motives, this bunch, they always did. Rebellion, idealism, a need to be different, a need to be noticed. But Wren, Wren simply was. He'd never known anyone who lived in the moment the way she did, and with such innocent delight.

By that autumn, he'd realized that he more than liked her. He loved his wife, of course he loved his wife, they'd been together since just out of school. But this, this was something he'd never felt for anyone. And he'd known that the line, once crossed, could never be erased, but he hadn't been able to help himself.

The night he'd brought her here had been the first time they'd slept together. He'd trembled with terror and desire, afraid to touch her, afraid she would reject him. And then, when she'd welcomed him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he'd been so afraid he would hurt her. She seemed so fragile—and yet he knew she'd survived life on the streets, and better than he might have done.

Yet he had broken her in the end, hadn't he? Why else would she have done what she did at New Year's? Had she sensed that he'd compromised himself to protect her and to protect his family?

And in the end he had broken himself.

Having seen Doug and Melody off in different directions, Kincaid hesitated outside the café. Melody had sent him the most recent photo of Ryan Marlowe, the one that showed the girl with the wispy hair.

Should he check in at the station, follow up on Sidana's probable confirmation of the victim?

No, he would let Sidana do her job without his interference. He had other fish to fry, and he needed time to think before he spoke to any of the Holborn team. Turning away from the station, he turned up his coat collar and hoped the rain would hold off for half an hour.

At the top of Lamb's Conduit Street, he turned right and cut over to Gray's Inn Road, continuing northwards. The wind stung his cheeks and whipped at his hair—he hoped it might clear his mind. Was he being an ass by not sharing what he suspected about Ryan Marsh with his team and with Nick Callery at SO15? He'd never been one for paranoia, but ever since the end of the case in Henley last autumn, nothing had seemed right. Not Gemma's promotion. Not his transfer. And especially not the absence and continued silence of his former boss, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.

Denis Childs had never been an easy man to read, but Kincaid had always liked and trusted him. He still trusted him, even though he knew Childs had manipulated him in the business over former Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig. He also knew that Childs had known more about what was going on in the Met than he had told Kincaid, but who had he been protecting? Himself? Kincaid? Or someone else?

And now Childs had quite literally dropped off the map, so Kincaid couldn't attempt to get at the truth, and he was worried that there was more to Childs's absence than his sister's having been injured in Singapore.

Nor was he sure how much he could tell Gemma about his misgivings, because he hadn't told her he suspected her promotion was meant as a sweetener to keep
him
from making trouble.

There was no reason any of that should influence his actions in this case. Except that he had the same sense of unseen things moving beneath dark waters, and it gave him that same itch between the shoulder blades.

Turning into the Caldedonian Road, he dodged slush thrown up by a passing car and concentrated on paying attention to his surroundings. Going northeast from King's Cross, the road seemed drearier than ever beneath the mass of dark clouds building to the north. It couldn't last, wouldn't last—the high-rises and hotels and office blocks would go in, and people like Medhi Atias would be forced out. He hoped that at least the best of the Georgian buildings would be saved, even if no one except the very rich could afford to live in them. In fact, he realized he felt considerable sympathy with at least some of Matthew Quinn's agenda.

He'd reached Quinn's flat. There was no sign of activity to be seen in the windows, and as he gazed up at the peeling window frames, he found himself thinking that a little money, at least, wouldn't be amiss.

The chicken shop beckoned. He pushed open the door and stepped into warmth, steam, and the smell of cooking bacon.

Medhi Atias looked up from his counter and smiled. “Mr. Kincaid. Have you come for another bacon butty?”

“Unfortunately, no. I've already eaten, and I'm afraid it wasn't up to your standards.”

Atias clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You should have come here first. But never mind. What can I do for you now?”

“Some of your wonderful coffee for starters.”

Kincaid waited until Atias had given him a steaming cup, then handed across his phone with the photo Melody had sent him up on the screen. “The man—do you know him?” he asked.

All the jovial expression drained from Atias's round face. He stared at the screen a moment longer, then handed the phone back to Kincaid. “That is Ryan. Is he—have you—” Atias shook his head.

“We don't think it was Ryan who died at St. Pancras. But we can't find him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Who, then? Who was it who died?” asked Atias, without answering Kincaid's question.

“We're still working on identification. But we think it may have been a young man named Paul Cole.”

Atias looked at him blankly. “That name means nothing to me.”

Kincaid pulled up the photo of Paul Cole on his phone and handed it across again.

“That one?” said Atias, frowning as he returned the phone. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“You know him, then?”

“He came in here, sometimes with the others, sometimes on his own. Never a polite word. And complained. This, that, the next thing. Coffee too hot, coffee not hot enough. Chicken too cooked, not enough chips. Pah,” he added on a breath of disgust. “Not that I would have wished him ill, you understand.”

“No, of course not. One more thing.” Kincaid scrolled back to the photo of Ryan. “The girl beside Ryan. Do you know her?”

Atias looked again, squinting as if he might be a bit nearsighted. “I saw her sometimes, coming and going from the flat. A few times she came in with Ryan.”

“You don't know her name?”

“No. She was very quiet. But she smiled.” Atias paused and gave his counter another wipe with his ever-present tea towel. “As if she really meant it. Really saw you. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Kincaid?”

“I think I do, yes.” Kincaid finished his coffee. “Thank you, Mr. Atias.”

“Medhi, please.”

“Medhi, then. You've been very helpful. You will keep this in confidence?”

“Of course. I know how to keep a secret, Mr. Kincaid.”

When Kincaid pushed the bell for the top flat, the street door buzzed open before he could identify himself. He climbed the stairs and found Iris waiting at the open door to the flat.

“We saw you,” she said, and he couldn't tell if her tone was accusatory or frightened. “I helped you. And then you put us all in jail.”

Accusatory, then. “I'm sorry, Iris.” He went for conciliatory. “You know what happened was very serious. We had no choice.”

She stepped back to let him in, but her expression didn't soften.

They were all there. The television was turned on—one of the morning shows on ITV—the sound muted. Trish and Dean stood in the kitchenette, and as Kincaid glanced at them, toast popped up in the toaster. The smell of warm toast filled the room.

Matthew Quinn sat next to Lee on the sofa, a laptop open on the table between them. The computer must be new, Kincaid thought, or one that had not been in the flat at the time of the search.

The sofa was low and Quinn looked slightly spiderlike, his long legs folded so that his knees were almost on a level with his ears, his hands dangling between them. Kincaid had to remind himself that there was nothing absurd about him.

Cam Chen stood in the bedroom doorway, toweling her damp black hair. She wore jeans and a jumper, but her feet were bare. Kincaid thought he caught the scent of bath salts.

What did they do all day? he wondered. The six of them, in this small, Spartan space, if they didn't go to jobs or classes? He thought it was an environment in which small slights could fester into very large grudges. Grievances large enough, perhaps, to precipitate a murder?

Quinn reached out and snapped the laptop shut. “What do you want with us now?” he asked. “We've told you everything we know.”

No one asked Kincaid to sit, and the toast stood in the toaster, growing cold. “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you,” Kincaid said, watching them.

It was Cam who spoke first. She'd put one hand on the doorjamb and clutched the towel to her chest with the other. “You're sure it's Ryan?” Her voice shook. “Ryan's really dead?”

Instead of answering, Kincaid said, “Why did none of you tell me about Paul Cole?”

Six blank faces looked back at him.

Dean recovered first. “Why should we have? He's a wanker.”

“Because he was here. Because he knew about the protest and the smoke bomb. Because he argued with Matthew over being allowed to set off the smoke bomb.”

“I'd never have let him do that,” protested Matthew. “He didn't really care about the cause. He just wanted to make himself seem important. He'd probably have—” His mouth dropped open as realization sunk in. “You're freaking kidding me.”

“I'm afraid not. We believe we've identified the victim as Paul Cole.”

“Oh, dear God,” whispered Cam. “You're telling us it was
Paul
? Paul is dead? Not Ryan?”

Iris sank down on the floor beside the sofa, put a hand to her mouth, and sobbed. Whether it was with relief or grief, Kincaid couldn't tell.

Matthew shook his head. “That's just not bloody possible. I gave the smoke bomb to Ryan.”

“Would Ryan have given it to Paul?”

“No way.”

“He might have,” said Cam, frowning. She came all the way into the room and sat on the arm of the sofa beside Lee, still hugging the towel to her. “Paul idolized Ryan. He followed him around like a puppy. I think Ryan felt sorry for—”

“So what if Ryan did give it to him?” broke in Matthew. “I keep telling you. It was a smoke bomb. Not a bloody grenade.”

“So you say,” Kincaid said “Let's agree for the moment that Matthew gave Ryan a smoke bomb. And that Ryan told Paul he could set it off. But what if Ryan gave Paul the grenade instead of the smoke bomb?”

They all stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

“Why?” said Matthew. “Why would Ryan do that?”

“I can think of lots of reasons. Maybe Paul knew something about Ryan that Ryan wanted kept secret, for starters.” Kincaid propped himself against the radiator and folded his arms. “Why don't you begin by telling me what you know about Ryan Marsh.” He wanted to see if the others agreed with what Cam had told him.

“We just started seeing him around,” volunteered Iris, still sniffing. “It was in the summer, I think. He was interested in what we were doing,” she added with a note of pride. “After a while, he stayed.”

“Do you know anything else about him? Where he came from? Where he might be now?”

They shook their heads in unison. Trish spoke up. “He never talked about himself. He just . . . listened. He made everyone feel . . . important. Special.”

Kincaid saw Matthew flinch. He suspected Matthew didn't like the idea that he needed anyone else to make him feel important.

“Then tell me about Wren,” he said.

This time the blank looks held apprehension. Cam started to speak, then looked away.

“Why do you want to know about Wren?” Matthew asked. “She was just a homeless girl. She stayed with us for a while. I used to see her outside King's Cross. I'd give her food sometimes. And then one day I could see she was really ill. A bad cough. She needed a place to stay while she got well.”

“So you took her in. And then she just left? Sounds a bit ungrateful,” Kincaid prompted.

Again, the covert glances. “Yeah,” said Matthew. “Maybe she found greener pastures.”

“Meaning?”

Matthew shrugged. “We gave her food and a place to stay. Maybe she found something better.”

“When did she leave?”

“I don't remember. Somewhere around the New Year.”

“Without telling you goodbye or where she was going?”

Matthew shrugged. “We're a free community.”

Right, Kincaid thought, a free community where Matthew Quinn paid the bills and set the rules. “Could Ryan have had something to do with Wren leaving?” he asked.

“No,” said Cam. “He was gutted.” Matthew shot her a glance that could have curdled milk. “I mean, we were all gutted,” Cam amended. “We liked her.”

“Why are you asking about
her
when Paul is dead?” Iris pulled herself up by the arm of the sofa. “Why isn't anyone talking about Paul?” Her face was tear streaked, but her voice was ferocious. “You are bastards, all of you. Doesn't he deserve something?”