To Dwell in Darkness (24 page)

“Tell me about Paul,” Kincaid said. “Why was he so determined to carry the smoke bomb?”

There were more glances, then Cam spoke. “Maybe Ariel had been paying a little too much attention to Ryan.”

“Was there something going on between Ariel and Ryan?”

“No.” Cam scowled at him. “No way. Not on Ryan's part, anyway.”

“Why didn't any of you tell us that Paul and Ariel had been here that morning? You didn't notice they didn't come to the protest?” Kincaid shifted his position slightly, partly to unsettle them, partly because he kept hoping he'd see something in the flat that seemed out of place or catch an unschooled expression.

It was Lee Sutton who shrugged and answered. “We just figured Paul had gone off in a sulk because he didn't get his way. And that Ariel didn't come because Paul didn't. After all, it's not like they lived here.”

Matthew added, with another shrug, “They weren't really part of the group.”

“Even though most of you came together through a connection with Ariel's father?”

“Professor Ellis may have opened our eyes, but he has nothing to do with who we are now.” Matthew would not cede credit gracefully.

“Does Ariel know?” asked Cam. “About Paul?”

“We haven't informed her that we believe we have a positive ID, no. But it was Ariel who came to us and reported Paul missing. She said they'd had a row the morning of the protest and that she was worried about him.”

“They did have a row,” Cam said slowly. “They were arguing when they left the flat. Ariel said he was making an arse of himself over the smoke thing.”

“And they left before anyone else?”

“Ages earlier,” put in Iris. “Paul was in a right huff.”

“What about Ryan? When did he leave?”

Cam frowned. “Midday, maybe. We'd agreed that everyone except Ryan would meet up outside the Marks and Spencer food store in the St. Pancras arcade. Ryan would already be in place.”

“So you have no idea where Ryan was between the time he left the flat and the demonstration?” Kincaid didn't tell them that he knew Ryan
had
been in the station when the grenade went off.

“No,” said Cam. “We never knew where Ryan went when he left here.”

“Did anyone see him at the demonstration?” Kincaid looked at each of them in turn. They all shook their heads.

“What about Paul?” That question got the same response. “So Paul and Ryan could have met up anytime later that morning, or that afternoon?”

“Well, I suppose they could,” put in Dean from his spot by the toaster. “But . . . if they did, they didn't plan it here.”

“They both had phones,” said Cam. “They could have texted and met up anywhere.”

“Matthew, when exactly did you give Ryan the smoke bomb?” Kincaid asked.

“Just before he left. Like Cam said, it was before midday. I started to explain to him how it worked, but he just clapped me on the back and told me not to worry, he bloody well knew how to do it.” Matthew sounded aggrieved.

“So he didn't seem worried or upset?”

“No.”

“What about Paul? Had he been behaving oddly recently?”

“Other than being pissed off at Ariel, no,” said Cam.

“Do you know why they weren't getting along?”

“No. They didn't live here, like Lee said. It wasn't our business.” Cam's answer was a little too vehement.

“Do you think Paul was so upset that morning that he would have harmed himself?”

Cam stared at him. “You're suggesting that Paul committed
suicide
? Like that? That's horrible. And Paul would have run home to Mummy if he stubbed his toe. I can't believe he would ever have deliberately hurt himself.”

“Give me another explanation, then.” Kincaid moved closer to the group, crowding their space. “Did Ryan agree to let him have the smoke bomb and give him a grenade instead? Or did someone who thought Ryan was going to set off the smoke bomb switch it with a grenade?”

There was a stunned silence while they took this in.

Cam was the one to break it. “You're saying that either Ryan meant to kill Paul or someone meant to kill Ryan?” She stood up and started to pace, her damp towel forgotten on the floor. “I don't believe it. That's just mad.”

“But Paul is dead,” Kincaid said.

“And Ryan is missing.” Iris's voice was barely a whisper. “If Ryan is alive, why didn't he come back?”

Jasmine Sidana had sent Kincaid the most definitive news of the case so far, and his response had been a text that said merely, “Carry on.”

Well, she had done that. She'd arranged for the crime scene techs to search both Paul Cole's room at university and his bedroom in his parents' house. They would be looking for any evidence that tied him to the grenade, anything that intimated he'd been contemplating suicide, and they would, of course, be gathering DNA samples from his personal belongings so that the lab could get a definitive match with the DNA recovered from the corpse.

She had also made arrangements for a family liaison officer to meet with Paul Cole's parents at their home. Unable to decide whether a male or a female officer would suit them better, she'd left it to the rota. She didn't think a motherly touch would be appreciated by either of the Coles, but she thought Mrs. Cole could use some support, as it was unlikely she'd be getting any from her husband.

When she arrived back at Holborn Police Station, there was no sign of Kincaid.

“Has he been in at all today?” she asked Simon Gikas.

Simon looked up from his computer. “He stuck his nose in for about five minutes first thing this morning.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Not a word.”

What the hell was he up to? Jasmine thought, slamming her bag down on her desk. “He's not a bloody cowboy,” she muttered, then gaped, shocked by her own profanity. Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid was driving her to distraction.

Melody left the clinic at University College Hospital feeling much lighter than when she'd gone in. They had poked, prodded, and pricked her, checked her blood oxygen level and her breathing. Then, although they wanted her to come in for one more blood test, they had pronounced her fit for work as long as she didn't overdo things. She'd smothered a grin, wondering if very enthusiastic sex in the middle of the night counted as overdoing things, but didn't ask.

“You're very lucky,” the doctor had told her as she signed her release form. “If you'd breathed enough of the phosphorus, your lungs and your organ function could have been permanently compromised.”

The comment was meant to be kind, but it sent Melody right back to worrying about Tam. And to worrying about the man they now thought was Ryan Marsh.

How much smoke had he breathed in the railway station? Had he touched the victim? She couldn't remember now. Everything was such a blur. She kept replaying it in her head, trying to see him more clearly through the smoke and her own panic.

What had happened to him? Was he getting any treatment for smoke inhalation or injuries?

Standing outside the hospital, she breathed in the wind-borne petrol fumes from Euston Road, and hesitated. She'd left her car at Andy's. From here, she could take the tube home, shower, change, and take the tube to work at Brixton.

That was what she should do. But she couldn't stop wondering if there was something else she could do to help Duncan, something she'd missed. Or if she could help Doug trace Ryan Marlowe/Marsh.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw the anguish on his face as he looked down at Paul Cole's charred body. Where had he gone? Why had he run? Why did she feel such a connection to this man?

Her phone rang, making her jump. She fished it from the pocket of Andy's peacoat, expecting it to be him.

But it was Gemma, who said without preamble, “Can you come in? I arrested Dillon Underwood when he showed up for work this morning. I've put him in a holding cell while we execute the search warrant for his flat. I'd like you to be there, if you're up to it.”

It is fairly common knowledge that the undercroft at St. Pancras Station, which now houses ticket offices, cafés and smart shops, was once used to store beer. It is, however, largely forgotten that St Pancras was once the hub of an industry which transported, matured, packaged and marketed beer in a completely different way to any that exists today.

—meantimebrewing.com
/stpancras-station

Kincaid's phone rang as he reached the street. When he saw that it was Michael, he felt a pang of worry. He should have checked on Tam before now.

But when he answered, Michael said, “I wanted to let you know he was awake. Still not very coherent, though. He keeps talking about ‘the flash.' ”

“I'm not surprised.” Phone to his ear, Kincaid kept walking towards King's Cross. “He must have been looking right at the grenade when it went off. He's lucky his sight wasn't damaged. What are the doctors saying?”

“That he's doing as well as can be expected. Maybe better. His organs seem to be coping, but the burn is still very painful. Of course, he wants to go home, the stubborn bastard,” Michael added, his voice softening. “Says he misses the dogs.”

“Well, don't worry him about talking to me. We're pretty certain we've identified the young man without Tam's help. But when he does feel better, I'll pay him a social visit.”

Michael seemed to hesitate, then said, “Duncan, I think it might help him to speak to you. His state of mind, I mean.”

“Of course. Just let me know when you think he's up to it, and I'll come either to hospital or to the flat. How's Louise coping?”

“I've made her stay home. And told her she'd better not use worry as an excuse to start smoking again.”

Kincaid laughed. “Good man. Tell her I'll bring Charlotte for a visit when Tam is home and comfortable.” He rang off just as he reached King's Cross station.

He stood for a moment, gazing at the station's new facade and thinking about the fire that had ravaged King's Cross Underground station in 1987. Started by a match or a cigarette thrown carelessly into the gap in one of the old wooden escalators, the fire had smoldered, then flashed over into the ticketing hall, killing thirty-one people and injuring many more. Survivors and witnesses had never forgotten it. He shuddered to think what might have happened at St. Pancras if the fire from the incendiary grenade had spread. Even with modern fire safety regulations, it could have been disastrous.

This time they had been lucky that the injuries hadn't been worse, and that the only fatality had been the person responsible. But that still left him with an unsolved death, a missing person, and more bad news to deliver.

He contemplated going back to the station, but he was nearer Cartwright Gardens where he was. Instead, he texted Jasmine Sidana and asked her to meet him in a half hour's time at the address Ariel Ellis had given him.

The sun came out briefly as he walked, giving a lie to the day. By the time he reached his destination, the sky had darkened once more, and a splatter of rain made him realize he'd left his brolly at the station when he'd gone to meet Doug and Melody that morning at the café.

Cartwright Gardens was a crescent of houses, the buildings white arched below, then typical Bloomsbury brown brick on the upper, less desirable floors of the houses. The crescent faced a garden with a playground at one end, and Kincaid imagined that on a nice day, the garden would be filled with mums and shrieking toddlers.

Today, however, the street looked deserted except for Jasmine Sidana's black Honda sedan idling at the curb near the Ellises' address. He wondered how Sidana managed to keep her car looking spotless even in this miserable weather, and imagined her out giving it a polish after every shower.

He wiped the smile from his face as Sidana got out of the car. She did not look as though she would appreciate his amusement.

“Where have you been?” she challenged him. “You've hardly been in the station at all.”

“I was never very good at paperwork.”

“Obviously. But you can't run a murder team like some sort of maverick.”

Kincaid knew Sidana's anger was justified, and that he had to find some way to mend things with her if they were going to work together effectively—without telling her what he suspected about Ryan Marsh.

He went back to her question. “I walked from the Caledonian Road. I wanted to have a word with Matthew Quinn's group about Paul Cole before I gave Ariel the news. And I wanted to do it on a less formal basis. Sometimes you get better results that way.”

“And did you?” Sidana sounded at least somewhat mollified.

“I'm not certain. They were shocked, but I think they were more relieved that it wasn't Ryan that was dead. No one seemed to have liked Paul much. They didn't, however, think it likely that he was suicidal. They confirmed that he did have an argument with Ariel that morning, but said that both Paul and Ariel left the flat before Ryan, who had the smoke bomb.”

“And they still insist it was a smoke bomb?”

“Yes. But they wouldn't tell us otherwise, would they?” When Sidana nodded reluctant agreement, he went on. “They did say they thought it was possible that Ryan might have given in to Paul's pleas to let him carry the smoke bomb, because he felt sorry for him.”

“And they haven't seen Ryan Marsh since?”

“So they say.”

“Do you believe them? About any of it?”

Kincaid felt in his overcoat pocket for a handkerchief. His nose was starting to run from the cold. “I believe they thought Ryan was dead. Which means they don't know where he is now.”

“Then if there was an intended victim, it was Ryan Marsh. Unless Ryan Marsh meant to kill Paul Cole.”