To Dwell in Darkness (27 page)

He was met by the heady smell of baking dough, the barking of dogs, and a shriek of welcome from Charlotte as she ran to hug him.

“Daddy, I was watching for you,” she said as he picked her up for a hug.

“Were you? You're a good watchdog, then.”

Charlotte giggled. “I'm not a dog.”

“Oh. I thought you were Geordie. Let's see, a curly coat”—he stroked her hair—“a long snout—” He pinched her nose.

“I'm
Char
lotte,” she announced, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. She wriggled out of his arms. “Come and see. Toby's dancing!”

Gemma came out of the kitchen.

“Darling, I'm home,” he said, grinning.

“So I see.” When she kissed him he saw that she had tomato sauce on her cheek. He wiped it off with his finger and gave her another kiss. “Yum.” Taking off his coat and hanging it on the peg over the bench by the door, he asked, “What's this about dancing?”

“We went to ballet,” said Charlotte, bouncing up and down on her toes. “MacKenzie took Toby and me to Oliver's ballet class.”

“Oliver's taking ballet?” Kincaid looked a question at Gemma. Oliver Williams was Charlotte's best friend. Kincaid had met Oliver and his mum, MacKenzie, at one of the local cafés when he was home on paternity leave. MacKenzie had managed to get Charlotte a place in Oliver's very prestigious school, after their attempt to settle Charlotte in Toby's old preschool had proved a complete failure.

When Kincaid had learned that his practical and down-to-earth friend MacKenzie was co-owner with her husband, Bill, of the enormously successful online and catalog clothing retailer Ollie,
and
that MacKenzie was the top model for the catalog, he had been horribly embarrassed. MacKenzie and Gemma, who had since become friends, still snickered about his cluelessness.

“It seems it's the in thing for little boys in Notting Hill at the moment,” said Gemma. “MacKenzie took Charlotte and Toby along after school today. Charlotte couldn't be bothered,” she added quietly as Charlotte ran off, “but Toby is besotted.”

Toby came leaping in from the sitting room, arms held out at right angles, shouting, “See what I can do? It's a . . . a . . . I can't remember what it is. But I can do it.”

“Are pirates over, then?” Kincaid whispered in Gemma's ear.

“I think so.” She sighed. “But I suspect this is going to be considerably more expensive. Come on. Pizza's in the oven and I've put the kettle on.”

While they were waiting for the pizza to finish, Kit went with Kincaid to see the kittens. Having greeted Kincaid, Geordie was now lying in front of the study door, head on paws.

“What's this, then?” Kincaid asked, leaning down to rub the spaniel's ears.

“He got in the room this afternoon, when Toby didn't close the door all the way,” Kit said. “Xena came out of her box like a shot, hissed at him, and smacked him on the nose. Since then he's been guarding the room like he's taken charge. Do you think he got close enough to realize they were babies?”

“Quite possibly. He's a smart dog.”

Kit opened the door, but rather than trying to go in, Geordie continued to keep watch, settling back into the same position.

When they entered the room, Xena gave them a little chirp of greeting. She stood up, stretching, and when Kincaid knelt by the box, she butted her head against his hand and he rubbed her behind the ears.

The kittens were sleeping. Their bellies had rounded, and now they looked more like little sausages than rats.

“They're starting to move around in the box,” said Kit, kneeling beside Kincaid. “They're so funny. They're blind, and they bumble into each other. Bryony says their eyes should open in a few days.”

“Bryony came today?”

“This afternoon, while Toby and Charlotte were out with MacKenzie. She taught me how to tell the sex,” Kit added proudly. “She says it's easier now than it will be when they're older.” He touched the calico. “This one's female, of course—I've been reading up on cat genetics—and so is the tabby. The black one and the black-and-white one are male.”

“I'm impressed.” Kincaid could tell that the mother cat was improving as well. She looked less thin, her coat was shiny, her eyes bright. “Amazing what a few days of food can do. She is very tame,” he said to Kit. “Have you had any luck with your posters?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Kit sat back, scowling. “No. And if someone is missing her, shouldn't they have called by now? I want to take the posters down.”

“We can't keep the mum and all the kittens,” Kincaid said gently.

“MacKenzie says they'll take one. Oliver loves them. Gemma said she'd talk to Hazel. And I'm going to talk to Erika. We're supposed to have lunch with her on Sunday. I think it would be good for her to have a cat.”

“Possibly. But that leaves a kitten unaccounted for.”

“Surely we could keep Xena and one of the kittens?” Kit didn't quite manage to keep the pleading note from his voice.

Kincaid stroked the black kitten, which was beginning to stir and root around towards its mother. “I suppose it would depend on how they get along with Sid.” He felt completely at sea with all of this, but he was quite taken with the cats himself. “Which kitten would you want to keep?” he asked.

Leaning over the box again, Kit frowned and gave each kitten a little stroke in turn. “I don't know. I like the calico. I think it's cool that only females can be calico. And I like the black-and-white one. He looks like James Bond in a tuxedo.”

Kincaid heard Gemma calling them. “Well, I think we have lots of time to decide. And you can ask Bryony tomorrow, but I should think it would be okay to take the posters down.”

“Really?” Kit bounced up with almost as much enthusiasm as Toby.

Kincaid stood and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “But let's not say anything until you've spoken to Bryony again, okay?”

“Deal,” said Kit.

“You spoil him dreadfully, you know,” Gemma said to Kincaid as they finished the washing-up together a few hours later.

“Who, Kit?” Kincaid looked his most innocent.

They had eaten their pizza, played a quick game of Snakes and Ladders—with much cheating on Toby's part—for Charlotte's benefit, then settled in for a game of Beatles Monopoly. Charlotte was allowed to play with the extra tokens, and after a bit had settled sleepily in Gemma's lap. When Charlotte was dozing and Toby had begun to get cranky, they'd put the younger children to bed and released Kit to reunite with his phone and his iPod.

As he left the room, he'd tossed back at them, “You know I can't tell my mates why I can't go out on Friday nights. They'd think I was a total wa—”

Gemma gave him the
watch your language
evil eye.

“They'd think I was totally wet,” Kit amended. Then he'd grinned at them and a moment later they heard him running up the stairs.

“Yes, Kit,” Gemma said now. “I don't know what you told him in the study, but the rest of the night he looked like the cat that got into the cream. And I suppose it was something to do with the cats.”

“He only wants to keep the mum and one kitten.”

“That's what he says
now
. And imagine the arguments with Toby and Charlotte over which one.”

“Well then, they'll have to learn to negotiate, won't they? And don't tell me you're not tempted to keep at least one of the little blighters. You said the other night that you fancied the black-and-white one.”

Gemma sank into one of the kitchen chairs and he thought that she looked tired . . . and . . . something more.

“I suppose we
should
give them what they want—within reason—when we can,” she said slowly.

Kincaid glanced at her, then took a rather expensive bottle of Sancerre he'd been saving for the weekend from the fridge, pulled the cork, and poured them both a glass. He handed one to Gemma, who smiled her thanks, and sat down across from her.

“What's up, love?” he asked quietly. “I don't think it's kittens.”

“No.” Gemma told him about her interview with Dillon Underwood. “And now I keep thinking,” she added, “what if Mercy's mum had gone with her to pick out that computer she wanted so badly? Or what if her mum hadn't been so harsh with her over the lost phone? Which Melody and I suspect Dillon may have pinched as a way to manipulate her.”

“Gemma.” He took her hand across the table. “Mercy's mother didn't do anything wrong. Neither did Mercy. You know that.”

But he felt the same chill. There was no guarantee that Friday-night games or any of the other ways they cared for and loved their children would keep them safe from monsters like Dillon Underwood. They knew that better than anyone else.

“You need to take the weekend off,” he said, pouring her a little more wine. Her expression had softened, her cheeks had gained a bit of color, but he didn't miss the guilty look that flashed across her face. “You're not going in? You said you were pretty well stuck until the DNA results come back.”

“No. No, I'm not going in. But . . .” Gemma glanced at him and took another sip of her wine. “I did bring her case report home. I keep thinking there's something I've missed. And don't come the copper with me,” she added before he could speak. “Because you
are
going in.”

Kincaid grimaced. “Honestly, I don't know whether I'm coming or going with this case. The more I find out, the less I know.”

Frowning, Gemma said, “Melody told me she'd gone to see Doug last night in a rush. Have you pulled them into this?”

“Doug, yes,” he admitted. “But I think you could say that Melody pulled herself in, under the circumstances.”

“What are they doing that your team can't do?”

“Ah. There's the rub. It seems Tam was right. We've got an ID on the victim. He was young. Just twenty.” He went on to tell her all the things he hadn't had a chance to share with her—that he and Doug had suspected the initial supposed victim, Ryan Marsh, might be an undercover police officer, and that Doug had subsequently proved that Ryan Marsh had at least
once
been a cop. That Melody, looking for photos of the protest group, had identified Ryan Marsh as the man who had helped her on the scene. That Ryan Marsh was now missing, and that a girl in the group had disappeared suddenly at the New Year.

And about Ariel Ellis, who had come to him to report her boyfriend missing, after they'd had a row about her miscarriage.

He hesitated a bit over this, hating to remind Gemma of the baby they'd lost, but he knew she'd be furious with him if he didn't tell her.

“Do you think it was suicide?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Paul Cole has been described as moody and attention seeking, but no one thinks he was suicidal. And apparently he kept a regular journal, which has not turned up in his belongings.”

“And you haven't told your team what you've found out about Ryan Marsh? Why?”

“If he was still undercover, who was he working for?” Kincaid leaned forward, elbows on the scrubbed pine table, wineglass between his hands. “Why did he infiltrate this group unless they were a serious threat? Why has no one in the force claimed him? Why did he disappear?”

“You think he thought the grenade was meant for him?”

“Melody said he reacted to the incident the way any trained copper would, but that when he saw the body, he was distraught. It was personal. I think he was more than shocked. I think he was frightened, and I'm not letting anyone else know that I know who he is
or
that he's still alive until I know why.”

Gemma sipped and thought. “You're assuming that Ryan Marsh agreed to let Paul Cole set off the smoke bomb, and that someone switched the smoke bomb with a grenade without Marsh's knowledge. Who could have done that?”

“Matthew Quinn seems the obvious choice. I've found out that Quinn's father is a big player in the area redevelopment scheme, and that he's been supporting Matthew. Maybe Matthew was planning more serious stuff, and Marsh threatened to tell his father. Or the police. Or Matthew found out Marsh was an undercover cop.”

“But,” said Gemma, “would Matthew Quinn have made himself such an obvious suspect?”

Kincaid topped up both their glasses. “It doesn't seem very likely, does it? He may be a bit compulsive, but I don't think he's stupid.”

“Unless he thought he could convince people that Marsh was suicidal,” Gemma suggested.

“Several people in the group said that Ryan hadn't been the same since the girl—Wren—disappeared,” Kincaid said, trying to recollect the statements exactly. “But I don't think Matthew was one of them.”

“And no one has said what happened to the girl?”

“No. Just that she walked out and didn't come back.”

“Well,” said Gemma, raising her glass to him. “There's your missing piece, love. Find out what happened to the girl. And why it mattered to Ryan Marsh.”

Each arm [of Barlow's arches at St. Pancras] is composed of sturdy parallel members made up of riveted iron plates, conjoined by fifteen main braces and a lattice of fifty cross-braces . . . There are twenty-five arches in all, set in intervals of 29 feet 4 inches, double the spacing of the basement columns—the . . . beer-barrels controlling influence again—to form an enclosure 689 feet (210 meters) long. Much of the visual power of this huge interior comes from the way in which these soaring arches allow the eye to calibrate the space immediately.

—Simon Bradley,
St. Pancras Station
, 2007

“Do you mind if I take the Astra today?” Gemma asked Kincaid as he was eating a piece of toast and gulping down a cup of tea on Saturday morning. “I've promised to take the kids to Leyton to see Mum and Dad this afternoon, and the kids want to take the dogs. I can't jam them all in the Escort.”