To Dwell in Darkness (28 page)

Kincaid nodded, mouth full of toast and marmalade.

“You can take the Escort,” Gemma added kindly.

“I'm not taking a purple car to work,” Kincaid said, swallowing. “I'd be the laughingstock of Holborn.” When Gemma looked affronted, he laughed and kissed her. “Just teasing, love. But it is a bit hard to fit my long legs in your little orchid. I'll just take the tube. I can use the walk either end.”

The sky was the color of pearl this morning, rather than gunmetal, and—at least so far—the wind had not come up. A walk would give him an opportunity to enjoy the break in the weather.

He'd dressed with some thought that morning. Not wanting to wear a suit into work on Saturday, he settled on a crisp pale blue shirt, a sports coat, and jeans. Hopefully he would be presentable for the Booking Office Bar.

Now he pulled on his overcoat, added an umbrella, kissed Gemma, and shouted goodbye to the kids, who were all upstairs.

It was a straight shot up Lansdowne Road to the tube station. As he walked, he noticed that the tips of the tree branches were swelling with buds, and that a few daffodils were lifting brave heads in the gardens he passed. The weather would break, and spring would arrive with a bang. In the meantime, however, he buttoned the top of his coat and wished he'd thought to grab a scarf.

Before he reached Holland Park tube station, he rang Doug from his mobile.

“Are you at home?” he asked when Doug answered.

“No, I'm out rowing.” Doug's voice dripped sarcasm. “Of course I'm home. It's Saturday, and I'm doing Internet searches for you.”

“Any luck on Ryan Marlowe-slash-Marsh?”

“Not as of yet.”

“Bugger.” Kincaid thought a moment, then said, “Can you add something else? I want to know what happened to the girl who disappeared, the one they called Wren. I think that might be her in the photo next to Ryan Marsh. Nothing anyone has told me about her makes it seem likely that she just walked out of the group of her own accord.”

“Maybe Ryan Marsh killed her and Paul Cole found out. That would give Marsh a motive for agreeing to the switch and giving Cole a grenade instead of a smoke bomb.”

“I might buy that except for two things,” Kincaid said. “The first is Melody's evidence that Marsh was shocked to the core when he saw Cole's body. The second is statements from some of the other group members that Ryan Marsh changed after Wren's disappearance.”

“Maybe Paul Cole killed her and Marsh found out?” suggested Doug. “That would have given him a very good motive for killing Paul Cole. But,” he went on before Kincaid could argue, “again, that discounts Melody's observation, and even under duress I don't think she would mistake what she saw. And why would Paul Cole have killed this missing girl, unless he was some kind of a nutter?”

Kincaid was coming up to Holland Park. “Can you check the records for the death of a young female, perhaps around twenty, probably unidentified, right around the New Year? No one's given me the exact date she disappeared, so I'd check New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. I can ask, but I don't want to interview Matthew Quinn or his disciples again until I've spoken to Quinn's father.”

“Not asking much, are you?”

“I have every confidence in you,” Kincaid said, grinning, and rang off.

Kincaid's new boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Faith, was not so pleased with him.

Both Jasmine Sidana and Simon Gikas had come in. As soon as Kincaid entered the CID suite, Gikas jerked his head towards the building's upper floors. “Boss wants to see you.”

“Anything new to tell him?”

Gikas shook his head. “Sod all, Guv. Still trying to find some trace of this Ryan Marsh, but he seems to have vanished.”

“Where's Sweeney?”

“Still complaining about a pulled tendon, sir,” answered Sidana.

“Right.” Kincaid went out again and took the lift up to Faith's office.

The chief super's receptionist was out. When Faith saw Kincaid, he got up and ushered him into his office himself.

“Tell me you've made some progress on this,” Faith said without preamble when Kincaid had taken a chair. “We've had to release the victim's name to the press as a potential identification now that his family has been informed. Do you think the stupid boy meant to burn himself up?” He shook his head. “I've got university-age sons. I can't imagine what his parents must be going through.”

“No, sir.” Kincaid shifted uncomfortably in the chair. It was too short for him, so that his legs stuck out awkwardly, and he wondered if Faith had chosen it on purpose. But unlike Chief Superintendent Denis Childs, Faith seemed a straightforward man, although perhaps one without an eye for decor or ergonomic furniture. “Nothing we've learned so far leads us to believe that Paul Cole was suicidal,” he said, “or that he saw himself as a martyr for any sort of cause.

“The member of the group who was meant to be setting off the smoke bomb, Ryan Marsh, seems to have disappeared, but we've found no background on him, and no reason to think he would have deliberately killed Cole.”

“What about this leader? Quinn? Any reason he might have had for killing either Marsh or Cole?”

“That looks a bit more promising. We've learned that Matthew Quinn's father is the primary investor in King's Cross Development, the company that not only owns the building in which Quinn and his group have been living, but whose corporation is involved in just the sort of project that Quinn was so vocally protesting. Quinn's father was also supporting him. It could be that Marsh found that out and threatened to tell Quinn's father what Matthew was up to.”

“You think Quinn's father didn't know?” Faith asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have an interview with him after lunch, so I'll go from there.”

Faith leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It would certainly be easier all round if it turned out the boy was a suicide.”

The hair rose on the back of Kincaid's neck. He'd heard, “It would certainly be easier . . .” before. He hadn't liked the suggestion then, and he liked it even less now.

He'd taken Thomas Faith for a straight-ahead copper, but he no longer trusted his own judgment. He could only hope that Faith had meant it in the most literal sense, and not as a veiled instruction.

“Well,” said Faith, “tread delicately with Mr. Quinn, but do what you must. Have you checked in with SO15?”

“Not since they signed off, no.”

“See that you do. There is a possibility worse than murder here.”

Kincaid waited for Faith to go on.

“What if Matthew Quinn really bought what he thought was a smoke bomb? And this Ryan Marsh gave what
he
thought was a smoke bomb to Paul Cole. All in good faith.”

“So you're suggesting the man Quinn bought the smoke bomb from sold him a white phosphorus grenade”—Kincaid took a moment to process it—“with intent to harm?”

“I am,” said Faith. “And who knows what else this bloke has or intends to do. In that case, we have a very big problem. I want you to find out who sold Matthew Quinn that grenade. When you do, I want you to liaise with SO15.”

“Sir,” Kincaid said.

“You'll let me know what you learn from Quinn senior.”

“Yes, sir.” Kincaid stood, taking that as a dismissal. He was already running the possibilities through his mind. “I'll get on it.”

“Kincaid.” Faith stopped him before he reached the door. “I know you were accustomed to running your own show. But this is not Scotland Yard, and I expect regular updates.”

“Yes, sir.” Kincaid waited.

“How are you settling in with your team, by the way?”

“Fine,” Kincaid said, and was surprised to find that, with one exception, he meant it. But he wasn't ready to drop Detective Constable George Sweeney in the shit.

Yet.

He had just left Faith's office when his mobile rang. It was Gemma.

“Hello, love,” he said, taking the stairs down to the CID suite. “Everything all right?”

“The Astra won't start. We tried jumping it from the Escort, but it wouldn't even turn over.”

Kincaid groaned. It never rained but it poured. “We'll have to get it looked at, then, but no one will do it before Monday.” The old estate car had been a little sluggish the last few days, he realized, but he'd put it down to the cold.

“Kit had a peek but he's a bit out of his depth, poor love.”

By the time Kincaid was Kit's age, he'd been able to do most basic maintenance on a car, but his skills had been driven by necessity. They'd lived in the country, his father was famously unmechanical, and if the family car didn't start it meant a five-mile walk to town. “I'll have to give him some lessons,” he said, “but in the meantime, will you take the Escort to your mum and dad's?”

“Actually, since there's not room for the dogs, we thought we'd just take the tube. The children want to see where you work. I know you have an appointment, but is there someplace child friendly you could meet us for an early lunch?”

They would be taking the Central line from Holland Park to Leyton, and it stopped at Holborn. Kincaid looked at his watch. He could manage a quick lunch as long as they were finished in time for him to get to St. Pancras for his meeting with Lindsay Quinn. “There's a little café down at Great Ormond Street. Called Tutti's, or something like that. But come to the station first and I'll give you a little tour.”

The break in the weather made him more restless. Dawn had brought watery sun and a cessation of the brutal wind. The island seemed eerily quiet. He was aware, for the first time, of the movement of the birds in the trees, and the faint chirp of birdsong.

He'd caught two perch, just after daybreak, cleaned them, and cooked them over the low coals of the fire for his breakfast. But somehow the smell and taste of fresh food made isolation less bearable rather than more.

His days had run together, but as he tidied up, he realized it was Saturday. That meant there might be people on the river, even though it was still very cold. Rowers, fishermen, maybe wet-suited kayakers. So he let the fire die—he didn't want even a trace of smoke drifting above the trees—and gathered more brush and deadwood to camouflage his little encampment.

Then there was nothing he could do but sit quietly, watching the river through a small gap in the trees, and think. And he felt that for the first time in months, he could think. The last few days had brought an unexpected clarity.

How could he have believed for a moment that Wren had committed suicide? He knew her. He knew her better than he'd ever known anyone. She loved life, every little bit of it. And she had loved him.

Had Uncle had her killed as a punishment of him for his failure at Henley? Or as a warning of what might happen to his family if he didn't cooperate?

Ariel had been there, but she hadn't actually seen Wren jump. Had Wren been pushed? Or—had they somehow convinced Wren that she must make a sacrifice for his sake?

God knew they were good at manipulating.

He poked at the fire with a stick. There were embers still, beneath the ash.

Were Christie and the kids all right? he wondered. He wanted desperately to see them, to hold his daughters and breathe in the clean, sweet scent of their hair and skin, and to see his good old dog.

But how could he? If Uncle was responsible for this, and they had discovered by now that he was not the victim, they'd be watching his house, his family. What in hell's name was he going to do? He could leave the country—he had enough cash and a false passport. But then what? He'd leave Christie with no support, and what would he do with himself? He'd never been anything but a copper, never wanted to be anything but a copper.

And that was how they'd got to him, all those years ago. It had been his first undercover op with Thames Valley. Someone had leaked their identities. His partner, the senior officer, had been stabbed, and no amount of blood transfusions had been able to save him. After that, the looks had begun, then the whispers. His mates turned away from him in the pub. He heard “snitch” and “coward” said behind his back. When he finally confronted one of the whisperers, he'd been so angry he'd punched the other cop in the face. That had been all the justification his bosses needed to suspend him.

It was while he was on leave that the men from London came to his house one day and said they'd like a word with him. His copybook was blotted, they told him, whether it was his fault or not. No one in his force wanted to work with him. But they had another job for him, one that would give him a new start. And he would still be a copper.

He knew now that he should have walked away, no matter the consequences.

Kincaid met Gemma and the children in the station's reception area. He'd introduced them to the desk sergeant when Toby said, “I want to see where you work. Can we?”

“Afraid not. Special super-secret grown-ups only.” The board in the CID room was covered with photos of Paul Cole's charred corpse. Very definitely not a sight for children.

“I want to see in the glass,” said Charlotte, pointing to the reception window.

“That you
can
do, love.” Kincaid had picked her up when Jasmine Sidana walked through the main door. She'd gone out while Kincaid was with Chief Superintendent Faith, checking on Sweeney, Simon Gikas had told Kincaid.

From the thunderous look on her face, she hadn't liked what she'd found. She stopped short when she saw Kincaid and his family. “Sir? Is everything all right?”

He smiled. “Detective Inspector Sidana, this is my wife, Detective Inspector Gemma James. And this is Kit—” He gestured to his son.