To Dwell in Darkness (30 page)

So where the hell was Ryan?
he asked himself for the hundredth time.

When he reached the CID suite, he asked Simon to enter the note into evidence, then he went to Sidana's desk. He explained about the note and asked her to track down a sample of Cole's handwriting and get a comparison done. Then he said quietly, “Tell me what DC Sweeney has been up to.”

She seemed to hesitate, and he guessed she felt that Sweeney's conduct reflected badly on her. After a moment, she said grudgingly, “I was talking to one of the PCs, asking if he'd seen Sweeney. He said not today, but on Thursday he saw him in the car park, talking to one of the reporters before the press conference.”

Kincaid stared at her. “So you think Sweeney leaked the fact that we were holding suspects?”

She nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“The little snitch.” Kincaid remembered with some shame that he'd thought it might have been Sidana, trying to make him look bad at his first press conference for the unit.

“And I think he lied about why he didn't come in today,” Sidana added. “I'm going to make some inquiries at the gym. He wasn't officially requested to come in, but we all assume we're needed if there is a major investigation on.”

“Let me know what you find out,” said Kincaid. He didn't want to have to take this to Faith, but he didn't want someone on his team that he couldn't trust, even for the most trivial of reasons.

“Sir.” Sidana stopped him as he turned away. “Can I have a word? In your office?”

“Of course.” He glanced at his watch and saw that he had enough time. “Take a seat,” he told her as she followed him into his office.

“No, I—I won't take up more than a moment.” It was the first time he'd seen Jasmine Sidana look unsure of herself. “It's personal,” she went on, “and I have no business asking.”

He was curious now. “Go on.”

Sidana shifted from foot to foot and clasped her hands in front of her. “I didn't realize your wife was a senior police officer,” she blurted out. “It seems—you have a very nice family. But your daughter—your little girl—she's—”

“Charlotte is our foster child. We'll start proceedings for legal adoption when Social Services give us the green light. Charlotte lost both her parents last year.” That was as much as he would ever say, except to those who were intimately involved in Charlotte's life.

“But I didn't think Social Services would allow a mixed-race child to go to a white family.”

“Our social worker tells us that their policy has become more lenient. And there are other factors involved.”

“Oh,” Sidana said, frowning. “Well, best of luck, sir. Thank you.”

As Kincaid watched her walk back to her desk, he wondered why she had asked, why she was frowning, and what she was thanking him for.

Kincaid hailed a taxi in Theobald's Road. It had begun to rain again, a fine, cold drizzle, and besides he had no time to walk to St. Pancras. He was paying the cab in front of the Renaissance Hotel when his phone rang. He almost ignored it, but then he saw it was Doug and answered while he sprinted for the arched entrance to the hotel. It would give him some shelter from the rain.

“She was a jumper,” said Doug.

“What?” Kincaid put his hand over his other ear to block some of the traffic noise.

“Your girl. She was a jumper.”

“A jumper? Good God.” Kincaid thought of the girl in the photo and felt sick. There was nothing worse. “Where? When?”

“New Year's Eve. West of London. One of the lines coming into Paddington.”

“But how did you identify her?” Kincaid asked. There was usually not much left of someone who went under a train.

“Her face wasn't too badly damaged. She was only half on the tracks. Maybe she changed her mind.” Doug cleared his throat. “You don't want to see the photos, Guv.”

“Could it have been an accident?”

“Not unless she liked to climb railway embankments in the middle of the night for fun.”

“And no one claimed or identified her?”

“No. And she didn't match any missing person description.”

Why, Kincaid wondered, had no one in the group reported her missing? “Look, I've got to go,” he said to Doug. “I'm meeting Matthew Quinn's father. Can you keep digging on Ryan Marsh/Marlowe?”

“I live to serve.” With that, Doug rang off, and Kincaid couldn't help grinning.

His smile faded as he thought again of the girl. Wren. Did the group know what had happened to her? They'd all been cagey whenever she was mentioned.

And was there any connection between her death and Paul Cole's fascination with trains?

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. That would have to wait.

Entering the hotel, he nodded at the doorman, then paused for a moment to look round the reception area. It was the first time he'd been in the hotel since the refurbishment. The restoration had done justice to the Victorian architect Gilbert Scott's glazed entrance hall, which mirrored the spectacular Barlow train shed next door in the railway station. Even on such a gloomy day the space was filled with light. It was now a very elegant lounge with groups of comfortable conversation areas. Some of the occupants having tea or cocktails looked extremely well heeled, while some just appeared to be tired tourists.

He asked for the Booking Office Bar at the reception desk and was directed to a doorway on his right.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. From light into dark, indeed. But it was a glorious dimness. The room had been the original booking office for St. Pancras station, and the restoration had celebrated George Gilbert Scott at his most Gothic. Shaded lighting and intimate groupings of tables and leather chairs kept the focus on Scott's deep-red brick walls and his soaring windows. Light shone through them from the lobby on one side and the terminus itself on the other.

It was past the lunch rush, but the bar was still busy. The high ceiling and brick walls magnified the sounds of conversation and cutlery. When an attractive blond hostess greeted Kincaid, he told her he was meeting Mr. Lindsay Quinn.

“Oh, Mr. Quinn, of course. He's expecting you.” She smiled and led him the length of the room to a table against the very back wall, tucked in beside a decorative screen.

Kincaid would have recognized the man who rose to greet him without any introduction. He had his son's distinctive tall, lanky frame, although without the stoop. His hair, curly like Matthew's, was threaded lightly with gray, but he radiated an easy confidence that was far removed from Matthew's blustering self-importance. Like Kincaid, he wore jeans, but his tweed sports coat had fashionable suede elbow patches, and Kincaid suspected that the jacket was hand tailored.

“Mr. Kincaid, do sit down.”

As Kincaid took one of the leather armchairs, he saw that the table held a pot of tea and two cups, as well as a water jug and two distinctively etched water glasses.

As Quinn sat down again, he said, “I like this table because it's quieter back here. You can actually have a conversation. I ordered tea—I prefer Ceylon this time of day—but if you'd care for something else?”

“Tea is fine,” Kincaid told him. “A little milk, no sugar, thanks.”

Quinn did the honors gracefully, but the glance he gave Kincaid was very sharp.

“Now, Mr. Kincaid,” he said as he handed Kincaid his cup, “tell me why a senior Metropolitan Police detective wants to talk to me about my son.”

“Have you spoken to Matthew?” Kincaid asked.

“I thought I would wait until I'd met with you. Best to be prepared.”

Kincaid stirred his tea, unnecessarily. “I understand that you are a major shareholder in the corporation that owns the building in which Matthew lives.”

“The building is slated for refurbishment soon. It's best to have it occupied in the meantime.” Quinn frowned. “But why is that police business? Has something happened in the building?”

“Not in the building, no.” Tasting his tea, Kincaid was quite sure it hadn't come from a tea bag. “Did you know that your son is involved in antidevelopment protest activities, Mr. Quinn?”

“Antidevelopment? That's putting it a bit strongly, don't you think? Matthew's a bright lad, but he's having trouble finding his footing. I thought it best to give him some time to get it out of his system. Most young men go through a rebellious stage.”

True enough, Kincaid thought, sipping his tea, but those rebellious stages were not usually financed by their parents.

“Matthew's studied structural engineering,” Quinn went on, topping up his cup, “and he's concerned about the preservation of London's buildings. As am I. I hope that once he's had some time to think about it, he'll decide to study architecture and put his concerns to positive use.”

“So Matthew has been living in the building in return for looking after it. That sounds a good arrangement.”

“I thought so, yes. Unfortunately necessary these days, with the threat of squatters and vandalism.” Quinn looked curious but still relaxed. Kincaid was fairly certain now that Matthew Quinn had
not
run to Daddy with his troubles.

“Are you aware that Matthew has been sharing the flat with half a dozen fellow protesters?” asked Kincaid, pouring himself a glass of water.

Now Quinn looked thoroughly taken aback. “Protesters?
Living
in Matthew's flat? Surely you're mistaken. I assumed he occasionally had friends in, but I can't imagine—”

“There were three other men and three women living there on a regular basis. Matthew was apparently supporting them.”

Quinn seemed about to protest again, but after a moment he shrugged. “I give my son an allowance. I don't tell him how he can spend it. And how I manage my building is not really your concern.” Then he frowned and studied Kincaid intently. “You said
were
. And
was,
Mr. Kincaid. Now tell me what this is about.”

Leaning forward, Kincaid said quietly, “Mr. Quinn, did you know that Matthew's group of antidevelopment activists was involved in Wednesday's incident at St. Pancras?”

“What? Here?” Quinn's eyes widened in shock. “Where the man burned? But that's absurd.”

“I'm afraid not.” From the expression on Lindsay Quinn's face, Kincaid thought he understood why Matthew Quinn had not demanded a solicitor. He hadn't wanted his father to find out he was in trouble.

But what had he thought would happen if his protest had gone according to plan? Had he assumed Ryan would avoid arrest, and that the group would gain media attention merely by proximity? Even if he had never been connected with the smoke bomb, his father would not have been pleased to see him waving placards on television.

“We've identified the young man who was killed as Paul Cole,” Kincaid continued. “He was a university student who was affiliated with Matthew's group, although he didn't actually live in the flat.”

“That doesn't mean that my son had anything to do with this chap deciding to burn himself up.” Quinn was wary now, on the defensive.

“We're not sure that Cole killed himself intentionally. It was Matthew's idea that another member of the group should set off a smoke bomb while the rest were carrying protest placards.”

“Matthew's idea? What a harebrained—” Quinn stopped and ran a hand through his curly hair. “But you said a smoke bomb. That was no smoke bomb. It was a grenade. What happened?”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us. Do you know how Matthew might have got access to a white phosphorus grenade?”

“White phosphorus? Matthew? Christ. Of course not.” Quinn looked really rattled now. “Surely it was someone else—”

“Matthew's admitted buying what he thought was a smoke bomb from someone he met at a protest.”

“You've interviewed him? Without a lawyer?”

“He didn't ask for one.”

“Bloody hell.” Quinn sounded thoroughly disgusted. “My son has a genius IQ. Did he tell you that? But no common sense. I can assure you, however, that he would never deliberately hurt anyone. Especially not in such a horrible way,” he added, shaking his head. “I had no idea he was dabbling in anything that radical.”

“Did you happen to mention to anyone that your son was involved in antidevelopment protests?”

Quinn thought for a moment. “I might have mentioned something at my club. Men my age get together over a drink or two, they are apt to start complaining about their children's exploits. I'm sure no one took it seriously.”

But what if they had? If Ryan Marsh was a cat among the pigeons, someone had taken Matthew Quinn seriously enough to put Marsh there. Unless, of course, Ryan Marsh had gone rogue—but in that case,
Marsh
would have to have taken Matthew seriously as someone he would want as an ally.

Lindsay Quinn sat back with an air of decisiveness. “My son has gone quite far enough with this protest business. I can see I've been too lenient with him, but I never thought he'd get himself involved in something like this. My God . . . If any of my clients had any idea . . . Do you know, Mr. Kincaid, what it costs to shut down a major rail terminus like St. Pancras International for even half an hour? The entire country's rail system will have been disrupted, and there will have been delays and reroutings in Europe due to the Eurostar trains. Hundreds of thousands of pounds, at the very least. Maybe into the millions.”

Quinn shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and Kincaid could see that the shocked father had morphed into the businessman.

“I'm sorry not to have been more helpful with your inquiries,” Quinn went on, “but I'm certain that Matthew is guilty of no more than stupidity.”

“He's admitted to buying the smoke bomb.”