The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

“But you didn’t—I mean—” Kincaid stopped. He’d never seen Childs drink much, but then he was discovering how little he actually knew about his former boss.

  “If you’re trying to find a delicate way of asking if I was an alcoholic, the answer is no.” There was the hint of amusement in Childs’s voice. “I contracted hepatitis when I was a very green detective. It was only in the last couple of years that the extent of the damage became apparent.”

  Taking another swallow from his pint, Kincaid mulled over Childs’s revelations. It explained his absence, all right, but not the things that had turned Kincaid’s life upside down. “You knew you were taking leave,” he said. It came out as an accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me you meant to transfer me?”

  “Ah. I knew we’d get to that.” Childs sounded resigned. “I didn’t tell you because it was better if they thought I’d cut you loose.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kincaid set his pint down, all ease gone. “Who’re ‘they’?”

  “Better you don’t know. There are people who don’t like me, Duncan.” The set of Childs’s mouth was grim. “There was more than one reason I didn’t have the transplant here. I’d have been forced to wait until I was too ill to work, and there are those who would have been more than happy for an excuse to push me into early retirement.

  “And with me gone, even temporarily, I thought some of that . . . ill will . . . might rub off on you. I’ve known Tom Faith at Holborn for a long time. He’s a good copper.”

  “You’re implying some aren’t? At the Yard?” Kincaid’s stomach had tightened into a hard knot.

  “Those are just the sort of questions you don’t need to be asking, Detective Superintendent.” There was no warmth now in Childs’s dark eyes.

  “So you arranged my transfer for my own good?” Kincaid’s voice rose. “What about Gemma’s? Were you behind that, too?” Belatedly, he realized that people were staring at him again.

  Childs gave him a look he couldn’t quite read. Then he leaned across the booth, so that his gaze met Kincaid’s directly. “Drink up, laddie,” he said softly. “Go home to your wife. Mind your children. Do your job, and keep your nose out of things.”

  Childs sat back and finished the dregs of his tonic. Then he slid out of the booth with surprising grace for a big man. He stood for a moment, as if hesitating, then, with a last nod at Kincaid, made his way out of the bar.

  What more could he have said? Denis Childs hunched his shoulders as he walked into the unpleasant east wind. It was late in the year for an east wind—what was the old saying? An east wind blows no good? That would certainly be true tonight, he thought, tugging the lapels of his jacket together with a fist against his chest. The jacket’s tails flapped behind him like crow’s wings. He hadn’t had the time or the inclination to have many things altered, and his clothes hung loose as a scarecrow’s.

  He had long experience with parceling out the truth, but tonight had been more difficult than he’d expected. No—he should at least be honest with himself—the difficulty hadn’t been unexpected. But it had been more difficult, even, than he had anticipated.

  Of all the officers he had worked with in his career, Duncan Kincaid was his favorite. And the one in whom he saw the most of himself, both the good and the bad. Kincaid, who couldn’t leave well alone. Kincaid, who with all his charm and polish, had to say things he shouldn’t. Kincaid, who had yet to learn to balance the narrow line between what was right and what was expedient.

  As if he had, thought Childs, with a rueful grimace. The wind picked up another notch and, ducking his head, for a moment he missed the weight he had shed. He felt insubstantial, powerless. Perhaps he should have taken that medical retirement. Perhaps he should have let the decay in the Met spread unchecked—his attempts to stem it felt as feeble as a gnat swatting at a tiger. But the tiger stank, and the rot within it was spreading like the bloom on a corpse.

  He reached the entrance to the churchyard of St. James Clerkenwell. The graves held no fear for him. He’d grown up a server, and the rituals of the church made him comfortable, even if he no longer believed them. The path through the churchyard was a regular shortcut on the walks he’d begun months before for exercise, and the site—originally the medieval nunnery of St. Mary—was certainly well-steeped in prayer. He smiled a little at the pun, but his thoughts circled back to Kincaid. Had he alleviated the man’s peril, or merely increased it?

  It had been folly, he thought, if he were to be totally honest, his little confessional. He guessed he had merely dangled a tasty scrap of meat under a dog’s nose. He’d been weak, unable to resist the temptation to salvage his character before a man whose opinion he valued.

  The gate banged behind him as he entered the churchyard proper, then clanged again as the wind grabbed it. It was calmer under the tall trees in the churchyard itself, but a few remaining dead leaves and scraps of paper rustled along the ground, caught in an eddy.

  What could he do, then, to repair the damage?

  He’d been practicing damage abatement for a long time. Perhaps it was time he bit the tiger in the arse. The thought made him laugh out loud, but the sound suddenly seemed strangled, even to his ears. He chided himself for a ninny and hurried on, his eyes now on the churchyard’s far gate.

  The blow when it came was from behind, realized only in the moment of impact. Then the root-twisted earth rose up to meet him, and blackness descended.

  Chapter Four

  The Thames lay wide and flat above Putney Bridge, gleaming like molten glass in the early morning light.

  It was a deceptive calm, however, which Doug Cullen knew very well. The tide was coming in, and the current running beneath the river’s smooth surface was strong enough to pull under the careless or the unwary. Or to snatch a single sculler unlucky enough to capsize, and he was rusty, to say the least.

  He stroked a little to the left, aiming the feather of a boat upriver, towards Hammersmith, and squinted into the sun. He’d forgotten his sunglasses, essential gear for a rower. On his right, the boathouse flags were beginning to flutter and snap—the wind was rising. But for now, the advantage of the current allowed him to work the kinks out of shoulders and knees without too much strain. The ankle was another matter.

  His doctor had warned him that he might not be ready to row, but after months of enforced inactivity, he’d been determined to give it a try. He’d bought the house in Lacy Road, just a few streets south of the river, because he wanted to take up rowing again, and he was damned if he was going to let the stupid broken ankle keep him from doing it. He’d joined a club and bought the sleek little single scull. It was only now he was beginning to admit that he was woefully out of shape and that the ankle might still not be up to snuff.

  The end of the shingle slid by him, then Beverly Brook. Putney Bridge was receding, the red buses looking like toys as they trundled across it. The creak of the oarlocks and the faint splash of the blades as they dipped in the water took on a rhythm that seemed as natural as breathing. Doug’s confidence began to rise. He could bloody well do this. Damn the naysayers.

  He was glad his friend Melody Talbot hadn’t come to help with the garden. She’d been promising to help him sort out his little patch of earth since he’d moved into the Lacy Road house in February. Melody, as clueless as he, had spent hours perusing gardening sites and drawing up a plan. Today was the day they had meant to dig the beds for the flower borders.

  But when he’d rung her, she’d sounded sleepy and confused. “Oh, Doug, I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. “I forgot. Let me get dressed. I’ll come right over.”

  “Don’t bother,” he’d snapped, offended. “I’m taking the boat out.” He’d disconnected before she could protest, then turned his mobile off so he wouldn’t be tempted to answer if she rang back.

  Now he was regretting his temper. She hadn’t sounded well. There had been something not quite right about Melody lately, and he realized that it had been several weeks since he’d ac
tually seen her. This wasn’t the first time she’d canceled an engagement, pleading work or tiredness.

  Doug could have blamed her lapses on her recent relationship with the guitarist Andy Monahan, but Andy was touring in Europe. No, whatever was wrong with Melody, he didn’t think it was that.

  But who was he to even hazard a guess? He, who’d prided himself on his tidy life—his progress in the job, his relationship with his boss, his decision to buy a house—had apparently got it all wrong. He’d been transferred out of a position he loved, second to Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, then Kincaid had not only moved away from the Yard, but seemed to be shunning him.

  And now was Melody avoiding him, too?

  Suddenly, Putney Bridge seemed very far away. His bad ankle twinged on the next stroke, and glancing round, he found he could see Harrods Book Depository on the south bank of the river. He’d rowed farther than he’d meant. Easing the little scull round in a wide circle, he began to stroke back downriver. But he was fighting the current now, and the rising breeze cut across his bow and kicked up the surface of the water. The pain in his ankle quickly grew worse than a twinge, but there was no choice but to keep rowing unless he wanted to be carried upriver until the tide turned.

  Doug gritted his teeth and plowed on. Damn and blast Melody Talbot. If he was crippled by the time he got to shore, it would be her bloody fault.

  “You wash, I’ll dry,” Kincaid said, pulling the tea towel from the bar on the front of the cooker. He knew it was the easier job—as did Gemma, from the look she gave him—but he liked it. It was a visible result, and he liked visible results. They were an antidote to the frustrations of the job.

  They had finished their Sunday-morning family breakfast and the kitchen still smelled of bacon and fried eggy bread. The younger children were playing in the hall. Checking on them, he’d found Toby lowering the kittens from the stairwell in a basket, and Charlotte looking on, entranced. When the kittens reached ground level, none the worse for their adventure, Kincaid had dutifully scolded Toby while trying not to laugh.

  “I think Kit’s been reading Jules Verne to Toby,” he said as Gemma handed him her Clarice Cliff teapot, brought out for the occasion of Sunday breakfast. He took it gingerly. When visitors told Gemma it was too valuable to use, her usual practical reply was, “Why have it, then?” But he knew that if he broke it, he would not be readily forgiven.

  The look she gave him said she was not amused by Toby’s antics, or by him. He couldn’t blame her for being cross. Last night, he’d stayed at the pub long after Denis left, finishing the pint Denis had bought him, then drinking another, trying to make sense of what Denis had told him. And trying to decide exactly what to tell Gemma.

  As he sipped his beer, he’d watched the patrons in the tiny pub, guessing at their jobs and personalities and relationships. How long, he’d wondered, since he’d been anywhere alone? Other than driving or riding the tube, he was with either his family or his team at work all day, every day, and he suddenly realized how much he needed that small window of time on his own to let his mind unwind.

  He’d roused himself to finish his pint and nod goodnight to the barman.

  The tube service was slow, however, and when he finally reached the house he found Gemma and the children asleep.

  Now, however, his reckoning had come.

  “So,” she said, handing him the dripping plate with a little more force than necessary, “tell me about your mysterious meeting. Who was it?”

  Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to figure out any way to ease into this. “Denis,” he said, rubbing vigorously at a smudge on the plate. “It was Denis.”

  Gemma just glanced at him, then dunked another dish. “Bollocks. The children could come up with something better.”

  “No one could invent Denis.” He kept his tone light, but this time she really looked at him, the forgotten dish dripping suds on the floor.

  “That’s daft,” she said, but with less certainty. “Our Denis?”

  “None other.”

  “But—” She shook her head. “He’s back? Where the hell has he been all this time? And why on earth didn’t he just ring you?”

  “He’s been in Singapore. He had a liver transplant.”

  “He had what?” Gemma abandoned the washing up, leaning back against the sink so that she could look at him directly. “You really are having me on. This isn’t funny.”

  “Who would joke about a liver transplant?” Kincaid shuddered involuntarily. “And you wouldn’t doubt it if you saw him. The man’s positively glowing. Thin as a rail, too. Well, thin for Denis, anyway,” he amended.

  “But—I don’t see—why didn’t he tell anyone? And why Singapore?”

  Kincaid gave her an edited version of the story Denis had told him last night, leaving out the bit about Denis being afraid he’d be turfed out of his job if anyone discovered how ill he was.

  When he’d finished, she looked a little less skeptical, but said, “Why didn’t he tell you?”

  “Maybe he thought I’d refuse to see him.”

  “With good reason. Did he offer you your job back?”

  “No.”

  “Did he at least say why he transferred you?”

  Kincaid almost answered, Because he thought I’d be safe with Faith, but caught himself. “Because he thought I needed a change, and that I’d get on well with Chief Superintendent Faith.”

  Frowning, Gemma took the teapot from the draining board and set it carefully on the shelf by the cooker, then turned back to him. “It’s Henley, isn’t it? He’s punishing you because you questioned his judgment over Angus Craig.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s—” Kincaid stopped. He might have said the same before last night. Shrugging, he said, “Maybe. But I suspect Denis has had more important things to worry a—”

  Gemma’s mobile rang, making them both jump. “Oh, blast,” she muttered, interrupting him. “Sorry.” Digging the phone from under the accumulated pile of Sunday newspapers, she glanced at the screen, then answered with a neutral, “Hi,” that gave him no clue as to the caller’s identity.

  He was just as glad of the distraction. God knew what sort of admissions he’d have waffled himself into if he’d kept talking.

  Mobile held to her ear, Gemma nodded several times, then said, “Right. Right. Of course. No, we’ve had breakfast—brunch, really.” She glanced at him, then at the kitchen clock. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll ring you back.”

  “Who was that?” he asked when she’d rung off.

  “MacKenzie. She needs a favor.”

  Melody looked like hell. Her dark hair was matted, and the blue eye that peered blearily back at her as she squinted at the mirror was bloodshot. Her cheek was creased and stamped with the imprint of the patterned sofa cushion. Not a pretty sight. God, how had she done that again, gone flat out on the sofa for an entire night? Turning away from the mirror with a grimace, she switched the shower on full force.

  When Doug had rung, Melody had started awake, finding herself almost nose to nose with a carton of congealed Indian takeaway teetering on the edge of the coffee table. Beside the carton stood an empty bottle of wine, a cheap Italian red. Had she really drunk it all? Surely she hadn’t . . . But when she ran her tongue around her teeth, they felt as fuzzy as her head.

  The last thing she remembered was watching grainy YouTube videos of Andy and Poppy playing in a club in Munich, trying to stay awake in case Andy called. It was difficult to find a time to have a proper conversation, with him playing late nights and sleeping during the day. By the time he finished evening gigs, it was usually well after midnight London time. He’d be wired and wanting to chat, and she’d be half dead from exhaustion. So she’d been particularly looking forward to Saturday night, when she could afford to stay up, but he hadn’t rung.

  Probably just as well, she thought now, considering the empty wine bottle. Had she been mad to think this relationship would work? The buttoned-down
cop and the suddenly famous rock guitarist? When she met Andy Monahan, he’d been doing session work and playing in a mediocre band, barely paying his bills. Then his manager had paired him up with twenty-year-old Poppy Jones, a vicar’s daughter from Twyford with an amazing voice and virtuoso chops on the bass guitar. The duo had made a breakout video and were now touring Europe, getting more notice with every date they played.

  Melody couldn’t see where she fit into any of this, and certainly nothing she had to say about her days on the job could compete with Andy’s tales of life on the road.

  The bathroom was filling with steam from the shower, obscuring her reflection as she glanced once more in the mirror. She closed her eyes, glad to shut out even her foggy image. The truth was, she couldn’t compete with Poppy. And the thought of losing Andy made her hurt in a way she didn’t even want to contemplate.

  Well, if there was nothing she could do about Andy, she could at least try to make things right with Doug. She rubbed the steam from the mirror, looked herself in the eye, and said, “Bloody buck up, Melody Talbot.”

  After a quick shower, Melody had rubbed her hair dry with a towel, then pulled on jeans and a leaf green T-shirt that was, she thought, appropriate for gardening. She left her flat in Notting Hill without breakfast or coffee, and it was only as she was driving across Putney Bridge that she realized she had no gardening gear, not even a pair of gloves. Well, it wouldn’t hurt her to get a few blisters, and hopefully Doug had at least bought a spade.

  The day had turned bright and hot, and even though the shower had made her feel considerably better, she still had a nagging headache. Tea. She needed tea, the great restorative. There was a Starbucks on Putney High Street, just round the corner from Doug’s house. She’d take him a cuppa, too, as a peace offering.

  A few minutes later, mission accomplished, she’d parked in Lacy Road and had managed to maneuver the two paper cups of tea out of the car when her mobile rang. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, trying to set the tea safely on the bonnet and retrieve her mobile from her handbag. When she saw who it was, she almost didn’t answer. The screen read simply “Mum.” If Melody didn’t answer, her mother would keep ringing. She took a breath and tapped Answer.