The thought reminded him that he’d been neglecting to check on Louise, who was recovering from a case of tuberculosis—and on Tam, Louise’s friend and neighbor, who’d been badly injured in the grenade explosion at St. Pancras. He felt, for the first time in his life, overwhelmed by others’ troubles.
And now this. He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate as he turned into Whitechapel, nearing the hospital. But he was afraid of what he would find.
The Royal London Hospital was, in Kincaid’s opinion, an architect’s nightmare. The classical eighteenth-century frontage had grown additions over the years that ranged from Victorian to the latest in postmodern glass blocks, all jumbled together as if they’d been dumped from a grab bag. But the sight of the bright red air ambulance on its pad cheered him, and he thought that one day he must bring the children to see it.
And how lucky for Denis—or so Kincaid hoped—that he had been injured so near London’s major trauma hospital and hadn’t needed the air ambulance to get him here.
Once he’d managed to park the car and find his way to the main desk, a receptionist pointed him to the Adult Critical Care ward and he found it quickly enough. As he entered the ward’s waiting area, Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Faith rose to greet him.
Faith wore golfing clothes, the sportiness of the attire incongruous with the worried frown on his face. “Duncan. Good of you to come.” He clasped Kincaid’s hand in a firm grip, then sat again, motioning Kincaid to an adjacent chair.
“How is he?” Kincaid asked, looking around the waiting area. There was an anxious-looking middle-aged couple in the far corner, but no one familiar. “Is there no family here?”
“Diane is sitting with him. They allow two people in the room, but I—” Faith shook his head and grimaced. “I thought they might need some time alone. And what good can I do in there?” He gave an eloquent shrug of his thin shoulders. “But I thought I should be here for Diane when the consultant comes to give her an update. She—”
“Denis is conscious?” Kincaid interrupted with a spring of hope.
“No.” Faith shook his head. “They’ve induced a coma to reduce the swelling on his brain.”
Glancing at the couple across the room, Kincaid lowered his voice. “What exactly happened?”
“We don’t know. A couple of teenagers found him lying in the churchyard at St. James Clerkenwell. Girls cutting through the churchyard after dark,” Faith added with a grimace. “At first they thought he was drunk—he was mumbling and trying to stand—and they hurried by. But then one of them thought he looked ill and went back to check. Thank God. They called 999. The medics found him unconscious. Blow to the back of the head.”
It was Kincaid’s turn to frown. “Mugged?”
“Not unless the muggers were interrupted. And that seems unlikely since they took time to kick him. His wallet and phone were still in his pockets.”
“Did the girls see anyone?”
“They said not.”
“Time?”
A sharp look from Faith reminded Kincaid that he was interrogating a senior officer—his senior officer. “Sorry,” he said, making an effort to sit back in his chair.
“I understand you’re concerned.” Faith’s reply was not exactly a reprimand but held a note of warning. He went on, “It was about nine, just fully dark. But it’s doubtful he’d been there long. The churchyard is a regularly used pass-through.”
Kincaid tried to think back. He’d met Denis at eight. How long had they talked? He hadn’t looked at his watch when Denis left. Had it been more than half an hour? And even assuming that, how long did it take to walk from Roger Street to St. James Clerkenwell?
However you figured it, he might have been the last person to see Denis Childs before the attack.
“Diane says he left their house in Sekforde Street about half past seven for a walk, but we have no idea where he went.” Faith might have read his mind.
Kincaid heard the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and sweat prickled under his collar. Across the room, the woman gave a soft little hiccoughing sob. Did he trust Faith enough to admit that he had been with Denis?
But Faith shifted in his chair, glancing at the door into the ward and then his watch, and the moment passed.
“It was a good thing he still had his wallet,” Faith said. “Not that the ambulance service wouldn’t have rushed him into trauma care under any circumstances, but knowing he was a police officer certainly didn’t hurt. And when they called Diane from A and E, she told them about the transplant straightaway. They’d kicked him in the sides. We don’t know yet what that might have done to his new liver,” Faith added, and Kincaid saw that his fists were clenched.
Kincaid considered Faith’s presence at the hospital, and his obvious closeness to both Denis and Diane Childs. “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I knew Denis thought very highly of you as a colleague. I didn’t realize you were such close friends.”
“We were at the academy together. Our wives were best friends for thirty years. That’s how they met.” Glancing at Kincaid, Faith answered the question Kincaid had begun to formulate. “Linda died of cancer two years ago. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without Denis and Diane . . . Well, never mind. But I would do anything for either of them. Of course I’m here.” His voice was fierce.
Oh, Christ. Kincaid rubbed a hand across the Sunday stubble on his chin. So Denis had sent him into safekeeping with his most trusted friend, and he in turn had spent the last few months seething with resentment. If only he had—
The ward door opened and they both turned as if jerked by magnets, then stood. It was Diane Childs. When she saw Kincaid, she smiled and came to him with her hand outstretched. As he took it, she said, “Duncan. How lovely of you to come.” Her hand felt childlike in his. Slender, her dark hair barely threaded with gray, she had always seemed tiny beside Denis’s bulk, but today, alone, she looked even more delicate. She wore no makeup other than a brave bit of rose lipstick, and her eyes were a startling deep blue against her pale skin.
“Any change?” asked Faith.
Shaking her head, she managed a smile as she sank into a chair. “No. But that’s good, they say.” She pulled the edges of her sapphire cardigan together.
“Let me get you a coffee,” said Faith, rocking on his feet as if he couldn’t bear to sit.
“If I have any more coffee I’ll take off like a rocket. But, maybe . . . hot chocolate?” She shivered visibly. “The room is warm but I feel a little chilled.”
Faith’s brows drew together in disapproval. “You haven’t eaten.”
Diane Childs laughed, the sound so startling in the waiting area that the couple across the room looked up, distracted from their worry. “Tom. Stop it,” she said with evident affection. “Go fetch me some hot chocolate, please. And just to make you happy, a sandwich.”
For a moment, Kincaid thought Faith would protest. But having at least won part of his argument, he nodded and went out the way Kincaid had come in.
He was still feeling bemused by the idea of his superior officer being ordered about when Diane fixed him with her disconcerting deep blue gaze and said, “Tom can be a bit of a mother hen. But then I imagine you know that. Best to let him have his way.” Touching light fingers on his arm, she added, “And I wanted a chance to talk to you.”
Kincaid froze. Did she know Denis had met him? Did she know anything about the things that Denis had been hinting at last night?
He scrambled for a reply, but all he could think was that she smelled faintly like his mother’s Cheshire borders in summer—sweet pea, that was it, the scent he remembered. “I’m sorry,” he managed, “about what happened—”
Diane was already shaking her head as if impatient with the condolence. “Denis has never been very good at telling people how he feels—and the fact that it’s not encouraged in the police hasn’t helped. But he talks about you often—and about Gemma and your children, espe
cially your little daughter. I think perhaps he envies you that.”
Taken aback, Kincaid gaped at her. That was the last thing he’d expected. But then he thought of all Denis’s smooth little questions, inserted so seamlessly into other conversations. He’d always assumed it was Denis’s way of keeping tabs on his officers—a good guv’nor knew that his officers’ home life affected their work and so kept up with it—but it had never occurred to him that Denis’s interest might be personal.
But as he considered it, things began to take on a different coloration.
There was Gemma’s transfer to Brixton, coming so swiftly after she’d been instrumental in unearthing a long trail of assaults against female police officers by a senior officer. Kincaid had half suspected that Denis had arranged it as a sweetener, a way of discouraging him from protesting about the outcome of that same case. But what if it had been, not a subtle bribe, but a means of putting Gemma out of harm’s way?
Diane patted his hand, bringing him back to the present. “He would never admit it, of course. But I know he was not happy about losing you to Holborn, although there’s no one he respects more than Tom Faith.”
“Losing me?” Kincaid asked. “Is that what he said?”
Diane sat back and sighed. “Well, perhaps he didn’t put it quite like that. He—” She stopped, looking up as the ward door opened.
It was a consultant, easily identified by her white coat and stethoscope. Kincaid felt Diane tensing beside him, and for a moment he hoped the doctor had come to speak to the couple across the room. But she came straight towards them, saying, “Mrs. Childs?” in a soft, slightly accented voice.
Diane nodded and Kincaid instinctively clasped her hand.
“Mrs. Childs, I’m Miss Cisse and I’m the consultant who will be managing your husband’s case while he’s in the critical care ward.”
The consultant’s skin was a deep mahogany, and the name, Kincaid guessed, was central African, perhaps Nigerian. She wore the tiny plaits of her thick hair pulled back with a colorful printed bandeau, a contrast to her serious demeanor.
When she looked questioningly at him, he released Diane’s hand and stood for a moment to shake the doctor’s. “Duncan Kincaid,” he said. “I’m a . . . a friend of the family.” Diane gave him a quick nervous glance.
The doctor sat beside Diane, taking a moment to scan a small tablet she carried with her, then looked up and began, “You know we are keeping your husband under sedation to minimize any swelling on his brain? He has a type of injury called an epidural hematoma, which required surgery last night. The surgeon also inserted a tiny device into the incision that monitors the intercranial pressure—any swelling of the brain,” she clarified, glancing at them both to make certain they were following.
Diane nodded, and Kincaid guessed some of this had been explained to her last night.
“Your husband also hit his head when he fell forward, and the two blows have given his brain quite a jar.”
“A concussion?” Kincaid asked.
Miss Cisse nodded and smiled at him as if he were a prize pupil. “Yes, exactly.”
“But we were told that Denis was talking when the girls found him,” said Diane, and Kincaid could tell it was taking an effort for her to keep her voice steady.
“That’s very common with your husband’s type of injury.” Cisse gave her another encouraging smile, but Kincaid didn’t feel better. He’d seen injuries like this, where after a blow to the head, the person remained lucid for as long as several hours before losing consciousness. His stomach lurched.
“Can you tell what caused the injury to the back of the head?” he asked.
The doctor’s smile lost some of its wattage. “I can guess it was made by something hard and that the depression was about the width of your finger. I don’t think we can determine more than that, Mr.”—she paused to consult the notes on her tablet— “Kincaid. Now, if there’s anything else—”
“How long will he have to be kept sedated?” Diane’s rose lipstick looked stark now against her pallor.
“That all depends on whether there is any more swelling, Mrs. Childs. But he’s comfortable, I assure you.”
“When he wakes up, will he remember what happened?”
“I’m afraid it’s quite common for patients to have no memory of the incident that caused their injury. I wouldn’t worry about that just now.”
What the doctor didn’t say seemed to hang in the air like a specter.
It was also quite common for patients with severe brain trauma never to wake up at all.
Kincaid went into the curtained cubicle alone. The doctor had left just as Tom Faith returned with Diane’s sandwich and hot chocolate.
Slowly, he moved to the foot of the hospital bed and gripped the railing. There was an ugly purpling lump on the right side of Denis Childs’s forehead, and the stubble from two days’ growth of heavy dark beard covered his cheeks and chin. An IV catheter trailed from his right arm and his mouth hung loosely around the breathing tube, the muscles slack. The monitors stood by, silently blinking guardians, and Denis’s large frame seemed shrunken under the hospital sheet.
A strip of bandage ran rather rakishly just beneath Denis’s hairline and Kincaid assumed it anchored the small probe placed in the back of Denis’s head. It was frightening enough, Kincaid thought, to watch those one knew well sleeping, but still in the mumble and twitch and the flutter of eyelids there were signs of the personality that animated the body. Here, there were none. He realized that although Denis Childs’s face had often seemed impassive, in reality it had conveyed a myriad of expressions, all of them unique. And his dark eyes had been filled with a lively and calculating intelligence. They were closed now, the dark lashes fanned against Childs’s olive cheeks.
Kincaid gripped the rail until his knuckles showed white. He would find out who had done this.
He would find out what Denis had been trying to tell him.
And Denis was bloody well going to wake up.
“Reagan was an only child but she always had a special knack for kids,” Gwen Keating said to Gemma. Gwen had gulped her tea as if she were parched and Gemma had refilled her mug from the dregs of the pot.
MacKenzie had stepped into the hall to ring Bill and check on the children. Nita sat perched on the edge of the sofa, tapping her foot and glancing towards the upper part of the house every few minutes.
Gemma wasn’t sure if it was because she’d served the tea, or because she hadn’t known Reagan, but Gwen seemed fixed on telling her about her daughter. “Her dad died when she was three,” Gwen went on. “Cancer. So it was always just the two of us. We did everything together.”
“What do you do in Cardiff, Gwen?” asked Gemma, hoping to steer the conversation towards something less personal.
“I teach English literature at a comprehensive.” Gwen leaned towards her, frowning. “Listen, the police officer I spoke to said they thought Reagan’s death could have been caused by an alcohol or drug overdose.” She set her empty mug down and went on, “I don’t believe it, not for a minute. Reagan might have had a few drinks with friends, but she didn’t binge. And she would never do drugs. I know kids. I’m not a naive mum. I see kids every day at school, I know what sorts of things they get up to. That wasn’t Reagan, I’m telling you.”
Gemma had heard similar testimony from parents before, painful in its earnestness. Shocked and grieved, most didn’t want to believe their children could have been at fault. But Gwen Keating was right, she did know kids, and nothing about the woman struck her as naive.
And then there was the way Reagan’s body had been described, which suggested another possibility—one that Gemma was certain her mother would find even more painful—suicide. “I’m sure they’ll have some answers for you soon,” she said, knowing that there was no good outcome, although a natural death would surely be the least painful.
“I want to take her things home,” Gwen said, gathering her handbag to her, the fir
st step in leave-taking.
Nita’s head snapped round towards her, as if she’d been somewhere else entirely until Gwen spoke. “You can’t.”
“What?” Gwen stared at her. “What do you mean, I can’t? Why ever not?”
Nita said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that the police told me that her room should be left as it was until they’d done their initial investigation. They didn’t tell you?”
“No. They did not.” Gwen’s lips were pinched tight.
Somebody at Kensington nick had made a right balls-up of this, thought Gemma, starting with mentioning alcohol and drugs to Gwen when they hadn’t done a tox screen or a postmortem. If it had been anyone on her team, she’d have had their head on a platter.
Nita shot her a pleading glance.
The room had grown warmer and stuffier. Wondering why Nita didn’t open the windows for a little air, Gemma resisted the urge to get up and crank the casements out herself.
MacKenzie’s voice had been a low murmur from the entry hall. Now Gemma heard the front door open and close. Rising, she peered out the front windows and saw MacKenzie pacing the pavement, mobile held to her ear. MacKenzie looked up, waved, and smiled.
“She could see Reagan’s room, couldn’t she, Nita?” Gemma asked, finding herself unable to sit down again. The scent of the roses had grown stronger.
“But—I don’t know if she should— And I don’t think I can possibly—”
“I’ll go with her,” Gemma said, cutting off Nita’s protest.
Nita frowned. “And you’ll make certain—”
“Of course Gwen won’t take anything.” Gemma’s patience was wearing thin.
“Well, all right, if you’re certain,” said Nita, acquiescing with less than good grace. “It’s the front room on the first floor. Jess has the back. I’ll be in the kitchen. I need to make some phone calls.” She gave them a brisk smile and went out. The room was so quiet that after a moment Gemma heard her soft footfalls on the stairs.
The Garden of Lamentations Page 7
