She turned to Gwen. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Gwen stood, nodding, and Gemma guessed she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Then let’s go up, shall we?” Leading the way, Gemma had to admit that, in spite of the circumstances, she was curious. She wanted to see more of the house. And she wanted to know more about Reagan Keating.
When Gwen hesitated outside the closed bedroom door, Gemma turned the knob and gave Gwen an encouraging little pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be right beside you,” she said, standing back to let Gwen enter.
It was a spacious room, with two large south-facing windows. The blinds were half drawn and the windows closed, so it was even warmer than downstairs. Scent lingered in the air, something fresh and slightly grassy. The double bed, covered with a bright orange-and-purple-flowered duvet, looked hastily made, and one of a cascade of decorative pillows had fallen on the floor.
Reagan had had an eye for color, Gemma thought, and had liked her creature comforts. There was a bookcase filled with paperbacks and magazines, an armchair with a beaded reading lamp beside it, and on the desk, a little tea-making station with a tin of tea, a tin of shortbread, and a chipped Brown Betty teapot.
A pair of jeans was thrown over the chair arm, and two summer dresses lay rumpled on the foot of the bed as if tossed there in a hurry. Were these the things Reagan had almost worn on Friday night, then discarded?
Gwen sagged onto the edge of the bed as if her knees had been suddenly cut from under her and gathered up one of the dresses. “I gave her this,” she said. “For her birthday.” She gave a sudden wracking cry, then her shoulders began to shake as she rocked, weeping, the tears streaming down her cheeks and the dress clutched to her breast.
Gemma sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders, murmuring, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” as if Gwen were the child, all the while knowing that it wasn’t all right and that it never would be.
When Gwen’s sobs had subsided to hiccups, Gemma looked round for tissues, spying a roll of kitchen towels tucked neatly behind the tea kettle. Giving Gwen a squeeze, she got up to fetch the roll, but as she stood at the desk she couldn’t help looking at the big corkboard above it.
It was covered with scribbled notes and photos and pages torn from the Ollie catalog. There was the photo Gwen had shown her, and several others that Gemma remembered glimpsing in her own copies of the catalog. The notes were written in a neat, round, fluid hand that made Gemma think that Gwen had taught her daughter proper cursive script when she was young. Most seemed to be simple shopping lists, or reminders to meet someone at a certain time—indecipherable unless you knew the code of the initials and abbreviations Reagan had used.
But it was the photos that interested Gemma most. It was unusual to see so many printed photographs these days, when most people stored photos on their phones. Checking the desk, Gemma spotted a small color printer tucked behind a stack of books. There was an empty space at the front of the desk that might have held Reagan’s laptop.
Tearing a couple of sheets from the kitchen roll, Gemma went back to Gwen. Then, as Gwen nodded her thanks and blew her nose, Gemma turned again to the photos on the board. There was one of Reagan with Oliver, and another of Reagan with Oliver and Charlotte. She hadn’t realized that Charlotte had known Reagan. There were dozens of photos of Jess—Jess dancing in practice gear, Jess dancing in full costume, and one of Reagan and Jess together. Her arm was thrown casually over his shoulders and they were laughing, making faces at the camera.
And there were photos of Reagan with her friends. Most were late-night-group-selfies-in-the-pub, fuzzy and unflattering. But there were several shots of a very good-looking young man, and their placement made Gemma think those had been looked at often. He was very blond, with straight hair cut collar length all round, full lips, and striking blue eyes. His gaze engaged the camera in a way that made Gemma think he was used to being photographed.
“Gwen,” she said, turning back to the bed, “do you know who this is?” She tapped the photo.
“Oh, him? That’s Hugo. Reagan is—” Gwen swallowed hard and tried again. “Reagan was going out with him. But I don’t think they’d been seeing each other as much lately.”
“Did she say why?”
“She didn’t say—I mean she didn’t say that they weren’t seeing each other. It’s just that I noticed she didn’t seem to have mentioned him much lately.”
Glancing back at the photo, Gemma asked, “Do you know Hugo’s last name?”
Gwen shook her head. “I should. I know she told me. But I never met him and I—I should have made more effort—” Her face crumpled again.
“Shhh.” Gemma sat down beside her again and gave her a hug. “I only asked because I wondered if anyone had got in touch with her friends.”
“Her mobile,” Gwen said on a rising note of panic. “Where’s her mobile? She would never have left it.” Pulling away from Gemma, she stood and went to the desk, then began rifling through things with a frantic energy.
“Gwen.” Gemma followed and put restraining hands on Gwen’s arms. “Gwen. We shouldn’t touch things. We—”
The door flew open with a bang that made them both jump.
Jess stood in the doorway, breathing hard. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. “This is Reagan’s room. You shouldn’t be—” He stopped, staring at Gemma. “What are you doing here?” In ratty jeans and T-shirt, his face red and swollen from weeping, he was barely recognizable as the confident boy Gemma had seen at ballet the previous day.
“Jess, I’m a friend of MacKenzie’s. It was MacKenzie who got my son a place in the class at the Tabernacle. My name’s Gemma.”
Jess frowned, looking from her to Gwen. Before he could protest further, Gemma added, “This is Gwen, Reagan’s mum. Your mother said we could come up.”
“She didn’t say you could go through her things.”
“No, she didn’t. But we thought we might find her phone so we could get in touch with her friends.”
“It’s not here.”
Gemma studied him with a level gaze. “You already looked.”
Jess ducked his head, his belligerence fading. “I thought . . . I thought she might have . . . left a message.”
“A message?” asked Gemma, but gently.
Jess shifted from one foot to the other and looked away. “I heard my mum talking. She said . . . she said the police thought maybe Reagan had . . . hurt herself. But she wouldn’t. She would never do that.” He looked back at Gemma, his eyes reddening and his fists clenching.
Beside her, Gemma heard the gasp of Gwen’s indrawn breath, but she kept her focus on Jess. “Jess, she could have been ill. And accidents happen, as much as we hate—”
“No.” Jess glared at her. “I heard my mum say how she was . . .” He stopped, pressing his knuckles to his lips and blinking hard. “I heard my mum say how she was found,” he went on, his voice stronger. “Ray didn’t just lie down like that and die. She couldn’t have. She would never, ever have done that.”
“You remember I was working at the café on the corner?” Hazel Cavendish asked, still holding Melody’s arm and looking concerned.
“Of course.” Melody forced a smile. “Of course I do. I was just miles away. You’re working this afternoon?” she added, glancing again at Hazel’s red sundress.
“The thing is, I’m not working there anymore,” Hazel explained. “But I’m baking for them, and for some other cafés as well. I’d just dropped off some pastries here for tonight when I saw you.”
“That’s great news, Hazel,” said Melody with real delight. “You’re quite the entrepreneur.”
Hazel looked pensive for a moment. “I miss the distillery sometimes.” When Hazel had separated from her husband, Tim, she’d moved to a remote village in the Scottish Highlands to run her family’s distillery, taking her daughter, Holly, with her. She’d returned to London after a year, saying that an isolated S
cottish moor was no fit place to raise a child. But although she was a licensed therapist, she’d taken a job serving at the café and moved into a little bungalow in Battersea.
As far as Melody knew, Hazel and Tim were still separated, but Hazel looked well and happy.
“But I don’t miss the Scottish winters,” Hazel added with a smile. “But how are you? Were you visiting your parents?”
Melody nodded. “The dreaded Sunday lunch.”
“No wonder you look so peaky. Come on.” Hazel took her by the arm again. “Let me treat you to a cuppa at the café. We can visit—it’s dead as a graveyard this time on a Sunday afternoon.”
Melody’s first instinct was to refuse. But as she started to shake her head, the world tilted again and the edges of her vision went bright and an odd acid yellow. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she could make it to her car unaided.
Giving Hazel a shaky smile, she said, “That would be lovely.”
“Brilliant. Let’s go, then.”
When Hazel tucked her hand in Melody’s arm, Melody didn’t object.
The tiny café on the corner was as deserted as Hazel had predicted. The small, dark-skinned woman at the register in the back looked up from a magazine when they came in. “Hazel,” she said. “What are you doing back? Did you forget something?”
“No. I bumped into my friend and brought her for tea. You can take a break if you like, Mary. I’ll watch the shop.”
“Would you really?” Mary flashed them a blinding smile. “I need to pick up a couple of things at Whole Foods and they’ll be closed by the time I get off.” She whipped off her apron. “Um, half an hour?”
“Go. Take your time.”
When Hazel had waved Mary out the door, she turned to Melody and pulled out a chair near the back. “Here. Sit. Unless you’d rather take one of the outside tables? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
The café did feel warm, but Melody was still squinting against the bright sunlight. “No, this is fine.” She sat with her back to the door, which always made her uncomfortable, but it was better than facing the glare.
“Tea or coffee?”
Melody couldn’t bear even the thought of coffee. The little food she’d eaten at her parents’ had made her stomach churn. “Tea, please.”
“The kitchen’s downstairs,” said Hazel. “I’ll be back in a tick.”
True to her word, she was back in five minutes with a steaming pot of tea, cups, and a plate of small brown biscuits. “My new specialty,” she explained as she sat across from Melody and filled their cups. “Brownie biscuits. They taste just like brownies but they’re crunchy like a good tea biscuit.”
Feeling better after the brief respite, Melody took a little nibble to please Hazel. “Oh,” she said, pleasantly surprised. “These are fabulous. How did you do that?”
“Trade secret.” Hazel grinned and raised her cup. “Chocolate and tea. Cure for anything.”
Melody took another bite, then mumbled through crumbs, “So how did you get started baking for the cafés?”
“I always baked. At home. In Scotland. Then, about the time I started working here, the pastry chef left and I made some things to stem the panic.” Hazel shrugged. “Before I knew it, I was working my shifts and doing all the baking. Totally mad. Then one day the owner of another café came in while I was here on my own and asked who did the baked goods. I struck a deal.”
“You’re doing this out of the kitchen in your bungalow?” Melody, who was hard-pressed to heat a frozen pizza, was impressed.
“Mostly. It’s not that difficult if you’re organized. But sometimes I use the kitchen in Islington.” Hazel colored a little and fiddled with her teacup.
Melody remembered that Gemma had lived for a while in the garage flat of Hazel and Tim’s Islington house. Was Hazel thinking of getting back together with Tim? She was trying to think of a discreet way to ask when Hazel changed the subject.
“How’s your bloke, then?” Hazel said, and it was Melody’s turn to squirm.
“He’s on tour. With Poppy. They’re taking Germany by storm at the moment, or so I hear.”
“Good for them.” Hazel sounded genuinely pleased. “Has it gone to his head yet?” she added, grinning.
“No. Not a bit,” Melody protested, perhaps a bit too quickly. She couldn’t help thinking about last night’s missed phone call. And about the screaming girls she’d seen in the videos.
She felt cold and a little queasy again. How was it possible to miss someone you had known only a few months so badly? She wanted to see Andy, to touch him, to smell the faint metallic scent his fingers picked up from his guitar strings. She wanted to curl up on the old futon in his flat and listen to him noodle on his guitar, Bert purring in her lap—
“Shit,” she said. “Bert.”
Hazel gave her a startled look. “Sorry?”
“Andy’s cat.” Melody took a breath, trying to slow her suddenly pounding heart. “His name is Bert. A neighbor in Andy’s building is feeding him but I promised I’d look in on him on the weekends.”
“Well, it’s not too late, is it?” Hazel asked gently, and Melody wondered if her flash of panic had shown. It wasn’t that she hadn’t looked in on the cat, it was that she’d completely forgotten she’d meant to. “The last time I saw you,” Hazel added, “Gemma was trying to talk you into taking a kitten.” She rolled her eyes. “I take it that you were sane enough to refuse. I can’t say the same.”
The night came back to Melody with crystal clarity. It had been a Saturday. She and Gemma were celebrating a good result on the investigation into the murder of a young girl in Brixton. They’d met Hazel at the Mitre on Holland Park Avenue for a girls’-night-out glass of wine. Melody had been fizzing, elated by their success on the case, excited for Andy, and feeling certain she was well on her way to recovering from the effects of the grenade at St. Pancras.
It had been the last night that the world had seemed manageable. The next day they’d learned that Ryan Marsh, the man who had walked into the fire at Melody’s side, was dead.
Gemma and MacKenzie drove Gwen Keating to Paddington Station. Gwen had insisted on going back to Cardiff.
“It’s the only place I can feel her,” she’d said, standing with them outside the Cusicks’ house, hugging her arms to her chest. “I don’t know this place, these people.” She gestured towards the house. “I don’t know this boy. Why would he say such a thing? Why would anyone want to hurt my baby?”
“He’s just upset,” Gemma told her.
But of course Jess was upset. He was only a little younger than Kit had been when his mother died, and Gemma knew firsthand how hard it was for children to cope with such a loss—especially if they had little in the way of emotional support.
MacKenzie had walked Gwen to her platform gate while Gemma stayed with the car, and had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to Notting Hill. “I just can’t believe it,” she said at last, breaking the silence as Gemma stopped at the Notting Hill Gate traffic lights. “I can’t believe Reagan would overdose, accidentally or deliberately.”
“There’s not much point in speculating before the postmortem results come back,” Gemma cautioned. The afternoon was morphing into evening, the light going flat as low, thin clouds moved in from the west. She needed to get home. Bill Williams must be going spare stuck so long with her two little ones, and she was worried about Duncan, who hadn’t rung.
Still. She drummed her fingers on the wheel as a 52 bus roared by, turning the sharp corner into Kensington Park Road. The whole scenario of Reagan Keating’s death was bizarre. It had that feel of wrongness that set her instincts clanging and her palms itching.
It was not her business, she told herself as the lights changed and she put the car into gear. It wasn’t her shout. She had a full enough plate at Brixton nick, as well as her own family to look after, and not enough time to do either properly. She would see Jess the next time she took Toby to ballet, and she would nod and smile
and he would never know that she had walked away.
The thought made her flinch.
The lights caught them again at Ladbroke Road, just a few blocks from her old nick, Notting Hill Police Station. And her old boss, Marc Lamb, who was one of the best officers she knew.
Not her job, she repeated silently. Not her shout. No one would expect her to do anything more than she’d done today. But the images came back to her—Jess, dancing, his face lit with concentration and with the joy that came from knowing his own power. The photo on Reagan’s bulletin board of the two of them, her arm thrown over his shoulders, both laughing silly buggers into the camera. Reagan Keating had loved Jess. Gemma was as sure of that as she was of anything. And what if, just what if, Jess was right?
When Kincaid walked back into the waiting area, Tom Faith and Diane Childs were standing talking to a woman in a well-cut charcoal suit. He didn’t recognize her until she turned and held out a hand in greeting.
“Detective Superintendent Kincaid,” she said. “I’ve just been checking on your guv’nor here.” It was Evelyn Trent, deputy assistant commissioner of Specialist Operations, and he hadn’t known that she even knew his name.
He shook her hand. “Ma’am.” She was a handsome woman in her fifties—or so he guessed—fine-boned, with fair skin and sleekly cut platinum hair. He’d seen her speak on command courses and at large briefings and had been impressed.
“Assistant Commissioner Neville stopped by this morning,” said Diane with a strained smile.
Kincaid understood then. The big brass—Trent, and Sir Richard Neville, the AC Crime, who commanded both Denis Childs and Kincaid directly, both paying their respects to an injured officer and his wife. They thought Denis was going to die.
“Commissioner Neville always spoke so highly of your husband, Mrs. Childs,” said Trent. “A fine officer, one of the best.”
The Garden of Lamentations Page 8
