“Of course I am. Just try to stop me.” On impulse, Kincaid leaned down and kissed his dad’s bristly cheek, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.
Chapter Thirteen
July 1994
He sat in the café across from Earl’s Court Station, watching the door uneasily. Usually he reported to his handler by phone several times a week, particularly when there had been a meeting of his protest group. But this morning he’d been summoned. Especially as it was the beginning of his one day off and he’d been planning to make the most it, perhaps take his wife for a drive in the country to enjoy the fine weather.
He’d come deliberately early. The place was a working man’s café, Formica tables, scuffed lino floor, the food ordered and served from the counter. But the café was clean and was known for its good food and generous portions. After a week of the vegetarian life in Paddington—he didn’t dare be seen eating meat by his new friends, who were vegetarian or vegan all—he’d ordered the full fry-up, bacon and sausages and, horror of vegetarian horrors, black pudding. Now he was on his second mug of industrial-strength tea, sitting where he could watch the door and the bustle of the street beyond.
So it was that he saw Red before Red saw him, and the unguarded expression on his handler’s face made the food he’d just eaten turn leaden in the pit of his stomach.
Spotting him as he came in the door, Red crossed the café briskly—he was always brisk, a man going places and in a hurry to get there—and stopped at his table. “Need a refill?” Red asked, nodding at the mug, but it was perfunctory.
“No thanks. I’d float.” He tapped his still-full second cup for emphasis, then watched as Red went to the counter and got himself a coffee. The man looked like a copper even in his casual clothes. His posture was ramrod straight, his clipped little ginger mustache something only a policeman or a soldier would sport, his summer polo shirt tucked too tightly into his pressed trousers, and his sports jacket just a bit too tailored.
Returning, Red made a pucker of distaste as he mopped up a few drops of a previous customer’s spilled tea with a flimsy paper napkin. As he sat, he glanced round the café. The place was emptying, entering the lull between breakfast and lunch. Red frowned, assessing him. “You look like shit.”
If that meant he no longer had the proper spit and polish, that was true enough. He’d learned to achieve a certain level of stubble, and had let his dark hair grow over his ears and his collar. He wore a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and sturdy canvas work trousers. He was, after all, supposed to be a jobbing landscaper. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass with me,” said Red, obviously not appreciating his humor. With a frown, he leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Now, what sort of progress are you making?”
He blinked. “Progress? I’ve told you. We’ve some new leaflets and we’re joining in a march in south Lon—”
Red waved a hand dismissively. “You know very well that’s not what I mean.” The handler checked again for eavesdroppers. It made him look furtive. “What have you learned about the Lawrences? Have they got anything new?”
Ah. Light dawned. He should have known. It was only a few weeks ago he’d learned that one member of his group was meant to be his particular target. Twenty-seven-year-old Annette Whitely was an actress, just beginning to get better parts in film and on television. She was mixed race, her father West Indian black, her mother white. She’d grown up in Notting Hill and was fiercely devoted to stamping out racial discrimination. Horrified by the handling of the Lawrence case, she’d spoken out publicly several times. It was hoped by the Met that her minor celebrity would give her some access to the Lawrence family’s private investigation into their son’s death. “Not as yet,” he said carefully.
Red bristled. “This is taxpayers’ money you’re wasting, sonny, lounging around and eating your nut loaves and curries.”
He thought, not for the first time, that if the taxpayers had any idea where their money was going they would be horrified. “Sir.” He kept his tone reasonable. “You know these things take time.”
“Don’t patronize me, sonny,” Red hissed, and the color of his face made it clear the nickname had to do with more than his hair. “Things could go pear shaped and we are counting on you.”
There’d been another story in the Chronicle that week, further detailing the Met’s incompetence in the Lawrence case. “Sir,” he said even more quietly. Anyone who knew him well would have recognized his even voice as a sign of rising temper. “I can’t just make up things out of thin air.”
“Then I suggest you try harder. Or things might get very difficult for you.”
He stared at the little man across the table. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
Red gave a little smirk, not quite hidden by his mustache, and leaned back in his chair. “It would be a shame if your pretty wife found out you were shagging one of your unwashed protesters, now wouldn’t it?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve never—”
“Only because you’re too much of a wimp to take advantage of what’s under your nose. A surprise, a big fellow like you.” Red shrugged. “But what does it matter whether you did or didn’t?” He pulled a snapshot from his pocket. “Do you think your wife would believe you if someone happened to show her this?” He slid the photo across the table.
He stared at it in disbelief. “You’ve got to be taking the piss.” The photo had been taken on the street, near the Tabernacle. The group had been tacking up handbills. Annette, working beside him, had been bumped by a passing pedestrian. He’d put out a hand to steady her and that had been all there was to it. But what he saw in the photo was his hand grasping her shoulder as she leaned into him, and her laughing happily as she looked up into his eyes. There was an intimacy to it that he hadn’t recognized at the time.
And what made it worse was the fact that Annette Whitely was absolutely, stunningly beautiful.
“What man wouldn’t fancy that?” Red asked, pocketing the photo again. “And what man’s wife wouldn’t believe he did?”
By the time Melody had walked across Putney Bridge and made her way to Lacy Road, she was warm and her red outfit felt wilted. The little sheds in the front of the Jolly Gardeners were already occupied—they were quickly staked out by smokers—but she was able to snag a table inside by the big front windows. The open casements let in the warm evening air along with a drift of cigarette smoke.
The pub was a detached building in a road of small terraced houses just off Putney High Street. Victorian or Edwardian, the place had been updated well, with bare floors and simple, mismatched furniture that set off the high ceilings and the lovely large windows. In winter, coal fires burned in the period fireplaces, but this was an evening for being, if not in the garden, as close to it as possible.
She gazed out, fidgeting with the glass of white wine she’d bought at the bar. After her rush to get here, Doug was late. Before coming into the pub, she’d glanced up the street at his house. Dusk was drawing in, but no light shone through the green-and-gold glass in his front door. Doug was usually Mr. Punctual. She dug her mobile from her bag, double-checking she hadn’t missed a call or a message, then laid it on the table.
Then, with a sudden shake of her head, she picked up the mobile and slipped it back into her bag. What could possibly look sadder than a woman alone in a pub, desperately checking her messages?
The pub was filling up now and standing patrons were eyeing the empty place at her table. She forced a smile and put her bag firmly on the chair. Half her wine was gone, and if she got up, she’d lose the table. She took a tiny sip, then pushed her glass aside. Where the hell was Doug?
She should have stayed at Gemma’s. But she’d felt awkward there, too. Uninvited, a stray. Gemma’s world seemed complete in itself, brimming with children and dogs and even the bloody cats, a life full and always in motion. She thought of her own flat, empty and uninviting, and wondered how she’d got t
o such a place in her life.
Then she remembered Gemma’s face as she’d told her about her father-in-law, and she chastised herself for being selfish.
She’d taken her mobile out again to send Gemma a text when, from above her, Doug said, “Sorry. Bloody tube.”
“Jesus!” She dropped her mobile for the second time that day, and had to grope for it on the floor as Doug moved her bag and collapsed into the chair. “Where did you come from?” she asked as she sat up again, mobile in hand.
Doug nodded at it. “You were busy.”
“I wasn’t—” She shook her head. “Let’s not argue. Get a drink.”
He touched her glass. “Another round?”
She started to say yes, then realized she just felt terribly thirsty. “Just some sparkling water, please. With ice.”
Doug raised an eyebrow at that, but got up again and threaded his way to the bar. They knew him here, the place was his regular. She saw the barman smile as he took Doug’s order. Where, she thought, did she go that anyone knew her?
It had been different when she and Gemma had worked out of Notting Hill. She’d known the best coffee shops and sandwich shops and bakeries, and had in turn been recognized and welcomed. She’d met mates from work for drinks at the pub near the station, where the staff greeted her with smiles and knew her usual. None of those things had happened at Brixton—somehow her routine there had never gelled. She felt . . . displaced. With Andy gone, Doug and his house and this pub were the closest things she had to familiar territory.
Doug came back, balancing a pint in one hand and a large bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass in the other. Melody took the glass gratefully. She filled it from the bottle and drank most of it down.
“Are you okay?” Doug gave her a concerned look as he slid into his chair.
“Yes, just—it was warm today and I’ve been back and forth across the city.”
Doug looked surprised. “You went home?”
“No.” Melody drank more water. “I went to see Gemma. I wanted to know why she didn’t come in today. Krueger was furious, said Gemma had been seconded to some big case. I hadn’t heard a word from her and I was—” She stopped, not wanting to admit how betrayed she’d felt.
“Did you talk to her? What happened?” Doug put down his pint and absently wiped the foam from his lip. For a moment, he looked like a little boy eating an ice cream, and Melody was tempted to smile.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly like that.” She told him about Reagan Keating, the girl who had been found dead in the garden, and about Gemma’s connection through her friends. “So Gemma got a bit steam-rollered, and I suspect Superintendent Krueger was royally hacked off because Marc Lamb didn’t even consult her before borrowing her from Brixton.”
“It will be Gemma who takes the fallout, not Lamb,” said Doug.
Melody nodded. “I’m afraid so. But I wish . . .”
“What?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to admit, even to Doug, how much she wanted to be back in Notting Hill, working on a case with Gemma.
“It’s never a good thing when people start calling in favors. You’re well out of it,” said Doug, and she knew that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Yes.” She poured more San Pellegrino into her glass. The ice was gone, and the water had done nothing to slake her thirst.
Doug leaned towards her, his face intent. “What about Denis? Did they know anything?”
“It wasn’t ‘they.’ Duncan’s in Cheshire. His father’s ill. But,” she said, before Doug could interrupt her, “Gemma said he went to see Denis yesterday, at the London.”
“But he can’t talk. Denis, I mean. If he’s in—”
“An induced coma, apparently. Because of the blow to his head. But, Doug, Gemma told me—” Melody paused, not certain she was supposed to repeat this, but Gemma hadn’t cautioned her against it. “Gemma said that Denis had a liver transplant. That’s why he was away.”
Doug looked at her like she’d gone bonkers. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t know either?”
“Of course I didn’t know. I’d have told you.” He thought for a moment. “How did he keep something like that quiet at the Yard? And how did Duncan and Gemma know? Is that why he’s been avoiding me?”
Melody could hear the hurt in his voice. She thought about how badly she’d felt, shut out by Gemma for one day, and for the first time really understood how Doug must have been feeling the past few months. “No,” she said, “I don’t think— I got the impression they didn’t know, either. Someone must have said something at the hospital.”
Doug sat back, sipping at his pint and frowning. “Cagey bugger,” he said at last. “And that’s not the only thing Denis Childs has kept quiet.”
“You found out something.” Melody’s pulse gave a little flutter. She wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread. “Tell me.”
“You know I didn’t see any of this. For the record.”
“Just tell me.” She found she was gripping her glass.
“I did a thorough search on the Web—you’d be amazed at what’s out there,” Doug said. “Denis Childs was a perfect candidate for a cop on a path to the top. University—Oxford”—this he threw in with a pleased little smile—“where he read Classics. Then, Hendon, graduated top in his class. After that, the usual couple of years in uniform, then a transfer into CID, where he quickly made detective sergeant.”
Melody waited, wondering if strangling him might be worth going to prison.
“He moved around a bit, again, not unusual, and did his courses. Then”—Doug paused for another sip of his beer—“he vanishes. Boom. Just like that. There’s no record of any posting for three years. Then he reappears, in central London, promoted to DI.”
They sat staring at each other. Finally, it was Melody who whispered, “Bloody Special Branch.”
“That would be the logical assumption.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean counterintelligence,” Melody said. “He could have done anything. Protected the queen, even.”
Doug grinned. “That would explain your father’s hints about a checkered past, all right.”
“Oh, ha bloody ha,” said Melody, but he’d made her laugh. “Can you find out anything else? Maybe you could, you know, get a look at their files.”
He was already shaking his head. “Hack Special Branch personnel? Just exactly how daft do you think I am?”
Hazel Cavendish had spent the afternoon baking at the Islington house. Not that the kitchen was professional, by a long chalk, but it was a good deal bigger and better equipped than the kitchen in her little bungalow in Battersea. Since she’d taken the contracts to provide baked goods for a half dozen West London cafés and restaurants, she’d been picking up her seven-year-old daughter, Holly, after school and coming here several afternoons a week.
“The Islington House,” she murmured to herself as she washed up the last of the sheet pans. She thought of it in italics. Not as Tim’s house, or as their house. Although technically it was, still, their house, even though she hadn’t lived in it for two years.
It was two years almost exactly, she realized, since she had run away to Scotland. She had taken Gemma with her on that ill-fated trip, but not even Gemma had been able to save her from a disaster of her own making.
As she dried the last pan, she gazed out the window at the shadows lengthening in the garden. The garage flat was dark. Neither she nor Tim had wanted to rent it since Gemma and Toby had moved out, although she knew the money would have been helpful. Tim had managed to keep the house up without her income—had even helped her a bit—and had never complained. How, she wondered, could she ever learn to deal with her guilt when her husband seemed set on sainthood?
Tonight he’d invited them to dinner, and had gone to the shops while Hazel finished up the last of tomorrow’s tarts. Holly was playing with a friend down the street and Tim had promised to collect h
er on his way home.
Hazel avoided seeing their neighbors, with whom she had once been close. She found her situation hard enough to explain to herself. Separated, but still married. “Co-parents,” she supposed, a term she hated. Friends, yes. She thought they had become so, over the past two years, which was very odd. They talked about things now in a way they had never done when living as husband and wife.
And lovers . . . yes, sometimes. The thought made her color. Folding her tea towel, she took down a glass and poured herself white wine from the open bottle in the fridge. She wandered out the back door and sat on the terrace, where she and Gemma had sat and gossiped so often on warm summer evenings while the children played in the garden. She’d been avoiding Gemma lately, too, she realized. She thought Gemma must know what was going on with Tim, but she was embarrassed to admit it even to her closest friend.
She and Tim hadn’t made love here, in the bed they’d shared for years, but only in her little bungalow, when Holly was at school or sleeping over with a friend. Then, it felt like they were teenagers, stealing a few hours for illicit sex, and it was better than she ever remembered. What would it be like if they lived together again? Hazel wondered. Would ennui set in? And if it did, would she be content with it?
A shout from the gate saved her from pursuing that thought. Holly came charging in, brandishing a scraggly doll. “Mummy, Amanda gave me her Barbie,” she said when she reached the terrace. “Can I keep her, please? Amanda said she’s old and she doesn’t want her anymore.”
“What did Amanda’s mummy say?” Hazel asked.
“She said I could keep her. Amanda’s getting a new Barbie. A curvy one, but Amanda thinks that’s stupid.”
Hazel looked up at Tim, who’d come in through the house and brought his own glass of wine. She rolled her eyes at him as he sat down beside her, but said to Holly, “Darling, why does Amanda think curvy Barbie is stupid?”
“Because Barbie doesn’t look like that, Mummy,” said Holly with a seven-year-old’s disdain for the obvious.
The Garden of Lamentations Page 17
