The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  “I’ve met Jess,” said Gemma. “He seems very focused.”

  Pamela’s laugh held no humor. “You could say that. Focused enough to let the nasty business of Henry Su’s death roll off his back. They blamed him, you know, the Sus. And they blamed the nanny. Reagan.”

  “Reagan?” said Gemma, startled. “Why?”

  “They said if she’d been watching Jess properly that day, she’d have realized Henry was missing and sounded an alert.”

  “But Henry wasn’t her responsibility.”

  Pamela Peacock sighed. “I’m not sure that makes much difference to parents who have lost a child and are looking for anyone to blame but themselves.”

  “You bugger,” said Doug with feeling, when Kincaid had explained what he’d done that afternoon. “So that’s why you were in Wallingford. I’d have gone with you.” He looked as disappointed as a child denied Christmas.

  “I know. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “So what did you find?”

  Quietly, Kincaid told him.

  “He was going to bolt,” said Doug, after considering for a moment. “He never meant to kill himself.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he’d made connections among campaigners he’d infiltrated. Maybe he thought he could take the family and disappear abroad, where no one had any idea who he really was.” Doug frowned, swirling the sugary syrup in the bottom of his coffee cup. “Most of the undercover cops have elaborate exit stories planned years in advance. They’re intended to be put to use when they go back to the regular job, but maybe Ryan really meant to enact his.” Doug seemed somehow to find the idea comforting. “You remember,” he went on, “how we found Ryan in the Met’s records, first as uniform and then as CID, and then he disappeared off any active roster?”

  Kincaid nodded, not sure where this was going.

  Doug glanced at him, then back at his coffee, as if uncertain how to go on. “You know it was Melody’s father who first heard that Denis had been attacked. He . . . suggested . . . to Melody that perhaps something from Denis’s past had come back to haunt him.”

  “Denis’s past?” Kincaid said in surprise.

  “Well, that’s what I thought, too. But, then, I thought, why not have a look, so I did. The pattern is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.”

  “What pattern?”

  “One like Ryan’s. Exemplary record. Uniform to CID in record time. A year as a detective sergeant in Hackney. Then, poof. Nothing for three years. Zip. Nada. Then, suddenly Denis Childs reappears, as a DI, posted to Charing Cross nick.”

  Kincaid sat back, staring at him. Finally, he said, “Shit. Denis was undercover. I’d never have thought . . .”

  “No. But it might explain some things. Those connections Ivan Talbot hinted at—could they have been people in whatever groups he infiltrated? Or old mates from Special Branch?”

  Kincaid recalled his earlier thought. “Is it possible,” he said to Doug, “that Denis knew Ryan Marsh? Or knew about Ryan Marsh? When he transferred me to Holborn, Ryan had already been in place with Matthew Quinn’s little group for months.”

  “I’m beginning to think that anything is possible. And Denis was very good at gathering information.” Doug pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and reached for his satchel. “Did you bring that memory card? Let’s have a look. Maybe Ryan will tell us.”

  With another glance round the room—he was beginning to feel like a bloody spy—Kincaid slipped the little rectangle from his wallet and handed it to Doug.

  As he watched Doug put his laptop on the table, Kincaid’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Taking it out, he saw that it was Jasmine Sidana, his DI from the team at Holborn. He frowned, debating whether to take the call, but he knew Sidana would never ring him for something trivial. Scooting his chair back a bit, so as not to disturb Doug, he answered.

  “Sir,” said Sidana. “I know you’re tied up with family matters. But we’ve just pulled a body out of the canal at King’s Cross. And there’s something I think you’ll want to see.”

  “I’m back in London, actually.” Kincaid glanced at his watch, calculated how long it would take to walk from the club to the station. “I could be there in about half an hour.”

  When he rang off, he found Doug frowning at the computer screen. “What is it?” he asked.

  “The memory card. It’s just pictures. A jumble. Makes no sense to me.” He slid the computer round so that Kincaid could see the screen.

  Kincaid scrolled through the dozen images. As each photo popped up on the screen, his dismay grew deeper. He recognized the cluster of buildings in the village center. He knew the pub. And the church, with its distinctive lych-gate. “Dear God,” he whispered. “It’s Hambleden. It’s Angus Craig’s house.”

  It was the house as he’d first seen it, unscathed by fire, and the leaves on the trees surrounding it were the russet of late autumn. Doug, he realized, had only seen the aftermath, when the Craigs were both dead, and the house a smoking ruin.

  Chapter Eighteen

  July 1994

  They had made love on the kitchen floor, amid the spread newspapers and tins of paint. It had felt illicit, and so consuming that when he turned up at the Tabernacle hours later, his body was still tingling.

  It left him totally unprepared for the long faces of the group hunched over their coffee cups in the Tabernacle café. Annette Whitely was there, and Marvin Emba, a studious-looking black man, as well as half a dozen other regulars.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, sitting down, his coffee order forgotten.

  “Where have you been?” Marvin challenged him, his chin thrust out. “We’ve rung your flat half a dozen times.”

  “I had a job.” He was unprepared for this, too, and he hated not having a scenario worked out. “North London,” he added, rubbing at a suddenly noticed paint smudge on his hand and trying not to think about how it had got there. “What’s happened?” he asked again, doing a mental head count. None of the regulars were missing.

  “It’s Whitewatch,” said Annette. Whitewatch were the most extreme of the smaller fascist groups that had popped up in London recently, and one he was sure Special Branch had an eye on. “They’ve said they’re going to march at Carnival. People are going to get hurt.”

  “We have to do something,” Marvin chimed in. “Protest. That’s what we’re about.”

  “Then someone really will get hurt,” Denis said, as calm as he could make it. Notting Hill Carnival had been plagued by racial violence since its inception. This year’s celebration was only a few weeks away. The police would be out in force, but they couldn’t stop every flare-up from turning into a vicious brawl.

  “You know what they’re like, Den.” Annette, usually his ally, was glaring at him. “We can’t just do nothing.”

  Whitewatch was not only as racist as their name implied—they also particularly targeted biracial people, calling them “abominations.” People, he thought, like Annette. “Look,” he said. “Engaging with these people is like throwing petrol on a fire. It’s what they want. We know that. The only effective message we can send is a peaceful one.”

  “Then we can march peacefully,” said Deirdre. A schoolteacher, with the frizzy hair and huge glasses popular a decade earlier, she liked to feel she was in charge. The others, however, looked at him expectantly. He’d never wanted—or meant—to be considered the leader of the little group. But he’d found—as he suspected had most of the undercover cops—that being a policeman gave one a natural authority that was difficult to camouflage.

  “We can march,” he agreed, “but I think we’d be better served getting out leaflets and handbills, encouraging people to keep things peaceful. Nothing will get better if there’s a riot.” There were reluctant nods, but he sensed mutiny brewing. “Where did you hear this?” he asked. “Are you sure it’s not just a rumor?”

  “My brother,” said a woman called Beverley, “works in an auto repair shop with a bloke
who hangs round the group. This bloke was bragging about how they were going to kick heads at Carnival. And, get some, you know . . .” Beverley, like Deirdre, was white, and the white members of the group were always uncomfortable repeating racial epithets.

  “Maybe it’s just talk, then. But we’ll keep our eyes open, right?” This time the nods were more enthusiastic, but he didn’t trust any of them, even Annette, not to start spreading the rumor. And the more talk, the more the potential for violence would rise.

  As much as he hated to, it was time he made a report to Red Craig. It was his job.

  Leaving the Peacocks’, Gemma and Kerry walked along Cornwall Crescent. As they approached the Sus’ house, Gemma’s spirits felt inexplicably heavy. She wasn’t looking forward to talking to this couple who’d lost a child and whose method of dealing with their grief seemed to be making enemies of all their neighbors.

  The front of the house was architecturally identical to the others on that side of the terrace, but while most had some adornment, polished brass knockers or topiaries or window boxes, the Sus’ house was stark. It felt like a blind eye.

  Kerry charged up the steps and pressed the buzzer. She had to press a second time before there was an answer.

  Gemma had been expecting both the Sus to be Chinese, but the woman who answered was white, as blond and thin as Pamela Peacock, but with none of her natural elegance. Her face was hard, and her mouth was compressed into a thin, red, unwelcoming line. When Boatman introduced them and showed her warrant card, she looked at them blankly, then said in a high, strident voice, “This is too bloody much. Who did they pay off to get detectives to harass us?”

  It was Kerry’s turn to look blank. “Mrs. Su?” she asked, recovering. “Mrs. Lisa Su?”

  “You know perfectly well who I am or you wouldn’t be here. I’m not talking to you—”

  “Mrs. Su, there seems to be some misunderstanding. What is it that you think we’re here about?”

  “The extension, of course.”

  Lisa Su, Gemma decided, might have been pretty if not for what seemed a perpetually angry expression. Her eyes protruded slightly, as if pushed out from the pressure within.

  “This has nothing to do with your extension,” said Kerry. “Is your husband at home?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to disturb him.” Mrs. Su looked suddenly uncertain. “Really, can’t you just tell me what this is about?”

  “Do you mind if we come in?” asked Kerry. They were still standing on the doorstep and she gave a pointed glance at Jean Armitage’s house, two doors down. “And it really is important that we talk to you and your husband.”

  “Oh, all right.” Mrs. Su ushered them ungraciously into the hall. And there she left them while she went down the stairs into the basement. They heard her call, “Ben? There’s—” The sound was cut off by the thud of a closing door.

  The doors to the sitting room were closed as well. There was nothing on the walls, just as there had been nothing about the exterior of the house to give a clue as to its inhabitants.

  Ben Su preceded his wife up the stairs. Gemma’s first thought was that she hadn’t expected him to be so good looking. He was tall and lithe, with thick dark hair just beginning to gray a little at the temples. His handsome face was, like his wife’s, set in lines of anger. But while Lisa Su looked petulant, he looked . . . dangerous. Gemma took an instinctive step back, but there was nowhere to go.

  “What do you want?” he asked in precise, unaccented English.

  “We’re investigating the death of a resident here on the garden,” said Kerry. “Reagan Keating. I believe you knew her.”

  “What are you talking about? We don’t know of any death. We can’t—”

  “The nanny?” his wife said, interrupting him. “The nanny? She’s dead?”

  Kerry glanced at Gemma. Was it possible that they really didn’t know? She supposed it was. They had no friends among the neighbors, as far as Gemma knew, and they seemed to be away from home all day. The monstrous unfinished extension must block any view of the garden from the basement and ground-floor rooms.

  “Yes, the nanny,” Gemma answered, by now thoroughly irritated by the pair. “She was killed sometime Friday night, in the garden. We understand you held her in some way responsible for the death of your son.”

  The bulge of Mrs. Su’s eyes grew more pronounced. “Who told you that? We only said that if she’d been more careful—”

  “Lisa, that’s enough,” barked her husband. To Kerry and Gemma, he said, “We know nothing about this, and neither of us spoke more than half a dozen words to the girl. Now, if you don’t mi—”

  “Mr. Su. Mrs. Su.” Kerry was looking pinched. “We’re sorry to take up your valuable time. But a young woman has been murdered. Did you see anything, or anyone, out of the ordinary on Friday night?”

  Lisa Su shook her head. “I was staying the night with my sister. In Milton Keynes.”

  “Mr. Su?”

  For a moment, Gemma thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “Out with clients from the bank. I was late back.”

  “How late?” asked Boatman.

  Again, the slight hesitation. “About three.”

  “Can you confirm this?”

  “Of course I can confirm it. But you can talk to my solic—”

  “It was that boy,” broke in Lisa Su. “The dancer. That was what Ben said to her. If he hadn’t bullied our Henry, Henry wouldn’t have hidden in the shed. I know he wouldn’t. Henry didn’t like tight spaces. And he’d never have lost his inhaler if something hadn’t upset him. Ben told her that.”

  “You told Reagan that?” Gemma asked Ben Su. “When?”

  But it was Lisa who answered. “At the stupid garden party. Where no one talked to us.” Her big eyes glistened with tears.

  “Wait.” Gemma had to stop herself giving Lisa Su a shake. “Are you saying that Jess Cusick bullied your son?”

  “Christ, what an unpleasant couple,” said Kerry as they walked away. “The question is, are they that horrible because their son died? Or was the son a little twat because his parents were worse twats? And now they’re even more awful than they were before?”

  “I don’t believe for a minute that Jess Cusick bullied Henry.” Gemma was still furious. On the back of a card, Ben Su had scribbled the names and numbers of his colleagues from the bank, and of his wife’s sister. Then he’d added his lawyer’s number and told them to contact the solicitor with anything further. It had been all Gemma could do to keep a civil tongue in her head.

  Kerry looked over at her as they reached the car. “I think we need a drink. That was hazardous duty.”

  Gemma had to agree. She’d already arranged for Wesley Howard to watch the kids. That left Kincaid unaccounted for, but Gemma wasn’t going to ring him to tell him that she was going to be late.

  Kerry’s pub of choice was The Hansom Cab on Earl’s Court Road, next to Rassells garden center where Gemma had been the previous Saturday, and just a few steps from Kensington Police Station. The pub’s front room was small and unpretentiously relaxed, with comfortable furniture and an impressive center bar. The clientele seemed to be local, and regulars. Boatman chose a table in the corner and sank into an upholstered chair with a sigh of pleasure.

  “My feet are killing me,” she said, surreptitiously slipping her shoes off under the table. “This place has quite a history, you know.” She gestured round the pub. “Although you wouldn’t think it to look at it now, Piers Morgan was a co-owner for a while, along with his brother, Rupert, and another posh bloke called Tarquin Gorst. Can you believe that? Piers, Rupert, and Tarquin. Poncey gits. It was a celebrity hangout. Thank God that’s a thing of the past. Now, this is just a decent pub with good beer and very good food.”

  The waitress, a friendly girl with tattoos to rival Agatha Smith’s at the distillery, came to take their orders. Boatman went for bitter on tap. Gemma, studying the bar, spotted a familiar logo. “I’ll try the Red Fox gin.
With tonic.”

  “You liked him, didn’t you?” said Kerry, when the waitress had gone.

  “You mean Edward Miller?” Gemma thought about it. “Yes. I suppose I did. Although that doesn’t mean I’d rule him out as a suspect. But I take it you didn’t care for him.”

  Kerry shrugged, her expression rueful. “Old prejudices, I suppose. Nothing against him personally.” When Gemma waited expectantly, she sighed and went on. “I was a bright girl. My parents scraped together nearly every penny they earned to send me to a fee-paying day school so that I’d have a good education. So I spent six years being looked down on by people with accents like his, who didn’t think I was good enough to be there.”

  “A big chip, then,” said Gemma, with an understanding grin.

  “Beer-sized,” agreed Kerry when the waitress had brought their drinks. She lifted her pint glass. “Cheers. Here’s to getting to the bottom of this damned case. I’d really like to pin it on one or both of the Sus, but I suspect their alibis will pan out.”

  “I don’t think they can possibly have anything to do with Reagan’s murder,” said Gemma, tasting her gin. “I can’t come up with any believable scenario where Reagan would have gone into the garden alone with either of them.”

  Frowning, Gemma thought a little more about dark and brooding Ben Su. The man exuded power as well as anger. And he was very good looking. “Well, maybe I’ll take that back . . .” She sipped some more, liking the herbal tang of the gin, then said, “What if Lisa was away at her sister’s? What if Reagan was feeling guilty about Henry’s death? What if she took Ben Su up on an invitation to meet in the garden, thinking she’d have a chance to apologize?”

  “I can see that,” agreed Kerry.

  “And when he wanted more of an apology than she was prepared to give, he smothered her,” said Gemma. “I suppose it’s possible, but would Reagan, who by all accounts wasn’t much of a drinker, really have drunk that much alcohol with him?” she asked.