The Garden of Lamentations
Page 27
She shivered in spite of the warm morning. What was he getting into now? And what the hell had he meant by “see a man about a dog”?
Her mobile rang just as she was parking, and Kate Ling’s name popped up on the screen. “Shit,” Gemma said aloud. She should have told Kincaid she was working with Kate on this case. Taking a breath, she answered with forced cheeriness. “Hi, Kate. What’s up?”
Kate Ling sounded amused. “You asked me to call, remember? You’re getting forgetful in your old age, Gemma.”
“Oh, right, so I did.” Gemma laughed, and it sounded awkward to her ears. “The time of death on Reagan Keating. We wondered if you could make a determination on whether it was before or after midnight.”
Kate’s sigh came clearly down the phone. “You know I hate doing that, Gemma. But if you want my unofficial opinion, I’d say before. But not long before. Okay?”
“Great. Thanks, Kate.”
“Anything for you, Gemma,” Kate said with an affectionate chuckle. She rang off before Gemma could thank her again.
Gemma sat, staring at the phone, feeling ill. How could Kate have got the postmortem report on Ryan Marsh so wrong? She’d argued with Kincaid last night, but, like him, she had utter confidence in Rashid’s judgment.
A rap on her window made her jump nearly out of her skin. It was Kerry Boatman, peering in at her. Gemma switched off the Escort’s engine and opened the door.
“I’ve been talking to you for five minutes,” said Kerry. “You were completely in outer space. Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Gemma grabbed her bag and locked the door. Looking at Kerry, she groaned. “Don’t tell me we’re walking again.”
“It’s not far. Just past Earl’s Court tube. Nita Cusick’s ex is meeting us at a hotel in Barkston Gardens. But he’s just delayed our appointment by half an hour, so we might as well take our time. Besides, there won’t be any bloody place to park.”
In truth, Gemma was glad enough of the walk and a chance to think. She wished she could confide in Kerry. Even more, she wished for Melody’s comfortable presence.
Instead, she told Kerry about Kate Ling’s phone call.
“Before midnight?” said Kerry, thoughtful. “In which case, Reagan Keating did not send that text to Edward Miller. And”—she stopped before Gemma could protest—“Miller’s brother, Agatha Smith, and two other distillery employees all swear that not only was Edward at the place until at least one o’clock, he was too pissed from partaking of his own product to do much of anything but stagger to his flat down the road.”
Gemma was relieved. She hadn’t thought Edward Miller capable of murdering Reagan, but she’d been wrong before.
“Thea Osho’s boyfriend confirmed her alibi,” Kerry continued. “And Hugo’s and Sidney’s university friends confirmed that they both arrived at one of the friends’ college lodgings about eleven o’clock.”
“Damn,” said Gemma, and Kerry grinned.
“My sentiments exactly. So where does that leave us?” They’d stopped at the Cromwell Road crossing, and the traffic whizzing by made it difficult to hear.
When the light changed and they were once again walking down Earl’s Court Road, Gemma said, “Either of the Peacocks. Either of the Sus. The gardener. Some resident of the garden who hasn’t come across our radar. Or someone completely unknown.”
“Helpful.” Kerry shot her a glance. “But that someone was not unknown to Reagan. Maybe the ex-husband can tell us something useful.”
They passed the tube station and almost immediately turned into Barkston Gardens on the left. It was a pretty square with a gated garden in its center, a peaceful oasis after the roar of Earl’s Court Road. The surrounding buildings were the white-trimmed, redbrick terraces that Gemma associated particularly with Chelsea and South Kensington, and the hotel came up very quickly on their left.
“He’s not staying here, is he?” Gemma asked as they walked through the pleasant reception area.
Kerry shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is he asked us to meet him in the dining room here.”
The dining room, it turned out, was actually three connecting rooms, with a bar at the far end. Light poured in from the large windows facing on the street. Staff was clearing a huge breakfast buffet from the center table in the main area. There were a few diners lingering over their breakfasts, but more tables were occupied by patrons with laptops and files, and a few by groups obviously in business meetings.
A friendly red-haired man came to greet them. “We’ve just finished serving breakfast, I’m afraid,” he said with a smile, and a definite Scottish accent. “But can we do something else for you?”
Even Kerry seemed charmed. Smiling back, she said, “We’re here to meet someone. A Mr. Cusick.”
“Oh, right. Chris is in the Snug. He told me to look out for you. I’ll take you back.”
They followed him to a small room tucked into the left-hand side of the rear dining area. It was a cozy space with comfortable furniture, low tables, and a wall of bookshelves at the far end.
A man sitting in one of the armchairs and typing busily on a laptop looked up, then put aside his computer and rose to greet them.
“Thanks, Darren,” he said to their guide, holding out a hand to Kerry, then Gemma. “I’m Chris Cusick.” He motioned them into adjoining chairs. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
Gemma had seen a beautiful latte on a patron’s table as they walked through the dining area. “I’d love a latte. Thanks.” She’d missed her coffee that morning, as well, and was feeling it.
“Yes, the same,” said Kerry, looking blissful at the thought.
Cusick stepped out for a word with Darren, then came back and sat down. He was tall, lightly bearded, with Jess’s ash brown floppy hair, and he moved with a grace and intentness that reminded Gemma forcibly of his son. “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said. “I’m sure you’re wondering why.”
“I thought you were a banker,” said Gemma.
He grinned, his teeth white against the beard, but Gemma saw hollows under his eyes. “I am a banker. An investment banker. I spend most of my day on my computer.” He waved a hand at the laptop, closed now. “Which I could certainly do at home. I live just at the top of the garden,” he added, with another gesture that made Gemma want to focus on the movement of his hand. “But, my girlfriend, Parminder—my partner, if you will—is a flight medic for air ambulance. She works nights.” Again, the flash of a smile. “That’s when all the fun stuff happens, apparently, although I don’t get it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I toddle along here most mornings to give her some peace and quiet.”
“I can see why,” said Kerry as Darren brought their coffees. She looked as if she might purr.
“You wanted to talk to me about Reagan,” Chris Cusick said when they’d taken their cups. Gemma had the feeling that in spite of his genial manner, he was quite used to directing the conversation. She wondered how that had worked with Nita.
“I was absolutely shocked when Nita told me what happened,” he went on. “Reagan was a nice girl. And she was great with Jess. I still can’t believe she’s dead. And now Nita says you think she was murdered.” He watched them intently as he spoke. Gemma had the impression he was hoping they’d tell him he was mistaken.
“You didn’t believe your wife, Mr. Cusick?” asked Gemma.
“Ex-wife,” he corrected, sharply. “And Nita can sometimes be a bit . . . dramatic.”
“You mean she makes things up to get your attention?” said Kerry, having drained half her latte in one swallow.
His eyes widened, but then he shrugged again. “She’s been known to exaggerate things, on occasion.”
“You two are in regular contact?”
“We have joint custody of Jess. And I own the Cornwall Gardens house.”
Kerry nodded and drank more of her coffee. “Very generous of you, I’m sure, Mr. Cusick.”
“It’s Jess’s home, too.”
“Nita and I separated six months after Reagan started. If you’re wondering, Detective, whether I had an affair with Reagan, I did not. We were friends, and I was very glad she was able to give Jess some support during the divorce. Parminder, my girlfriend, liked her very much, too.”
“Mr. Cusick,” said Gemma, “you know we have to ask. Can you tell us your whereabouts last Friday night?”
“Of course.” He seemed not at all offended. “It was Parminder’s night off. We had dinner with friends, then we came here for drinks, actually. The bartender makes a terrific passion fruit martini.”
“And you left here about what time?”
Cusick shrugged. “Close to midnight, maybe. The bar can be pretty busy here on Friday nights, but it had emptied out. Then, we went back to the flat and watched a film. I try to stay up with Parminder on her nights off, if I can manage.”
Kerry tapped his girlfriend’s contact information into her phone and had started to thank him for his time when he interrupted her. “Have you seen Jess? Is he doing okay? This has to have been a terrible shock for him, but he’s not returning my calls. Or Parminder’s, and he usually wants to hear all the gory details of her call-outs. He’s not due to stay with us until Friday and I’m worried about him.”
“I have seen him,” said Gemma. “He seemed quite angry and upset. Your wife told us he’s not communicating with her, either.”
“Poor little bugger.” Cusick frowned, then set down his coffee cup with a decisive clatter. “I’m going over there to talk to him this evening. Weekday visits aren’t in our agreement, but Nita will just have to lump it for once.”
“Mr. Cusick.” Touching his arm as he started to rise, Gemma asked the question that had been bothering her. “Do you by any chance know where your son was last Saturday morning? Apparently, he left the house early without telling his mother where he was going. She was frantic to find him missing, especially after she learned Reagan was dead. A friend finally tracked him down that afternoon at his ballet class at the Tabernacle.”
“Nita didn’t tell me that. Christ.” He shook his head, his mouth pinched in irritation. “I can tell you exactly where Jess would have been. And why he didn’t tell his mother. Jess takes classes several afternoons a week at the London Boys Ballet School in Finsbury Park. That’s one of the reasons Nita insisted on keeping Reagan on, so that Reagan could drive him there, although I think he’s old enough to go by himself, on the tube. The tryouts for the eleven-plus advanced program were on Saturday morning. Jess will have gone, and he won’t have told Nita because she forbade him to do it.”
“Why?” asked Gemma, puzzled. “I’d have thought the more opportunities for a boy as talented as Jess, the better.”
“That’s not the way my wife sees it. The London Boys Ballet School is the only all-male ballet school in the world, and they’re doing terrific things. But nothing matters to Nita except the Royal Ballet. Nothing else has mattered to her since Jess was three years old and his teacher told her he had promise.”
This was where it had all started, Kincaid thought as he slowed for the bridge in Henley-on-Thames. Seven months ago, he and Gemma and the children had been on their way back from a visit to Glastonbury when he received a call on his mobile from Chief Superintendent Denis Childs. They were still getting Charlotte settled into their home, and Childs knew Kincaid had requested a parental leave of absence starting the next week.
But it was a high-profile death, Childs said, perhaps accidental, and Kincaid was on the spot. So could he just take a look at things? A personal favor had been implied.
To Gemma’s chagrin, Kincaid agreed. Kincaid’s route that day had taken him just this way, through Henley, then north on the Marlow Road, following the winding course of the Thames downriver.
The victim’s body had been found caught in the weir below the village of Hambleden. Kincaid now knew that Denis Childs had been aware that newly retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig lived in Hambleden, and Kincaid now also knew that Childs had had good reason to think Craig might be a suspect in a suspicious death.
And Childs had dropped Kincaid in the midst of it.
During the course of the investigation, evidence had surfaced that implicated Angus Craig in another death, but Denis Childs had delayed Craig’s arrest.
In the early hours of the following morning, the Craigs’ house in Hambleden had gone up in flames. Craig’s body, and that of his wife, Edie, had been found inside, an apparent murder/suicide.
It had seemed an open-and-shut case. Edie had been found in the kitchen, Angus in his study, both shot with the handgun that appeared to have been gripped in Angus’s fingers. The remains were too damaged by the fire to determine much more.
But something about the events of that night had nagged at Kincaid. This morning, triggered by his dreams and the barking of his own dogs, he’d realized what it was. Edie Craig’s little whippet, Barney, had been heard barking by a neighbor some hours before the fire started. The neighbor, getting no answer when he’d rung the Craigs, had left a message and taken the dog in for the night.
The idea that Edie Craig had had some premonition of what was to come, and had perhaps let the dog out to keep it safe, had haunted Kincaid ever since. But if that was the case, what had happened in the hours that had elapsed between the finding of the dog and the start of the fire? No scenario quite added up.
He remembered that the detective constable on the scene had said the neighbor’s name was Wilson. The Craigs’ house, a beautiful estate at the far edge of the village, had been Edie’s, inherited from her family. The closest neighbor would be the house nearer the village, a good half mile from the Craigs’. He’d try there first. He preferred not to leave a trail by asking the Henley police, although he’d have liked to see Detective Constable Imogen Bell again.
He’d only seen the village in the autumn. Now, it was even prettier, with the lush spring green of the trees a vibrant contrast to the dark stone and red tile roofs of the buildings. He passed the pub, where he had drunk a beer, and the church, where he had once met Edie Craig at the lych-gate. As he drove past the village center, the houses grew farther apart. Then, after a longer gap, came the place he remembered. The small bungalow sat back from the lane, its well-tended garden riotous with blooms. In the distance, where the Craigs’ red-tiled roof had once marked the horizon, Kincaid saw nothing.
Spotting a wide place in the verge, he pulled up the car and got out. He’d dressed the part that morning, but his jacket had come off and his tie been unknotted as soon as he’d climbed in the un-air-conditioned Astra. Now, he slipped into his jacket, which was only lightly dusted with dog hair from the backseat, and pulled the knot on his tie up a bare half inch.
He’d opened the gate into the garden when the bungalow’s front door swung open. A man came out, half pulled by two small dogs on leads. One was a Blenheim Cavalier King Charles spaniel. The other, he recognized instantly. Barney, Edie Craig’s whippet.
“You kept him,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” The man looked confused, and a little wary. “Can I help you?”
“Barney. Edie Craig’s dog.”
The dog, hearing his name, or perhaps dimly recognizing something in Kincaid’s voice, began to wag his tail and strain at the lead. Kincaid squatted and the man, seeing that the garden gate was closed, let the dog go. Barney ran to Kincaid and, after an initial sniff, delicately licked his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” the man said again. “But who are you?”
Kincaid gave the dog a last pat and stood, collecting himself. “My name’s Kincaid.” He pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held out the open folder just long enough for the man to see the Met seal and his name. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to identify himself as a detective superintendent. Slipping the folder back into his jacket pocket, he held ou
t his hand. “You’re Mr. Wilson, I believe?”
Nodding, the man shook Kincaid’s hand tentatively. His fingers were damp. “Danforth Wilson. That’s right. How can I help you?”
Wilson was a small man, edging past middle age. He wore gold-framed glasses and was dressed in a slightly fussy and seasonally inappropriate tapestry waistcoat. He squinted at Kincaid, looking more anxious since he’d seen the identification.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Kincaid asked. He stooped again to give the spaniel a pat. “That’s a very nice Cavalier you have there, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson seemed to relax. “Thank you. Her name is Lola. I was just taking the dogs for their morning constitutional, but I suppose we could sit in the garden for a bit.” He gestured at a bench set amidst a riot of roses. Kincaid wished he’d left his good suit jacket in the car. Following Wilson, he sat beside him, avoiding reaching thorns as best he could.
“Graham Thomas,” said Wilson. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
It took Kincaid a moment to realize he was referring to the fulsome yellow rose that was at that moment threatening his eyesight with a wayward tendril. “Yes,” he agreed. “Lovely.” The scent, in the sun, was headily sweet. He shifted sideways so that he looked Wilson in the eye. “Mr. Wilson—”
“How do you know Barney? You haven’t come to—”
Kincaid was already shaking his head. “I met Barney once, with Edie Craig. I’m glad to see him happy here.”
“There was no one else to take him, you see. Neither of them had any family. The estate is still tied up in probate.” Kincaid must have looked surprised at his knowledge because he added, “It’s common knowledge at the pub. No one claimed the dog. I didn’t mind, and now I’m afraid I’ve grown quite attached to him. When you said you were with the police . . .”
“I did come to see you about Barney,” Kincaid said. “I had met Edie and Barney once, and then I was called in after the fire. Today, I was passing through Henley, and I just wondered if the dog was all right. One of the officers told me you’d taken him in that night.” That was, as far as it went, the truth. “I wondered if you could tell me exactly what happened.”