The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid had become acquainted with Atias during the investigation of Matthew Quinn’s little protest group. He’d liked him, and Ryan, he remembered, had liked him, too. “How are you, Mr. Atias?” Kincaid shook his hand across the counter. “How’s business?” The shop, unlike the rest of the building, was clean and bright. Atias had told him that the development of the area had been a good thing for him, because tenants of the new office complexes needed decent, reasonably priced food.

  “Better than ever,” Atias said. “I deliver lunches now to some of the buildings. And you?”

  The smell of frying chicken and chips, and hot coffee, made Kincaid’s mouth water. He realized that he’d completely missed lunch.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Kincaid?” Atias asked.

  Kincaid was tempted, but a look at the clock above the counter told him that he’d be late to his meeting with Doug. “Thanks, but I’d better not. Mr. Atias, is Matthew Quinn still in the flat upstairs?”

  “Alas, no, they are all gone. And the students below them. I think the developers are now waiting for all the leases to finish. Mine will be up the end of the year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kincaid, genuinely.

  Atias shrugged. “I’ll find another place. Near Brighton, my wife says.”

  It occurred to Kincaid that, like Matthew Quinn, Medhi Atias would have no reason to know that Ryan was dead. The women in Matthew Quinn’s group had liked Ryan, but, Kincaid knew now, to Ryan they’d been a part of his job. Medhi Atias might have been the closest thing Ryan had to a friend.

  “Mr. Atias, I thought you should know. Ryan Marsh is dead.”

  “Ah.” To Kincaid’s surprise, Atias merely nodded, his dark eyes unreadable. “I assumed so,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why you assumed it?”

  “It is more than two months now and he has not collected his pack. He said it was very important and that I should look after it for him.” Atias shrugged. “He would have come if he had been able.”

  Kincaid just stared at him. “His pack?”

  Wiping his hands on his apron, Atias ducked into the shop’s back room, returning with a small day pack. “I would not have given this to any of them,” he said, nodding towards the now-vacant flat. “Or the police if they’d come asking. But you, I think, are also an honorable man.”

  Kincaid took the pack. It was dark blue nylon, nondescript, about the size of a lady’s handbag. Whatever was inside felt hard and lumpy. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “His camera, of course,” said Atias. “Usually, he carried it with him everywhere. But on that day, the day the boy died, he did not.”

  October 1994

  He tried to touch Sheila, to find a pulse, hoping against hope that he was wrong, but Lynn pushed him aside. “Don’t touch her,” she snapped. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve rung Red from the call box on the corner.”

  “But we’ve got to ring for an ambulance—”

  “No. He said not to move, not to call. He’s coming.”

  Denis sat down hard on the nearest chair. His teeth were chattering and his legs wouldn’t seem to hold him up. “But she was fine. A little drunk. She—”

  “You have no idea how much shit Sheila took.” Lynn scrubbed the back of her hand across her face. “This time, she took too much and it killed her.”

  “But—” He thought of Sheila’s little skirt, bunched up until Lynn smoothed it. And was that bruising on her throat? His vision was blurring. He tried to get up for a better look, but sank back helplessly into the chair.

  “Mickey,” he croaked. “Mickey was touching her. Should never have left her alone with him. He must have—”

  “There was nobody here, Denny, I’m telling you.” Lynn peered at him, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed very far away. “What’s the matter with you, Den? Are you ill?”

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Red burst into the room. “Jesus Christ,” he said, staring at Sheila. His sharp gaze swiveled to Denis. “Did he do this?” he barked at Lynn.

  “God, no. I think she took an overdose.”

  “We should call—” began Denis, but it came out a whisper.

  “Shut up,” said Craig. “You, listen. Both of you. We are not calling anyone. There’s nothing we can do for her, and the force can’t afford to have any awkward questions right now. Do you understand?”

  After a moment, Lynn said quietly, “Yes, sir.”

  When Denis didn’t answer, Craig said to Lynn, “What’s the matter with him? Is he drunk?”

  “No, I think he’s ill.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Craig said again, this time in disgust rather than shock.

  Denis watched him as he stood for a moment, thinking, but he couldn’t summon the strength to protest.

  “We’ll get him into a taxi,” said Craig. “No ambulance. Come on. Help me get him down the stairs.”

  Denis didn’t protest as they hoisted him from the chair, one on each side, and manhandled him down the stairs, Craig cursing under his breath the whole way. Craig held him up while Lynn walked to the corner and flagged a cab in Earl’s Court Road. When the cab pulled up, Craig opened the door and shoved him unceremoniously into the backseat.

  “A bit too much to drink,” Denis heard Craig tell the driver, passing over a wad of notes. “Just dump him out on his doorstep and ring the bell. His wife won’t be best pleased, I can tell you.”

  “Not drunk,” Denis tried to say, but no words came out. As the cab began to move, the last thing he heard was Red Craig calling out his own address in Sekforde Street.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was the odd hour of the afternoon—too late for lunch, too early for tea—and the café at the Tabernacle was empty except for the young woman working the service counter.

  “Have you seen a boy about this high?” Gemma asked, raising her hand to shoulder level. “Blondish. Dances here on Saturdays.”

  The young woman shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been in the back making hummus.”

  Thanking her, Gemma wandered slowly through the dining area, then climbed the stairs. When she reached the first-floor landing, she checked the doors to the theater. Locked. She went into the vestibule of the dance studio, where she’d first seen Jess, but it was empty. The doors to the studio and the office were also locked.

  She sagged a little with disappointment. She’d been so sure that she was right, that this was the place Jess felt safest, most at home. Now where? Did she go to the ballet school in Finsbury Park? Did Jess intend to show up for his regular class? And then what? Go home, hoping his mother wouldn’t know he’d been absent from school? She didn’t think so.

  She was now seriously worried, and that carried over into anxiety about Duncan, too. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d left that morning, saying he was going to Hambleden to see a man about a dog. What the hell was he doing?

  Giving her head a sharp shake, she went into the ladies’ loo to splash water on her face and check her messages. She had to find Jess before she tackled anything else.

  God, how she hated her freckles, she thought as she gazed at her face in the mirror. The last few days of hot, sunny weather had brought them out in full force. It was quiet in the bathroom, and cool, and the water felt soothing to her hot cheeks. She dried her hands slowly, reluctant to go back out into the world.

  Then it occurred to her.

  As quietly as she could, she went back out into the vestibule and stood for a moment, listening. There was a tiny squeak, perhaps from a door hinge.

  She walked to the men’s toilet and swung open the door. “Anybody in here?” she called.

  There was no answer, but she heard a little gasp of breath. The stall doors were closed and no feet showed underneath when she bent to look. But he hadn’t managed to pick up the dance bag when he tucked himself up on top of the toilet lid.

  Gemma leaned agains
t the sink. “Jess, come on out. It’s Gemma James. I know you’re in there.”

  There was no response.

  After a moment, she said, “Jess, you have to come out sometime. I’m not going away. Look, I promise I won’t tell your mum where you are.”

  After another long moment, there was a shuffling noise and the boy’s feet dropped into view. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, but he didn’t unlatch the stall door. He sounded as if he’d been crying.

  “There’s no one up here. And if someone comes in, I’ll tell them it’s out of order.”

  More shuffling, but the door stayed closed.

  “You must be hungry,” said Gemma. “I’ve got a PowerBar in my bag.”

  “I could have it?”

  “Absolutely. Chocolate and peanut butter.”

  Slowly, the stall door creaked open and Jess Cusick came out, clutching his bag. He ducked his head, but not before Gemma saw that his eyes were red and swollen.

  She was shocked at the sight of him. The skin was stretched across his cheekbones, with hollows beneath. He looked as if he’d lost pounds since she’d seen him a few days ago. “We could go into the vestibule,” she said, to cover her dismay.

  He shook his head violently, his ash brown hair flying, and half-retreated into the stall. “No. I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  “Okay,” Gemma said quickly. She glanced round the small space. “Look. We could sit over there.” With the PowerBar in her hand, she gestured to the few feet of wall at the back of the room. His eyes followed the motion. She might have been enticing a stray dog.

  Gemma slipped past him, careful not to touch him, and sat down against the wall. When she started to unwrap the bar, Jess sat down beside her and said, “I can do it.” He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, rather than his school uniform, and had that particular boy-sweat smell she recognized from her own sons. His trainer-clad feet stuck out in front of him, too big in proportion to the rest of his body.

  She handed the PowerBar over, politely looking away as he tore the rest of the wrapper away and wolfed the bar down.

  When he’d finished and balled up the paper, he said, hesitantly, “Thank you.”

  “It’s hard to think when you’re hungry.”

  Jess nodded, glancing warily at her. “Are you going to tell my mum where I am?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to. But maybe you should tell me why you skived off school this morning.”

  Jess worked at the paper wrapper, balling it more and more tightly. Finally, he said, “I had to do . . . something.” When Gemma didn’t speak, he went on after a bit. “In the garden. I wanted to see where she . . .” His voice trembled. A sideways glance showed Gemma that his jaw muscles were clenched tight. “Died,” he managed. “I couldn’t look before. But I had to see.”

  “Why did you have to see, Jess?”

  “Because . . . because it was all my fault.” He was fighting back tears in earnest now.

  “How could it be your fault?” Gemma asked. It occurred to her that if this boy had done what Kerry suggested, she was alone with him in a deserted place, but she didn’t feel the least bit frightened.

  “Because of Henry.”

  “Henry Su? The boy who died?”

  Jess nodded, gulping. “His dad, Mr. Su, came up to Re-Reagan and me at the garden party. He said horrible things. That it was my fault that Henry died and that I was going to pay for it. Reagan told him to shut up, that it wasn’t true and that he couldn’t say things like that. I thought he was going to hit her. He said she’d be sorry, too. He was . . . I think he was drunk.”

  “Then what happened?” Gemma said, but she was thinking frantically that they had checked Ben Su’s alibi and his colleagues had confirmed it. Had they lied for him?

  “Reagan took me away. She said he was a bully and she wasn’t going to put up with it. But I didn’t want him to hurt her, so I told her . . . I told her it was true.”

  “You what?” Gemma scooted back on the cold tiles so that she could look Jess in the eyes.

  He looked determined now, and the tears had stopped. “I told her it was true. It was my fault Henry died.”

  “But—”

  “He was always teasing me. He was . . . rotten. You know? Mean. He did . . . things . . . to Arthur, until Arthur’s parents sent him away. Then he started on me, but he said I couldn’t tell because I’d get into trouble for lying. I couldn’t—I couldn’t make him leave me alone.” The words were pouring out now. “The only thing that bothered him was if he couldn’t find his inhaler. He was always going on about his bloody inhaler.

  “That day, it fell out of his pocket and he didn’t notice. I picked it up. I thought I’d let him sweat a bit when he noticed it was gone. I didn’t know he was going to shut himself in the stupid shed. I just went home. And then . . . and then he was”—Jess took a gulping breath—“he was dead. And I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done.”

  “Oh, Jess,” Gemma breathed. “How awful.”

  “I worried all week. And then I told her,” Jess said. “I told Reagan. I told her I still had the inhaler.”

  “What did she say?”

  Jess swallowed. “She said I had to tell Henry’s parents. She said that it was a dreadful accident, but that if I didn’t tell, I would carry it round with me my whole life.” He looked earnestly at Gemma. “She didn’t mean the inhaler, you know.”

  Gemma nodded. “I know.”

  “But she said that first my mum had to know.”

  “Of course she did,” said Gemma, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold tile.

  “So I—I told her. I told Mum. She said they would have me arrested—Henry’s parents—and that I could go to jail. That I’d never dance again. She said Reagan was going to ruin my life, giving me ideas like that.”

  Gemma sat for a moment, trying to formulate a question. “Jess, when was this? When did you tell your mum?”

  “On Friday. Reagan came into my room after. Mum must have talked to her. She said she was very sorry, but she wasn’t sure she could stay with us any longer.” He was crying again, the tears slipping down his cheeks. “I was mad. I went to bed. She came in to talk to me again before she went out, but I pretended I was asleep.”

  “And on Saturday?”

  “When I woke up, my mum was gone, and Reagan was gone. At first, I thought maybe she’d gone away, but her things were still there. So I—”

  When he halted, Gemma gave his arm a pat. “So you got on the bus and went to the tryouts at the London Boys Ballet School.”

  Jess stared at her. “How did you know?”

  “I spoke to your dad. He guessed.”

  “But— Was he—”

  “He understood.” When Jess relaxed a little, she said, “Jess, what were you really doing in the garden this morning?”

  Jess glanced at her, then away. “I couldn’t find it,” he whispered. “The inhaler. It was in my room, in my drawer. I wondered if . . . if Reagan had taken it . . . Maybe if she knew she was going to meet Mr. Su. And . . . So I had to look.”

  “You didn’t find it.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Jess,” Gemma said slowly, “what do you think happened to Reagan on Friday night?”

  He was quiet for a long time, rolling the paper wrapper into an ever-tighter ball. “I think—I think she must have talked to Mr. Su. He—he said he would hurt her.”

  “Do you think Reagan would have talked to Mr. Su without your permission?”

  Jess didn’t answer.

  “Jess, do you know what happened to Reagan’s phone?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I—I took her laptop. When my mum said she was dead, that she’d killed herself—I thought maybe it wasn’t true. Or maybe she’d left me a message . . .”

  “And did she?”

  “No,” he said, his face bleak. “There wasn’t anything for me.”

  Gemma tried to marshal her whirling thoughts, tri
ed to stay calm. Nothing mattered more now than this child’s safety. “Jess,” she said. “I think we need to call your dad.”

  If carrying the Polaroid had made him anxious, carrying the bag containing Ryan’s camera had Kincaid looking over his shoulder every few minutes.

  Kincaid guessed that Ryan had left his camera with Medhi Atias that day, perhaps as a last-minute thought on the way to St. Pancras. Although he hadn’t been in the group with the other demonstrators, Ryan couldn’t have guaranteed he wouldn’t be arrested if things went pear shaped.

  So, what was on the camera that had prompted Ryan to take such precautions? Kincaid held the nylon bag more firmly under his jacket. There was nowhere he could look at the memory card until he got to the pub.

  Finally, he saw the plant-bedecked building ahead. The vertical garden covering the walls was in full bloom, but he didn’t stop to admire it. He entered the bar and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The pub wasn’t yet crowded and he had no trouble picking out Doug at a table in the back corner—and with him, Melody. They both stood up to greet him, and he kissed Melody lightly on the cheek.

  He saw she’d cut her hair, and the boyish style made her look, if anything, more feminine. She seemed fragile to him, taut with tension.

  “I know you probably don’t want me here,” she said. “But I’ve been left out of enough things, and Ryan was important to me, too.”

  Shaking his head, Kincaid took a seat across from them. “No, I do want you here. I should have asked. But I thought you were taking over for Gemma temporarily.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get a right bollocking from the super for skiving off this afternoon, but I don’t care.”

  After checking to see if either of them wanted another round—Doug was drinking a half-pint, and Melody what looked like club soda—Kincaid went to the bar and ordered a half-pint of bitter.

  When he came back to the table, Doug said, “I told her about . . . Hambleden. About Ryan.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Melody clutched her glass, her knuckles white. “I don’t believe he could have done those things—he wouldn’t—”