The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  They’d known no reason why Stanton, who’d lived in Hackney, should have been killed in King’s Cross. But what if it was Callery that connected Stanton to King’s Cross?

  That was not only tenuous, but likely downright bonkers, he thought.

  Shaking his head, he entered the terminal, glad of the warmth, and headed towards the front of the shed and the entrance to the tube station. As he passed the site of the grenade’s detonation, he couldn’t help thinking about Matthew Quinn’s protest group again. Well-meaning, most of them, but their silly stunt with what they’d thought was a smoke bomb had turned deadly. He remembered that Matthew’s father, the property developer, had admitted he told some acquaintances about Matthew’s little campaign to save historic London from the bulldozers. Lindsay Quinn hadn’t taken his son seriously, but someone—Kincaid now felt certain—had.

  He’d spoken to Lindsay Quinn once before, but he hadn’t pressed the point. He needed to talk to Quinn again.

  November 1994

  He’d ended up in hospital. Severe gastroenteritis, they’d called it. They’d kept him for a few days, making certain he was rehydrated, then had sent him home with instructions for at least a week of bed rest. The doctor, looking at his chart, had frowned, but when Denis had asked what was wrong, the doctor had merely shaken his head and told him not to worry.

  At home, he’d fidgeted, but he was too weak to do anything other than complain. Diane was more patient with him than he deserved—his illness had frightened her badly.

  By the end of the week, he’d graduated from the bed to the sofa in the sitting room, and clothes instead of pajamas and dressing gown. He was glad of it when the bell rang and Diane ushered in Angus Craig.

  “Sir,” Denis managed to croak, sitting up.

  “I see you’re getting on,” Craig said heartily. “Good, good. I checked with the hospital. They said you were in a bad way.”

  Diane was hovering, giving him anxious glances. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr.—” Craig had apparently not introduced himself.

  “No. This won’t take long,” Craig told her. “If you could give us a few minutes, darling.” He smiled at her in a way that made Denis’s blood rise.

  Pinching her lips together, Diane said merely, “Right. I’ve some shopping to do.”

  She left the room and a moment later, Denis heard the front door slam.

  Craig sat, uninvited, in the best armchair and pulled a letter from his breast pocket. “I thought you’d prefer this in person.” He handed the envelope to Denis.

  Denis tried to stop his hand shaking as he took it. Slitting the envelope with his thumb, he unfolded the paper inside. It was an official letter of transfer, informing him that he would report in two weeks’ time to a major crimes team in Charing Cross. They were putting him back in CID.

  “You’ll keep your rank, of course,” said Craig. “I should think you’d be glad to get back to some real policing.”

  “But”—Denis stared at him—“what about my campaigners? What about my exit strategy? I can’t just disap—”

  “All taken care of.” Craig waved a dismissive hand. “Your ‘cousin’ has been to visit your landlady. Your old dad was taken very ill and you’ve gone to Norwich to look after him. Indefinitely. I’m sure the word will get passed along. Some postcards will be sent, eventually, with the news that your father has died and you’ve decided to travel.”

  “But what about Sheila?” Denis pushed himself to the edge of the sofa. His head spun from the effort. “What about Mickey? He killed her. I’m sure of it. You can’t just—”

  “Sheila died from a combination of drugs and alcohol. I’ve had the postmortem report. Unfortunate, but there you are. Mickey Stanton had nothing to do with it. He was at the pub with the rest of the lads.”

  “But he—”

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Craig broke in, standing and walking round the sitting room, examining the plasterwork. “Georgian, isn’t it, the house? And your wife—such a pretty woman. I’m quite sure she appreciates your prospects and your dedication to your career. It would be a shame to disappoint her, now, wouldn’t it?” Craig paused, his hands behind his back in parade-ground manner, and stared him straight in the eye. “Do we understand each other, Detective Inspector?”

  Denis, the letter still clutched in his hand, could only nod.

  December 1994

  It was the week before Christmas before he managed to find Lynn. He’d known her cover job because she’d confided in him early on, a breach of rules. But between his new assignment and his still-precarious health, only a few times had he managed to watch the building when she was likely to be arriving or leaving. He’d begun to think she hadn’t told him the truth about the job—or that she, like him, had been pulled—when he saw her come through the doors of the office building amid the five o’clock exodus. The weather was cold and damp and she was tugging a bobble hat over her blond hair.

  He fell in behind her for two blocks, checking frequently to see if she was being followed. When she stopped at the next intersection, waiting for the light to change, he moved up beside her. “Lynn,” he said softly.

  She turned, frowning, and he could see that for a moment she didn’t recognize him. His hair was short, his face clean shaven, and he was so thin that his suit and overcoat hung like shrouds.

  Then, the color drained from her face. “Denis. My God, what happened to you?”

  “Can we talk?” he said. “There’s a pub just along the road.”

  She looked suddenly frightened. “I can’t be seen talking to you. You know that.”

  “Give me five minutes.” He gestured to the swinging pub sign. “I’ll drop back behind you. We can meet at the bar.”

  She hesitated, but the light had changed and the waiting pedestrians were moving forward. “Okay. Five minutes. But that’s all.”

  The pub was busy enough that they could talk at the bar without being overheard, he thought, pleased with his choice. When he edged himself in beside her, he saw that she was already drinking a gin and tonic. “I’m off wine,” she murmured without looking at him. He knew why. It had been Sheila’s drink.

  When he ordered an orange juice, she gave him a quick glance of surprise. “Teetotal, Den? From the look of you, you could use a few beers.”

  Now that he finally had the opportunity, he found himself at a loss for what to say. Handing his coins to the barman gave him a moment to collect himself. “You look well,” he said at last.

  Lynn shrugged. “I’ll be out of this soon. Bloody boring job it is, too. New boyfriend, see? Wants me to move to Germany to live in a vegetarian commune, can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Where do they come up with this crap?” She didn’t ask where he’d been reassigned, and he didn’t offer the information. She looked older, he thought, studying her, and the tension never quite left her face.

  “Lynn,” he said carefully. “About that night. Sheila. We can’t let Mickey get away with it.”

  She shot him a horrified glance, then looked away. “Are you out of your sodding mind?” she hissed. “And Mickey didn’t touch her.”

  “What? But—”

  “I’m telling you, Mickey went to the pub with the others. When I got there, I saw Angus Craig walking away from the flat.”

  He just stared.

  “Drink your damned juice and stop looking at me.”

  Obeying, he wet his dry mouth with a sip of juice, then said, “But— You said you rang him. You rang Angus when you found her.”

  “I dialed his pager from the call box down the road. He rang me back there. He can’t have been far. Maybe he was even watching the flat.”

  “But why didn’t you—”

  “What? Say something to him?” Lynn took a gulp of her gin. “I wasn’t sure until I came back from the call box and really looked at her that she’d been— Her throat was bruised, and her knickers were torn—” She stopped, her eyes filling. “Jesus,” she whi
spered. “Poor Sheila.”

  “But he— If he—” Denis tried to take it in. “That bastard. We can’t let him get away with it.”

  Lynn scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand and gave him a disgusted look. “Don’t be so bloody naive, Den. Just exactly who would I take that bit of information to? And what do you think would happen to me if I did? Just think about that, clever boy.

  “We have nothing. Zilch. And I am not risking my career—or my life—on a lost cause.” Lynn finished her gin, setting her glass down with a little thump exactly in the center of the cardboard beer mat. “You listen to me. If you ever report this, or say anything about it to anybody, I’ll deny everything. Don’t contact me again. You got that?” She gave him a crooked smile. “Have a nice life, Denis.”

  She turned and elbowed her way through the crowded pub, letting in a gust of cold air as she pulled open the door and disappeared into the street.

  He stood for a long time at the bar, thinking. She was right. He had nothing. If he spoke up, he would put Lynn in danger. He would lose his job, his house, perhaps his wife. And still no one would believe him.

  But, he was a good policeman. And he was a patient man. One day, Angus Craig would slip up, and he would be waiting.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  By the time he reached Notting Hill, Kincaid had once again missed telling the younger children goodnight. Finding Gemma in the kitchen, folding laundry, he’d given her a tentative smile and said, “Hi, love.”

  She’d looked up from folding one of Charlotte’s tiny school uniform blouses, and he could see that she was exhausted.

  “I’m sor—” he began but she’d cut him off.

  “I don’t want to know. Not tonight. Your mum rang, by the way. Your dad’s doing fine.” Rose, the tortie and white kitten, kept jumping into the basket of clean clothes. Gemma picked her up with obvious irritation and shooed her until she scampered out of the kitchen. “Monsters,” Gemma muttered.

  He hadn’t known where to go from there that wouldn’t put him in a minefield. In silence, he’d helped her with the clothes, until she gave him a smile that barely budged the corners of her mouth. “You okay?” he ventured at last.

  Sighing, Gemma held the pile of folded things to her chest. He could smell the faint scent of the drier sheet. “I don’t know. I’m afraid I may have made a horrible mistake. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  With that, he’d had to be content.

  He’d rung Lindsay Quinn as soon as he deemed it remotely acceptable, at eight o’clock on the dot on Thursday morning. He left a message, not having expected Quinn to answer. To his surprise, Quinn rang him back within fifteen minutes, arranging for Kincaid to meet him, as he had before, in the Booking Office restaurant at St. Pancras.

  Kincaid had just time to leave his car at Holborn Police Station and grab the tube to St. Pancras for the nine-thirty appointment. The company of which Quinn was a major shareholder, King’s Cross Development, had offices in one of the new complexes north of King’s Cross, but Quinn had told Kincaid that he preferred to hold private meetings at the bar in the restored Renaissance Hotel, and Kincaid couldn’t say he blamed him.

  The hotel was grand Victorian Gothic, stunningly renovated, and the bar, which had been St. Pancras’s original booking office, was its gem. It opened onto the ground floor of the hotel on the west, and onto the first floor of the terminal on the east. Kincaid entered through the terminal doors. When his eyes adjusted to the lower light, he picked out Lindsay Quinn at the corner table in the very back, where Kincaid had met him before. This time, he didn’t need to ask the hostess for direction, and threaded his own way to the back.

  Quinn, a tall, lanky man in his fifties, his curly hair just going gray, closed his laptop and stood to greet him. “Superintendent Kincaid. Tea?” He gestured at the tea service already set up on the table. “It’s Assam this morning. I order it from an estate in Ceylon. Please, sit.”

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Kincaid said as he took the offered chair. He waited while Quinn filled his teacup, having learned in their previous interview that for all the fact that Quinn did business in this casual environment, he liked observing his courtesies. He added a little milk to the steaming, deep orange tea, smelling the distinctive malt in the brew.

  Quinn rotated his cup, a little nervous movement that was the first thing to betray any tension in his manner. “I hope this visit isn’t about my son,” he said with a smile that didn’t make it to his eyes.

  “Only in a roundabout way,” Kincaid reassured him. “How is Matthew doing?” He didn’t add that he knew Matthew had left the Caledonian Road flat.

  “I’ve cut off his allowance. He’s no longer living in the flat, so I can’t consider it a caretaker’s fee. I’ve told him that if he returns to university to finish his degree, I’ll pay his expenses, but so far he hasn’t made that decision.”

  “He’s living at home, then?”

  Quinn made a face. “I’ve given him another month to choose university or find a job.”

  Kincaid thought Quinn was entirely too generous, and that being forced to find a job by lack of funds and shelter might be Matthew Quinn’s saving grace. He also knew, however, that it was much easier to make such judgments about other people’s dealings with their children. And that unless Matthew broke the law, it was none of his business. “I wish him well, whatever he decides.”

  “Very generous of you, considering he’s been a royal pain in the arse.” This time Quinn’s smile was genuine.

  Kincaid sipped the tea. It was as rich and complex as fine wine on his tongue. There were benefits, he supposed, to having boatloads of money. “I have sons, too,” he volunteered, wanting to make a connection with Quinn. “The oldest is about to turn fifteen. Kids can be difficult.” He hoped to God Kit never did anything as harebrained as Matthew Quinn, but he knew there were no guarantees.

  “Obviously,” Quinn said with a touch of irony. “Since you didn’t come about my son, how can I help you, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “It does have to do with Matthew’s campaigners, in a way,” Kincaid said. “Do you remember, Mr. Quinn, telling me that you thought you mentioned Matthew’s group and their concerns to a few people? I was wondering if you could tell me exactly who those people were.”

  Quinn went through the ritual of pouring more tea, his face unreadable. “Can you tell me why you need to know?” he asked at last.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Except that it does not in any way concern your son.”

  Quinn added infinitesimal amounts of milk and sugar to his cup, then met Kincaid’s gaze and shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It was an informal get-together to discuss the state of the King’s Cross revitalization initiative. As you probably are aware, many of the projects here took much longer to get off the ground than was initially expected, but things are now moving apace.”

  Kincaid nodded, trying to contain his impatience, and Quinn frowned, as if searching his memory. “Do you mind if I make notes?” Kincaid asked, taking a small notebook from his pocket.

  “I don’t see why not,” Quinn answered. “There was nothing secret about it.” He went on to give Kincaid a list of perhaps a dozen names. Some, Kincaid recognized as having been involved with high-profile redevelopment projects, others didn’t ring a bell. He wrote them down, figuring he would research them when he got back to Holborn. Slipping the notebook back into his pocket, he was about to thank Quinn when Quinn added, “Oh, and your Deputy Assistant Commissioner Trent. She likes to stay up with things, since we have an international terminus here.”

  Kincaid stared at him. “DAC Trent?” Evelyn Trent had been one of the first people to visit Denis in hospital, expressing concern on behalf of the top brass to Diane Childs. Something niggled at him, something familiar about Trent. Neat, blond, well-groomed, always in command—all those things creating an impression that made it difficult to visualize her features . .
.

  Then, he had it.

  Evelyn Trent had been one of the two women in the Polaroid.

  “I’ve put my not-diminutive arse on the line for you,” Kerry said as she picked Gemma up in front of her house. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Thank you.” Gemma nodded at the house, accustomed now to people wondering how two cops could afford this part of Notting Hill. “Long story,” she said. Glancing down, she saw the papers protruding from the briefcase that Kerry had tucked next to the console. “And thanks for that. I thought you’d tell me I was daft.”

  “I think you are daft. But . . .” Kerry shook her head. “I can’t take the risk that you’re not. And I managed to convince a magistrate using your argument, so that’s a point in your favor.”

  In another moment, she’d pulled up in Blenheim Crescent. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Kerry gave Gemma a searching look as she turned off the engine.

  “No. It’s just . . . if I’m right, the consequences are dreadful.”

  “Consequences are not our job, thank God.” Kerry glanced in her rearview mirror as a panda car pulled up behind them, then a crime scene van. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  By the time they reached the door, the uniformed officer had joined them, and the SOCOs were getting their gear from the van. Kerry punched the bell. When the door opened, she said, “Mrs. Cusick, may we come in? We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “What?” Nita Cusick stared at them. “What are you talking about? You said you needed to speak to me, and I’ve already delayed my business appointment . . .” She seemed to take in the uniformed constable, and then the two SOCOs carrying their evidence cases. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was shrill. “If my bloody husband has put you up to this—”

  “Mrs. Cusick.” Kerry held up the warrant. “If you can just confirm that you’ve seen this document.”