The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  “Not germane at the moment,” Doug told her. “You do realize Evelyn Trent’s Nick Callery’s boss, too? I found his home address, by the way. It is in the Gasholders complex. So, did Callery set up the meeting with Stanton, or did Stanton arrange it on Callery’s patch, thinking he could get the upper hand?”

  “If he did, he certainly failed.” Kincaid had a thought. “Although, when Nick Callery showed up for no apparent reason at Holborn on Monday, he had a cut on his right hand. He said it was a kitchen-knife accident.”

  “Maybe Stanton attacked him,” Doug said, “and it went pear shaped.”

  “I’d call ‘dead in the canal’ pear shaped, all right.” Kincaid flashed a smile at the barmaid as she delivered their coffee. When she’d moved out of hearing distance, he continued. “Now, I’m wondering if Callery turned up at Holborn because he knew how close Tom Faith is to Denis, and he was fishing for information.”

  “Well, it gets worse,” said Doug, and glanced at Melody.

  “I didn’t have time to do much.” She shrugged apologetically. “There’s nothing as obvious as her name listed as a shareholder in KCD. But when I followed the links into some of the subsidiary corporations, I found an Evelyn Jaynes-Trent. I don’t think it would be a stretch to think they were one and the same.”

  The three looked at each other in silence, their coffee cooling. Then, Kincaid summed it up. “So, is it reasonable to assume that she’s been using her position to protect her financial interests?”

  “Rogue ops?” said Doug, but it wasn’t really a question. “Okay. I can run with that. Murdering people who are inconvenient? Sure. But what are we going to do about it? I don’t want to end up like Ryan. Or like Stanton, evil bastard that he was. Or like your sad bloke in Cheshire. Who would we take this to that would believe us? And that we could be certain wasn’t on her payroll? It seems not even Denis Childs had the answer to that.” He sat back while the barmaid set down their sandwiches, then, when she’d gone, leaned forward again, his eyes earnest behind his glasses. “Putting Ryan into Matthew Quinn’s protest group might have passed as legit. But everything since is completely bonkers. And who’s going to question her, for God’s sake? She’s counterterrorism!”

  “I know who,” said Melody.

  She might have dropped a bomb in the center of the table. Kincaid and Doug swiveled to stare at her, Doug already with a mouthful of roast beef, fear not having dampened his appetite.

  “What are you talking about?” Doug mumbled around his sandwich, frowning.

  But Kincaid suddenly understood. “Your father. He knew about Denis being attacked before anyone else did. And his hints about Denis’s past —maybe he knew about the undercover ops.”

  “My dad’s never liked the idea of the police putting spies among ordinary citizens who aren’t committing a crime. It was one of the reasons he didn’t want me joining the police.”

  Kincaid knew Melody had never wanted to trade on her father’s power and influence—or to be seen by her colleagues as an untrustworthy source of leaks.

  He also hoped that he’d so far managed to keep Melody and Doug off Trent and Callery’s radar. If Melody took what they knew to her father, and Ivan used it, it wouldn’t take long for Trent to work out Ivan Talbot’s “undisclosed source.” “Melody, you’d be putting yourself right in the line of fire,” Kincaid said.

  “Every second we wait puts us all at risk,” she answered. “You, me, Doug, Gemma. Your kids. You can’t think she won’t make those connections.”

  Kincaid knew she was right. Doug did, too, as he gave her a reluctant nod.

  “What about putting your father in danger?” Kincaid asked.

  “He’s broken bigger cases than this. And the paper has the resources to do a lot of digging that we can’t do. I barely skimmed the surface.”

  “You’re sure?” Kincaid asked.

  Melody pushed aside her untouched plate. “Yes. And I’ll go now.” An unexpected smile lit her face. She added, “Before I lose my nerve.”

  They watched her go. Doug said, with a mixture of irritation and pride, “Bloody stubborn woman.”

  But Kincaid had gone back to worrying over Evelyn Trent. “Why Craig?” he asked. “The others make sense, I suppose, in a demented sort of way. But if she had Angus and Edie Craig killed, why take such an enormous risk?”

  “They go way back, obviously.” Doug tapped the Polaroid, which still lay on the table. “Who knows how many pies she’s had her fingers in over the years? Maybe he had something on her, and he threatened to use it if she allowed charges to be brought against him.”

  Kincaid stared at the Polaroid. “You can’t discount Denis. How much did he know? And what did he do when he came back from Singapore that made her set her dogs on him so quickly?” He picked up a crisp, put it down again. Like Melody, he’d lost his appetite.

  “It’s too bad we can’t ask him,” Doug said. “Otherwise, I don’t know where we go—”

  Kincaid waved a hand to cut him off. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “A blinking idiot. There is one person who would know what Denis did. I just never thought to ask.”

  Diane Childs had told Kincaid she was just leaving the London, but would wait for him in the hospital café if he could come soon.

  Kincaid felt more uncomfortable now than ever, visiting the hospital, but he didn’t want to put Diane off by asking her to meet somewhere else. He walked from Whitechapel tube towards the hospital complex, his jacket collar turned up against the wind, but the cold chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather. Twice, he looked back, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The second time, he thought he glimpsed a man in a silvery gray suit, slipping through the crowd. But when he looked again, there were only some Asian teenagers in tracksuits, and a group of sari-clad women carrying shopping baskets.

  He found Diane Childs waiting as she’d promised, at a table in the corner of the hospital café. Her blouse, today a deep magenta, looked startlingly vivid against the room’s institutional colors. She stood, greeting him with a smile and an unexpected hug.

  “Are you all right?” she asked when he’d sat across from her. “You sounded worried on the phone.”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you with this,” Kincaid said. “You have enough on your plate as it is.” He was feeling his way into it, not sure how to put things. “But something has come up that I thought you might be able to help me with. It might have to do with the reason Denis was attacked.”

  Diane’s fine, dark brows lifted in startled inquiry. “Go on.”

  Taking a breath, Kincaid plunged on. “I don’t know how much Denis confided in you, but some years ago, I believe he worked with a man named Angus Craig.”

  Diane looked more puzzled. “If you’re asking me if Denis was in Special Branch, yes, he was.”

  “An undercover assignment?”

  “Yes. Although I’m not sure I’m supposed to say that. And he did work with Craig. I only know because Craig came to the house once back when Denis fell ill.” She grimaced. “Horrible man.”

  Kincaid couldn’t argue that point. “Denis was ill?” he asked.

  “Yes. We didn’t know at first what it was. It ended his Special Branch assignment. The first time, they said it was a severe virus, but the same symptoms kept recurring. It was years before they diagnosed it as hep C. Still, it got him out of that job.” She shook her head. “But something happened at the end of that posting, just as he was taken ill. I don’t know what it was—he would never tell me. But it . . . I’m not sure I can explain. He was never quite the same after that.” Sighing, she added, “I’m being fanciful, aren’t I? I should be thankful that whatever happened, it kept him at a desk.”

  “Did Denis ever mention having worked with DAC Trent in those days?”

  “Evelyn?” Diane looked surprised. “No, he didn’t. I always assumed Special Branch was very much a boys’ club.” She frowned. “Honestly, I never got the impression he liked her much. I was s
urprised when she came to the hospital to see him. Policy, I suppose.” The look she gave him was sharp now, curious and wary. “But what does this have to do with some mugger hitting Denis over the head?”

  “I’m not certain,” Kincaid temporized. “But can you tell me one more thing? When Denis came back to work after his liver transplant, did he do anything unusual?”

  Diane considered a long moment, pushing her empty coffee cup an inch in either direction. Then she met his eyes. “I suppose it’s all right to tell you. It was Angus Craig and his wife. I met her once or twice at police functions. Lovely woman. I could never see—well, never mind that. They died, in the autumn. Craig shot her, Denis said, then set their house on fire and shot himself. At least that’s what the investigation ruled.”

  “But Denis didn’t believe that.”

  “No. He was quite ill at the time. He was so upset, I was afraid for him. We’d already made the arrangements to go to Singapore, thank God, and he agreed to go ahead with the surgery. Afterwards, I thought he’d dropped the matter. Then, when we came home, he told me he meant to pull the case files as soon as he was back at the Yard. Stubborn bastard.” She smiled at Kincaid. “But you can ask him yourself.”

  Kincaid gaped at her. “What?”

  “He’s been conscious for two days. I was just going to ring you when you called. He told me I could tell you and Tommy, but no one else.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There was no way she was going to talk to her dad at the paper, or in a public place. Knowing that her mother had gone early to the country house for the weekend, she rang Ivan and asked if he would meet her at the town house.

  “Lunch?” he’d asked.

  “No, no, I’m all right,” Melody assured him. But when she arrived at the town house in Kensington Square, Ivan was already there and in the kitchen. He’d taken off his jacket and tie and thrown his old apron over his bespoke shirt and trousers. The door to the patio stood open, framing the shifting shadows thrown by fast-moving clouds.

  Her father wrapped her in a hug, then held her at arm’s length, which as usual made her feel like a six-year-old. Ivan didn’t wear cologne, but he always smelled slightly of shaving soap, a clean scent that made her feel comforted. “No coffee,” he said, frowning as he released her. “You look peaky. And you’re even thinner than you were on Sunday. Here, I’ve made you a sandwich.” As he moved aside, she saw a plate holding a granary-bread sandwich and a sliced green apple. And, beside it, a glass of milk. Definitely, six years old.

  She sighed and sat. There was no help for it. Unlike her mother, who’d grown up expecting to be fed and cared for by other people, her father had a deep-seated need to look after people in a concrete way. Conversation was impossible without acquiescence.

  The sandwich, she saw, was thick ham, with cheddar and pickle, and once she took a bite she realized she was ravenous. The milk was perfect, smooth, cold, and creamy, and by the time she’d finished both, she thought she could speak without shaking. While she ate, Ivan had made a pot of tea. He sat down across from her and poured for them both. “Now, what’s all this about?” he said.

  In the taxi, she’d thought of all sorts of beginnings, but now she simply said, “Dad, how do you know Denis Childs?”

  “Ah.” He studied her over the top of his cup, assessing. It suddenly occurred to Melody that her father and Denis were much alike, two big men who moved with unexpected grace. Two men, near the same age, who handled power and position with intelligence and moral integrity. “I wondered if you might ask,” said Ivan, settling back to tell a story, cradling his delicate china cup in his large hands. “I’d moved up to a desk at the paper, you see, but I couldn’t resist getting out in the street with a camera when things were going on. It was Notting Hill Carnival in, let’s see, it would have been 1994. Things turned ugly. Some white thugs taunted a group protesting Stephen Lawrence’s murder. One of the protesters stood up to them, then went to the aid of an injured bystander. I got a great shot—front-page worthy—but I never published it.” He shook his head, his gaze abstracted by the memory. “I couldn’t have said why. Something wasn’t right. The guy didn’t feel like a protester to me. Too decisive, too much in command under pressure.

  “I didn’t think much more about it until a few years later. I recognized him as the DCI handling the press conference for a high-profile murder case. I made a point to have a chat, afterwards.” Ivan shrugged his big shoulders. “We’ve kept up over the years, Denis and I. Never publicly, you understand.”

  No, of course not, thought Melody. Ivan had always avoided public alliances. He said they kept him from saying what needed to be said. “How did you know, when Denis was attacked?” she asked.

  “Tom Faith called me.”

  Melody nodded. She should have known that, too.

  “I thought it was an unlikely mugging,” Ivan went on. “And that perhaps your lot should look into it.” His Geordie accent came out strong and deliberate.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  Ivan grinned. “The paper can’t be involved.”

  Melody couldn’t help smiling back. “You’re Machiavellian, you know that?”

  Ivan sobered. “Maybe so. As is our chief superintendent, but maybe this time he was a bit too Machiavellian for his own good. What’s happened? I’ve heard nothing from hospital.”

  Melody told him, starting, haltingly, with Ryan Marsh’s part in the St. Pancras protest, with his disappearance and their discovery of his hideout, and of how he’d given them information that had led them to the killer in that case. The tremor came back to her hands as she told him about Ryan’s death, and how for the past months she’d lived with thinking he’d shot himself, that they’d all somehow failed him.

  Ivan Talbot was a good listener. He let her start and stop, not interrupting, watching her with no sign of impatience. She struggled to put the events of the last week—less than a week—into a linear form. There had been Kincaid’s meeting with Denis and Denis’s subsequent attack, Kincaid’s growing certainty, confirmed by Rashid, that Ryan’s death had been murder and that Denis had been deliberately targeted. Then, the discovery that Ryan Marsh was somehow linked with Angus Craig. Ivan’s eyebrows rose at that, but still he didn’t interrupt.

  “Doug and I figured out what you could have told us,” she said with no small annoyance. “That Denis was undercover, probably for Special Branch.” When Ivan merely nodded, she went on. “Then a body turned up in the Regent’s Canal, but the guy’s fingerprints didn’t match his ID and his prints said he was a cop. Not a very good one, either. He had the records gap that indicated undercover work, but he also had a history of violent behavior and had disappeared altogether in the last few years.”

  “Do you have a photo?” Ivan asked, surprising her.

  Melody took out her mobile, pulled up the photo of Michael Stanton, and handed it across.

  Ivan studied it with a frown. “It was years ago, but I’d swear this is the man who threw the bottle that day at Carnival, the one who injured the bystander. He was convincing, I can tell you. I’d no idea he was a cop. Special Branch must have put spies into both camps. The tension over the Lawrence murder was explosive.”

  “We think Angus Craig was their handler. They were all connected. Then, Duncan found—” Melody stopped, pulling the edges of her cardigan tight across her chest. She’d managed to talk about Ryan’s death—his murder, even—but this, she wasn’t sure she could say. Her dad waited. She sipped her cooling tea, swallowed, managed to go on. “Duncan found a witness who saw Ryan Marsh with Stanton—this guy”—she tapped her mobile—“in Angus Craig’s village on the night the Craigs died. I don’t think—I can’t think—that Ryan was responsible. But we believe that the Craigs were murdered, too. We started to wonder who didn’t want Angus Craig to go to trial, and what Denis knew, or might have learned that last night, from Angus Craig.”

  “I would back up,” Ivan said thoughtfully, “and ask who
put your undercover cop into the protest group that was causing trouble for development in King’s Cross.”

  Spoken, Melody thought, like a true journalist. “We got there, in the end.” She looked her father in the eyes. She could quit here. She could walk away. If she told him, what would she be getting him into? What damage might it do to both her parents? And to the paper? Was it worth the risk?

  But she knew, from the expression on his face, that she’d already gone too far. Ivan Talbot wouldn’t stop now. Here was a story to rival the biggest of his career. And the safety of a man he considered a friend was at stake.

  “We think,” said Melody, “that it was Deputy Assistant Commissioner Trent.” And then she told him why.

  He slept, uneasily. They had cut off his sedation, but he still felt fragmented, unanchored. His head ached, and his dreams left him sweating. When he woke, he fretted over the things he couldn’t remember. He knew he’d met Duncan at the pub. He remembered walking to Roger Street. He remembered talking at the table. He remembered leaving. And after that, a blank.

  They’d told him where and how he’d been found. Had he been watched and followed? he wondered now. Or had someone known his route and lain in wait? Had he compromised Duncan? His wife kept assuring him that Duncan was fine, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d unleashed havoc on more than himself.

  He slept again, this time dreaming of fire, and fear, and faces from the past. When he woke, she stood at the foot of his bed. “Why did you walk out?” he asked.

  Then, he realized that had been the past, and that he knew now why she’d walked away from him that night in the pub more than twenty years before. His head was suddenly clear and a frisson of fear made the hairs rise on his arms. He groped for the bed control, raising the head until he could look her straight in the eye. But then he fumbled the keypad and it tumbled away, dangling out of reach at the end of its cord.

  “But I just got here,” she said, and smiled.