This, Kincaid thought, was the reason there were never any papers on Childs’s desk. Childs remembered everything that came across it.
Kincaid had also begun to suspect that Denis Childs knew about his visit to Craig—that, in fact, Childs knew everything that he had done since the beginning of the investigation. “I realize that,” he answered. “But if this”—he gestured towards the Hart file—“pulls Craig’s fangs, then perhaps his alibis for Meredith and Connolly won’t look quite so tidy. All I need is a crack, enough to get a warrant to search his car and belongings.”
He leaned nearer the polished expanse of Childs’s desk. “Craig thought he was untouchable. And I think that will have made him careless.” Kincaid studied his boss. “You were on to this from the beginning, weren’t you? You knew about Becca Meredith’s accusations, and when she was found dead a mile from Craig’s door, you suspected him. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I always have the utmost confidence in your abilities, Duncan,” Childs said. “You know that.”
Kincaid felt a surge of anger, adrenaline fueled. “You let me take the heat for going after Craig.”
“I counted on you to take action where I couldn’t, and not to be intimidated by Angus Craig.”
If that was a compliment, Kincaid wasn’t in the mood to take it that way. “Why push me towards Freddie Atterton, if you thought it was Craig all along?”
Shrugging, Childs said, “There are always those who would prefer the obvious solution. I obliged them. I thought it would make you stubborn.”
Kincaid realized he was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t like being used.”
Childs frowned, and when he spoke, his voice held a rare flash of temper. “Would you rather I’d assigned the case to some dunderhead who would have arrested Freddie Atterton? And do you not see what would have happened if I’d directed you towards Craig?
“I think it very likely someone would have stopped you, one way or another. Then if you had managed to pin Meredith’s murder on Craig, my involvement would have been obvious. And it would have been used in Craig’s favor by his defense.
“As it is, you did your job, and we have an unexpected”—Childs touched Jenny Hart’s file—“conclusion.” His eyes gleamed.
Kincaid’s phone beeped with a text. “Sorry,” he said. “But that should be Cullen.” He slipped the phone from his jacket pocket and read the message, then looked back at Childs. “We’ve got the warrant.” He couldn’t keep the jubilation from his voice. “I’m going to serve the bastard tonight.”
“No,” said Childs. “You’re not.”
“What?” Kincaid stared at him, thinking he’d misheard.
“You are not going to serve the warrant. Not yet.”
“I don’t believe this.” Kincaid shook his head in astonishment. After everything Childs had said about Craig, was he suddenly changing his mind? “Why the bloody hell not?”
Ignoring the insubordination, Denis Childs pulled up the knot on his tie. Then he heaved his bulk from his chair.
With Childs looming over him, Kincaid suddenly felt he might be felled by a mountain.
“Because,” answered Childs, looking down at him, “I am going to pay a call on retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Craig.”
He sighed, pinching his lips together in an expression of distaste. “I suppose I shall be obliged to take Superintendent Gaskill with me, although he won’t like it. But that way, Peter Gaskill, the little worm, will know he’s gone far enough.”
“You’re going to serve Angus Craig? An officer of your rank?”
“No.” Childs sounded infinitely patient. “As one senior officer to another, I’m going to give Angus Craig the opportunity to come into the Yard and provide a DNA sample. Voluntarily. Just to clear this inconvenient little matter up.”
He reached for the Burberry hanging neatly on the coat rack behind his desk. “It’s a necessary courtesy, Duncan. I’d be pilloried if I didn’t make the gesture. And—” Childs paused, and Kincaid once again saw a flash of the emotion that moved beneath his chief superintendent’s implacable facade, like a shark’s fin just breaking the surface.
“And,” Childs went on, sounding profoundly unperturbed, “I want to see his face.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!
’Tis an honour to see me, a favor to hear:
’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”
—Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking Glass
By noon on Saturday, Charlotte’s birthday party was in full swing.
Gemma thought the weather gods must be hovering somewhere nearby, because the day had once more dawned fine and clear. The air seemed to hold the anticipation of bonfires, and pumpkins appeared to have sprouted overnight on steps and in front of shops in Notting Hill.
No ghoulies and goblins were attending the festivities at their house, however, as the guests who’d bothered with fancy dress were straight out of Lewis Carroll.
Gemma’s friend and former landlady Hazel Cavendish had dressed her daughter, Holly, who was Toby’s age, in a white bunny costume. It was meant for Halloween, but did well enough for the White Rabbit.
Wesley Howard had found, somewhere in the bowels of Portobello Market, an old morning coat with tails and a battered top hat. He’d decorated both hat and coat with colored ribbons, and with his dreadlocks springing up round the hat’s brim, he made a lovely Mad Hatter.
Betty Howard had made Gemma a Queen of Hearts pinny as a surprise, and Toby had, of course, dressed himself as a pirate. When Gemma had gently informed him that there weren’t any pirates in Alice, Toby had replied, “It’s a silly book then.” Toby, Gemma suspected, was always going to march to his own drummer.
Kit had reached the age where he thought himself too grown-up to wear fancy dress, but he was quite pleased with himself over having found a Mock Turtle T-shirt.
And Charlotte, in her dress and hair bow, had gone so quiet and wide-eyed with excitement that Gemma feared she might be sick. She was like Kit in that way, and Kit seemed to understand. He’d taken her aside and asked her to help him in the kitchen, and after a few minutes with him she’d joined in playing with Toby and Holly, although she was still unusually subdued.
It was a very adult party for a three-year-old, thought Gemma as she surveyed the gathering from the kitchen doorway. But Charlotte was in many ways more comfortable with adults than with other children, and Gemma now thought it just as well they’d kept the gathering to close friends and family.
Gemma’s sister, Cyn, had begged off, saying that Brendon and Tiffani had a Halloween party they’d be devastated to miss. Gemma supposed she should feel offended that Charlotte’s birthday so obviously took second place, but in truth she was just relieved.
But her parents had made the journey from Leyton. Gemma knew it had taken an enormous effort of persuasion on her mother’s part to convince her father to let hired help take over the bakery, especially on a Saturday, so she’d been fussing over them, trying to let them know she appreciated their presence.
She’d settled them in the dining room with plates of finger sandwiches—cut carefully into hearts and spades by Kit—and cups of tea. When Erika Rosenthal joined them, she heard her father mutter something about being glad there wasn’t any of that “funny food”—referring, Gemma knew, to the Caribbean stew Betty had made for their wedding party in August.
Sighing, she let it go. Perhaps it was time she stopped trying to broaden her father’s horizons. She was happy enough that her parents were visiting comfortably with Erika, and that her mother looked brighter than she had the previous weekend in Glastonbury.
Had it really been only a week, she thought, since they’d repeated their vows in Winnie’s church?
Kincaid came through from the sitting room, where
he’d been chatting with Tim Cavendish, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve put the dogs in the study for a bit of quiet time.” With Toby and Holly running and shrieking, the dogs had gone into play overdrive, barking to join in the game. “I could see your dad’s blood pressure starting to rise,” he said more softly. Nodding at her parents, he added, “Seems to be going well.”
“I only gave them the sandwiches with white bread. That’s the secret.”
He smiled, and she realized this was the first time she’d seen his face relax since he’d come home from the Yard the night before.
While they were doing the washing-up after dinner, he’d given her a terse account of his interview with Denis Childs. The simmering anger was coming off him in waves, like steam.
“Well, you couldn’t really expect them to go in full force and drag him off to the nick, a deputy assistant commissioner,” she’d said, feeling her way. “I mean, what if we’re wrong? There would be hell to pay. It could cost Denis his job.”
“And what if we’re right?” Kincaid had asked, dunking a plate into the soapy water with such force that Gemma had winced.
“I think Craig will be retaining the best defense lawyer he can find,” she said. “He’ll claim the sex was consensual, of course, and that he has no idea what happened to Jenny Hart afterwards. But the skin and blood under her nails might cause him a bit of a problem. Not to mention the hair, fiber, and prints found in her flat.”
“What if the lab evidence goes missing?”
Frowning, she’d glanced at him, seen the strain in his face. “Now you’re being paranoid,” she said quietly.
He’d shaken his head. “I don’t like it, Gemma. I have a really bad feeling about this.”
Toby had come in then, asking about Charlotte’s birthday cake for the hundredth time, and they’d dropped the subject of Angus Craig.
But for the remainder of the evening, Gemma had watched Kincaid check his phone every few minutes for missed calls, his scowl growing deeper as the hours passed and there was no word from Chief Superintendent Childs.
Nor had there been a call that morning.
Now he said, “We’re missing Doug and Melody.”
“Melody rang. They’re coming together in her car. She ferried a load of things from Doug’s flat to the new house.”
Kincaid glanced at her in surprise. “That’s an interesting détente.”
“Don’t you dare tease him,” Gemma warned. “I’m glad to see them a bit less prickly with each other. But if you take the mickey, he’ll go all sensitive about it. You know what he’s like.” From the speculative gleam in Kincaid’s eye, Gemma suspected she was wasting her breath.
But now that he was a little less taciturn, there was something she needed to say. “Alia rang as well, begging off. Family commitments.”
Or at least that was what Alia had told her, but Gemma guessed that Alia’s father had dissuaded her from visiting on a strictly social occasion. Mr. Hakim was a very conservative Bangladeshi, and he didn’t approve of their rather odd blended family or of Charlotte’s mixed-race heritage. He and her dad would probably get on like a house on fire, Gemma thought ruefully.
“But I need to ring her back about Monday,” she said, touching Kincaid’s arm to make sure she had his full attention. She looked up at him, trying to read his expression. “Duncan—I have to let Alia know if she needs to look after Charlotte.”
He stood quietly for a moment, looking round the house as though taking stock. She followed his gaze. In the kitchen, Kit and Betty were conspiring over the punchbowl. In the dining room, Erika was still chatting with her mum while her dad looked on, his teacup resting on his knee. Beyond them, in the sitting room, Hazel and Tim, who seemed to have become more comfortable in their separation, were directing the little ones in some kind of indecipherable game, and Charlotte was looking overly warm and flushed.
“I think we’re going to have a birthday-girl meltdown soon, if we’re not careful,” Kincaid said. “Has Wes gone for the cake?” They hadn’t trusted the children not to find the cake in the house, so Wesley had left it at Otto’s café.
Gemma nodded, puzzled, not sure he had heard or understood her question.
Then he turned to her, meeting her eyes. “It’s my watch now, running this show.”
“What about the case?” she asked.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing more I can do about Angus Craig. It’s out of my hands. I have no evidence that will link him directly to Becca Meredith’s murder. I’ve no other viable suspects.” There was a slight tick of a frown, quickly erased, as he went on. “I’ve been warned off the Hart case, and I’m obviously out of the loop as far as any developments there.” He paused, watching the children, and she felt him trying to master his frustration.
“But no matter what’s happened with either of those cases, I am unavailable as of Monday. Because”—he met her eyes again and smiled, the broad grin that lit his face and that she loved so—“I have promises to keep. To you, and to a certain little Alice.”
Before she could reply, the bell rang.
“Speak of the devil,” Kincaid said, glancing out the sidelights in the hall. “Or devils.”
It was Melody and Doug, both in jeans and sweaters, looking oddly unprofessional, and both red-cheeked and bright-eyed.
“Have we missed the cake?” asked Doug as they came in. “Do say we haven’t.”
“I need some reward for lifting boxes like a navvy,” Melody said.
“It was only a few CDs,” protested Doug.
“Right. Just a few CDs.” Melody looked at Gemma and rolled her eyes. “Ha. I need refreshment. I seriously deserve refreshment. We left the car back at my flat so I wouldn’t get done for drink-driving.”
“It’s a children’s birthday party, for heaven’s sake,” said Doug, but the scold seemed mock.
“It may be a children’s party, but the grown-ups are provided for. There’s mulled wine on the Aga.” Kincaid waved them towards the kitchen.
Gemma heard the beep of a horn. That was Wesley’s signal. Looking out, she saw the café’s white van maneuvering into a parking spot.
“The cake’s here,” she whispered. “Positions, everyone.”
It was everything Wesley had promised. The round layers of lemon cake—Charlotte’s favorite—were swathed in intricately scalloped white icing. And in icing sugar on the top, a perfect rendition of Alice in a blue dress, but this Alice had pale brown skin and a mass of light brown curls. Just within her reach, nestled at an angle, was the little pharmacy bottle Gemma had found at the market.
“Oh, my God,” Gemma had whispered when Wesley centered the cake on the dining room table. “It’s perfect. Wes, how did you—”
“I made the cake. It was Otto who did the decorating. You know he trained as a pastry chef.”
“Where am I going to put the candles?” asked Gemma, feeling suddenly frantic. “I can’t ruin it. It’s a work of art.”
“We’re going to eat it, remember,” said Wes, laughing. He took the three swirly candles she’d bought and placed them strategically round the edge. “Hurry. I’ve got the camera. You light the candles. Here she comes.”
Hazel and Tim brought the children trooping in from the garden, along with the dogs, who’d been allowed out of confinement, and the room was soon filled with a pandemonium of barking and a more than slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Gemma thought she would never forget the expression of wonder on Charlotte’s face when she saw the cake.
Then, with encouragement from Kit, and some unsolicited help from Toby, Charlotte blew out her three candles and promptly burst into tears.
Before Gemma could go to comfort her, Duncan scooped her up and whispered something in her ear. With her head against his chest, Charlotte nodded in answer and peeked at the cake again.
Duncan reached down and lifted out the little brown bottle. Wiping the icing from the bottom, he licked his finger clean w
ith an exaggerated “Yum” and handed Charlotte the vial.
“What does it say?” he asked, pointing at Gemma’s little homemade label.
“Drink me,” she whispered, her fingers closing tight round it.
“See what a big girl you are now that you’re three? You can even read!” He set her down with a hug. “Let’s have some cake.”
Wesley and Kit were already slicing and serving while Betty and Hazel poured tea and punch and mulled wine, and the room was soon abuzz with laughter and conversation.
Charlotte, however, refused to eat cake, and instead carried her little bottle round the room for everyone to examine.
Gemma wondered if Charlotte remembered her last birthday, if her parents had made her a cake and sung to her. There was no way of knowing, unless Sandra Gilles had recorded it in her journals or photos, and those were locked away as an inheritance for Charlotte when she was old enough to appreciate them.
But Charlotte had a new family now, Gemma told herself, and they had their own memories to make.
Hazel appeared beside her and gave her a quick hug. “Great party.” Leaning closer, she turned Gemma slightly to one side and whispered in her ear. “Tell me if I’m seeing things.”
Gemma looked where Hazel directed, and saw Charlotte leaning on Gemma’s dad’s knee. He was holding out his teacup as Charlotte added a few imaginary drops from her brown bottle. Then he mimed drinking a sip, and Charlotte giggled. He scrunched down in his chair, as if shrinking, and this time Charlotte gave a peal of laughter.
“Well, I never,” murmured Gemma, closing her mouth from a gape. Her dad had never played with her or Cyn like that, at least that she could remember, or with Toby, or Cyn’s kids. “Will wonders never cease.”
She looked round for Duncan, wanting to share the moment with him, but he had migrated into the kitchen with Doug and Melody.
Wandering in, she caught a fragment of conversation.
“ . . . nothing,” Doug was saying. “If a DNA sample was submitted, it hadn’t come through the system last time I checked this morning.”
No Mark upon Her Page 30
