To Dwell in Darkness (15 page)

Kincaid shook his head. “Not enough left of him. Dr. Kaleem thinks he can get a decent DNA sample, but we have to have something to compare it to.” He glanced round the CID room. “Where's Sidana?”

“She and Sweeney are prepping for the press conference.” Gikas looked at his watch. “And you have ten minutes.”

“Bugger,” Kincaid muttered, then dashed for the men's loo. He washed his hands, combed his hair, and straightened his tie, glad he'd worn his best suit. But when he took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror, he saw that his eyes were shadowed. He looked, in fact, like he'd spent part of a short night sleeping on the floor with cats.

Shrugging, he made his way to the conference room. Sidana and Sweeney had set up a table with two chairs and mics, reporters were trickling in, and Nick Callery was there before him, looking as well turned out as he had yesterday.

“It's your show, apparently,” Callery murmured as Kincaid sat. “I'm just here for decoration.” He seemed unperturbed, but Kincaid remembered his quick exit from the Caledonian Road flat. What, he wondered, was Callery's stake in this, and had he wanted in or out?

When the room had gone quiet, Kincaid began taking questions.

No, they had not identified the victim. No, they had not found evidence of a terrorist plot or other terrorist activity. They were treating the incident as a suspicious death and it would be handled by Homicide. He had been named senior investigating officer.

Yes, he would be liaising with Detective Chief Inspector Callery from Special Operations in the event that any information regarding terrorist activities came to light in the course of the investigation. Yes, all rail services had been returned to normal operations, thanks to the efficiency of the British Transport Police.

“Are you considering the victim a suicide?” asked a reporter from a major newspaper.

“We cannot make that determination at this point,” Kincaid answered. “More information will be forthcoming after the inquest.” He hated police-speak, but it beat saying, “We're bloody clueless, mate.”

A female reporter in the back of the room raised her hand. She was, God forbid, from Melody's father's newspaper. “We understand you've arrested suspects in connection with the bombing.”

“Let's be clear,” he said sharply. “First, there was no bomb. The victim was apparently carrying an incendiary device, not an explosive. Second, we have not arrested anyone. There are, however, several witnesses to the event who are helping us with our inquiries.”

How, he wondered, had that got out? One thing he could guarantee—Melody hadn't been the leak. The last thing she'd want was her father knowing she'd been anywhere near the damned grenade.

Sidana stood at the back of the room, behind the seated reporters. She gave him a slight nod and mimed a throat cut.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your time.” Kincaid stood and Callery followed suit. They exited the conference room with reporters still calling questions behind them.

“Your borough commander didn't make an appearance,” said Callery when they'd left the public access area of the station. “I thought the uniform was meant to reassure the public.”

“Maybe it was the
absence
of the uniform that was meant to reassure the public.” Kincaid glanced at him. “Any idea why Special Operations signed off on this one?”

“A waste of time and resources, according to the deputy commissioner,” Callery said with a shrug, but for the first time, Kincaid thought he saw a flicker of emotion in his gray eyes.

Callery clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep me updated, will you?” He smiled. “At least if this thing goes to hell, it will be on your head, not mine.”

Back in CID, Kincaid spent an hour with Simon Gikas, Sidana, and Sweeney, going over the information that had been gathered that morning.

“What's your impression of the group after taking Cam through their belongings this morning?” he asked Sidana.

She seemed to hesitate, then said, “They seem a bit pathetic, really. They have almost no possessions. No regular income. They all seem dependent on Matthew Quinn's charity and that seems a bit . . . creepy.”

“Did he choose them because they were vulnerable?” Kincaid mused.

“Or was it the other way round?” said Sidana. “Maybe they're all habitual spongers and they saw him as a target.”

It was an interesting perspective, and Kincaid reminded himself that just because she resented him didn't mean she didn't have valuable insight to contribute. She hadn't got to be a DI without being good at her job.

“I can tell you a couple of interesting things.” Gikas tapped the computer screen on the worktable. In spite of the nickname, Simon Gikas was a very good-looking bloke. His dark hair and deep blue eyes had female staff scurrying to do his bidding, and he certainly got results. “There were two laptops. The warrants were a bit iffy, but because we had SO15 in the game, we were able to get forensics on them. A two-year-old could have got into them.” He shook his head in disgust. “One of them belongs to Lee Sutton, and one of them to Matthew Quinn, although I expect that most of the group used them. Sutton is big into social networks, and has about as much sense as you'd expect.”

“Drugs?” Kincaid asked.

“References, yeah. A few joint-smoking selfies. Photos from pop-up raves. Some mild porn. Pretty much typical university drop-out material. But Mr. Quinn, now, that is interesting.”

“Go on,” said Sweeney when Gikas paused. “We're bloody dying of suspense here.”

“His browser history is stacked with visits to wacko Web sites. End-of-the-world preppers. ‘True Britain will rise again from the ashes—but only for the chosen few.' ”

“Of course,” Sidana said under her breath.

“And when you get into the preppers, you don't just have the wannabe Druids,” Gikas went on. “You have the paramilitary dafties.”

“Guns?” Kincaid asked. “Munitions?”

“Name your poison. It's mostly fantasy, but it's ugly stuff.”

“So is there a record of Quinn buying—or shopping for—the grenade?”

Gikas shook his head. “No. But”—he paused again, obviously enjoying himself—“he did buy bitcoins. And what he did with them, there's no way to tell.”

Kincaid swore. “But surely you can trace—”

“No. That's the whole idea. You can gamble. You can buy drugs. Or diamonds. You can buy guns. Or rocket launchers, for that matter. And no one can trace the transaction. It's virtual cash, in unmarked bills.”

“What about personal stuff on his computer, then?” Sweeney asked.

“Unlike Sutton, Mr. Quinn stays away from social networks. His photos were all of London historical sites and ongoing construction. Of course they won't have got to the things he deleted, but at least on the surface he seems to have been quite careful.”

Kincaid was liking this less and less. “You said you found a couple of interesting things.”

“Ah. He did his banking online. It took forensics all of fifteen minutes to crack his password. Matthew Quinn doesn't pay rent, unless he pays it in cash—or bitcoins. But every month money is drafted
into
his account. The same amount, from the same source, and it's enough to keep him and his playmates quite comfortably.”

“Do you know where it comes from?”

“According to the wire transfer records, something called KCD, Inc.”

It took Kincaid a moment to realize why the name sounded familiar. It had been Medhi Atias, the owner of the chicken shop, who'd told him that KCD, Inc., owned the building. “King's Cross Development,” he said. The others looked at him blankly.

“The corporation owns the building. The chicken shop owner told me this morning.” More blank looks. “The chicken shop is on the ground floor,” Kincaid explained. “Matthew Quinn's flat is on the second floor. So why is the landlord paying Matthew Quinn every month, instead of the other way round?”

“You can ask Quinn,” said Sidana.

Kincaid thought for a moment. “He doesn't have to tell us. And why his landlord pays his rent is not necessarily germane to our inquiry, at least legally. But I'd like to know the answer, and I suspect there are better ways of finding out.” The disappointment was obvious in the team's expressions. Forestalling them, he said, “I'm going to let them go. All of them. I don't like it that the media got wind of the fact that we were holding them for questioning, and I don't want bully-tactic allegations when we have no bloody idea what's going on here. Simon, find me everything you can on KCD, Inc.”

Once settled in his office, Kincaid rang down to the custody suite and told the sergeant to release all six of the detainees.

“You want to speak to them first, Guv?” asked the sergeant.

Kincaid considered a moment, then said, “No. Just check them out.” He wanted them unsettled, and the less explanation they were given, the better.

And he wanted to be better prepared before he questioned them again.

He'd started through the transcripts of last night's interviews when his office phone rang. It was the front-desk sergeant, telling him she'd buzzed up Melody Talbot.

As he stood, he saw Melody crossing the CID suite. Jasmine Sidana looked up and gave her a friendly nod, which Melody returned with a smile. Opening his office door, he wrapped an arm round Melody in a hug of relief. When he realized his team was watching with unabashed interest through the glass walls of his office, he let her go, ushered her into a chair, and closed the door.

Melody wore, rather than her customary scarlet wool coat, a too-large navy peacoat that he recognized as Andy's. He had a sudden flash of memory from the night before—Tam lying on the concourse floor at St. Pancras, covered in something red. Melody's coat, splotched in the darker red of blood and splashed with phosphorus. She would not be wearing that again.

“Should you be out of hospital?” he asked. And belatedly, “Can I get you something? A cup of tea?”

“No, I'm fine,” said Melody, although she didn't look it. She wore no makeup, and her usually sleekly styled dark hair waved loosely around her face, as if she'd showered and forgotten to comb it. “I have to go back to hospital for more tests later this afternoon, but there was no point in my just sitting there.”

“Have you heard anything about Tam?”

She shook her head. “Not since Andy checked on him this morning. They say the burn should heal, but it's too soon to tell how much damage the phosphorus has done.” Before he could ask another question, she went on, “I saw the press conference from Andy's flat. Are you really holding suspects?”

“Not anymore.” At her inquiring look, he explained why he'd let the group go.

Melody listened intently. When he showed her the photos of the Caledonian Road protesters, she frowned. “I just had a glimpse in the crowd. I was more focused on the placards, and I was worried they were going to disrupt the show. But I recognize this one, because of his height and the curly hair even though he was wearing a watch cap.” She tapped a photo, then glanced up at Kincaid for confirmation. “Matthew Quinn?”

He nodded and she shuffled through the photos again. “And this one.” She tapped Cam Chen. “But the rest . . . I can't be certain.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened, from the time you arrived at the station?” he asked. She'd given him a brief account when he'd arrived at the scene last night, but she'd been shocked and frantic about Tam. “Every detail.”

Melody seemed to marshal her thoughts. “I was late, because there was a jumper—I think—on one of the tube lines, so the trains were delayed. I'd promised Andy I'd be there and I didn't want to disappoint him. Andy and Poppy were already playing—I could hear them as soon as I came into the concourse. I may have pushed a bit, getting through the commuters. I'd just reached the edge of the crowd gathered round the band when I saw them”—she glanced at the photos again—“pulling out placards. I was bloody pissed off. I looked round and there was a British Transport officer heading for them.”

Kincaid nodded. “Colleen Rynski.”

“So I thought she could deal with them—the last thing I wanted was to make a police-officer scene in the middle of Andy and Poppy's gig.” Melody sank back in her chair, looking exhausted. “Seems pretty stupid now, considering.”

“Go on,” Kincaid encouraged her.

“I saw Tam and Caleb standing outside the café. They looked pleased as punch. Wait.” Melody rubbed her hands on the knees of her jeans. “Was that before or after the placards? I can't remember.” She sounded distressed.

“Just give it time. I'm sure it will come back to you. Go back to Tam and Caleb. When you saw them, was there anything—or anyone—that caught your attention, even for an instant?”

Melody shook her head in distress. “No. I wasn't expecting—I wasn't thinking . . . I turned back to watch the band, and I remember I was hoping that Andy could see me at the back of the crowd. And then—” She stopped, swallowing. “The music was loud. But I heard it. A . . . sound. I realized that everyone's heads were turning in the same direction. Then I heard the screams start. I turned, too—and there he was. Burning.” She frowned. “No. That's not right. At first I wasn't even sure what it was, the light was so bright. And then I saw the outline of a man, inside the fire.”

“Why were you certain it was a man? You're sure you didn't see his face?”

“No, I—I don't know. That was just what flashed through my head. And then he collapsed, right before my eyes, and I started trying to get to him while people were pushing and shoving to get away. I shouted at people to get out, but the smoke was billowing and there was feedback screeching from the sound system and I'm not sure anyone heard me.