To Dwell in Darkness (18 page)

Kincaid thought about how Gemma had felt—how he and Gemma had both felt—losing a child that way, even though the pregnancy had been unplanned.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, with such sincerity that Ariel looked startled.

“You understand, don't you?”

“I do.” He stood and fetched her the box of tissues from the conference room's corner table.

“Thanks.” Ariel gave him a tremulous smile as she took a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. He wasn't sure if she meant for the tissues or the condolences.

“What about Paul?” he asked. “How did he feel about the miscarriage?”

“He—” Ariel balled the tissue up in her fist. “He—he said it was my fault. That I must have done something. I told him he was crazy, and he said he'd show me crazy. He was being so childish. That's why—” She swallowed. “Oh, God. Surely he wouldn't have . . .”

“Did you know that Matthew's group meant to deploy a smoke bomb at St. Pancras?”

“I'm not really privy to the group's insider stuff. But I went to see Paul yesterday morning at Matthew's to try to make him see reason, and I heard them arguing.”

“Who was arguing?”

“Paul and Matthew. Paul wanted to be the one to set off the smoke bomb. But Matthew said Ryan was going to do it. Then Paul stormed out.”

“So you know Ryan Marsh?”

Ariel nodded. “He stays there, at least some of the time. Even Matthew thinks Ryan is God, but Ryan never acts like it. You know?”

Kincaid thought he heard a hint of hero worship. “Was Paul jealous of Ryan?”

“He didn't like everyone looking up to Ryan, if that's what you mean.” Ariel twisted the now-shredded tissue. “You don't think—you don't think Paul could have done something to hurt Ryan? Was it—was Ryan—” She stopped, shaking her head.

If this Paul Cole had been the one to give an incendiary device to Ryan Marsh, where was he now? Or— Kincaid considered the other possibility, equally dire. What if Paul Cole had
taken
the incendiary from Ryan Marsh? He had to rule it out, if he could.

“Ariel, you and Paul were close.”

“Obviously.” A hint of sarcasm, tinged with embarrassment.

“Is there anything . . . unique . . . about Paul? A tattoo, for instance? Or maybe you know if he broke a bone at some point?”

“Oh, God.” Ariel pressed a hand to her mouth. “You mean like a—what do they call it on the telly—a distinguishing mark?”

“Yes. Is there something?” Kincaid pressed.

Ariel just stared at him, her blue eyes wide.

“What is it, Ariel? If you want to help, you need to tell me.”

“I don't—I can't think—oh.” She went still, as if suddenly facing the terror she had been dancing around. “Yes. He does. Just inside his left shoulder. Paul has a birthmark.”

It was occupied by a canal, a gas-works, an ancient church with a large and crowded graveyard, and some of the most atrocious slums in London, and through it all ran the River Fleet.

—Jack Simmons and Robert Thorne,
St. Pancras Station
, 2012

Kincaid had escorted Ariel Ellis out after getting her contact information, telling her to go home and promising that he would be in touch.

As he opened the station front door for her, she'd pulled a woolly hat over her hair and smiled at him. “Thank you. I do feel better now, just having got things off my chest. I'm sure Paul's fine and I've just made an idiot of myself.”

He hoped she was right. But now they had another avenue to explore, and he wondered why no one in the group had mentioned Paul Cole or Ariel Ellis. Before talking to the team, he shut himself in his office and rang Rashid. He could hear traffic noise in the background when Rashid picked up.

“Rashid, it's Duncan,” he said. “I need you to check something for me on our victim. Did you see anything that might have been a birthmark inside his left shoulder blade?”

There was a muffled murmur of voices, then Rashid again. “Sorry. Just reached the scene of a suspicious death in Dalton. It will be a while before I can get back to the London and pull him out of storage.”

“You don't remember seeing anything like that?” He explained about Ariel Ellis and her missing boyfriend.

“It's possible,” said Rashid after a moment. “The skin there was somewhat protected by the backpack. I may be able to see some differentiation in the tissue under a microscope.”

“Could he have been twenty rather than thirty?”

“It's possible. I'll ring you as soon as I get back to the lab.”

And with that Kincaid had to be content.

When he walked back into the CID room, he was met by curious faces.

“Is there news, Guv?” asked Simon Gikas.

“Who was that girl downstairs?” put in Sweeney. “The one with the fairy hair. I'd call her a looker.”

Kincaid suspected that Sweeney would call anything with two legs and breasts a looker, but that didn't mean he was wrong about Ariel Ellis.

Ignoring Sweeney, Kincaid said, “We may have another possible identity for our victim.” He repeated Ariel's story, although he left out what she'd told him about having had a miscarriage. Unless they had some concrete evidence that her boyfriend was the victim, it seemed an unnecessary disclosure. “I've already rung Dr. Kaleem. While we wait for him to check on the birthmark, let's see what we can learn about Paul Cole.”

Kincaid paused for a moment, reminding himself that it was no longer his job to do all the legwork. “Jasmine, George,” he said, making an effort to use his detectives' first names, “I'd like you to go to UCL. I've got an address for Paul Cole's student accommodation, a residence hall called Ramsay House near Gower Street, but”—he glanced at his watch—“first, you'd better get on to the admin office before they close and get a contact address for Cole's parents.”

“Right, Guv.” Sweeney unplugged his phone from its charger and reached for his overcoat. Sidana just nodded and gathered her things.

“Check in after that, will you? We'll see where we are. In the meantime, maybe Simon can come up with more information on Paul Cole than we've found on the elusive Mr. Marsh. It may be that we've been looking for the wrong victim all along.”

Melody rummaged in Andy's small kitchen cupboard for something that would soothe her aching throat. In the very back, behind an old jar of Marmite and an empty bottle of olive oil, she found a box of lemon-ginger tea bags.

She opened the box and sniffed. A little stale, but she'd found a shriveled lemon in the fridge that would help. Not that she could criticize—there was nothing in her own fridge at all. She found a clean mug emblazoned with the Gibson logo and put the kettle on to boil.

Even that made her woozy. Slicing up the lemon, she dropped it in the mug with the tea bag. When the kettle boiled, she filled the mug and took it back into the sitting room to steep.

She'd felt so exhausted after her interview with Duncan that she'd come back to Andy's flat, curling up on the futon in the sitting room with her laptop and Bert, Andy's cat. Although Andy hadn't returned from visiting Tam, Melody hadn't been able to talk herself into going back to her own place in Notting Hill.

Bert had resettled himself in the warm spot she'd vacated, and now gave her a disgruntled look as she said, “Shove over, Bert,” and shifted him. She set the tea on the amp that served Andy as a coffee table. Then, on impulse, she picked up the blue cardigan he'd tossed on the end of the futon and wrapped it round herself. It was warm and oddly comforting, considering the circumstances in which Andy had worn it yesterday. And it smelled faintly of him—that indefinable combination of his soap, shampoo, skin, and the faint mustiness imparted by the flat itself.

Pulling her computer into her lap again, Melody sipped at her tea and found it not as bad as she'd expected. But her throat felt no less raw, and within a few minutes she was coughing again. Her head hurt, and no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on the computer screen, her brain seemed sluggish and foggy.

She had accessed the
Chronicle
's photo files, setting “environmental protests” as the search term and the past ten years as the parameter. But the photos blurred and her head throbbed. She sighed, closing her eyes and scratching Bert under his chin. He obliged by upping the volume of his purr and kneading his paws against her leg. Melody found to her surprise that she didn't mind the pricking of his claws.

She must have dozed, because she woke with a start when the flat door opened, and almost dumped her laptop onto the floor.

“Melody?” said Andy. “Are you all right?”

She closed the laptop and sat up, groggily, rubbing at her eyes. “Fine.”

“You don't look fine.” He sat beside her, studying her with a frown.

“Thanks a lot. You don't look so hot yourself,” she said. There were dark smudges under his eyes, his face was drawn, and his blond hair looked uncombed. “How's Tam?”

Andy reached across her to give Bert a rub on the head. “Sedated. They say there's not much change in his test results today, but the pain from the burn is worse.”

“And Michael and Louise? How are they holding up?”

“I stayed so they could both get some rest. And then Caleb and Poppy came.” Andy shifted away from her and Bert, folding his arms across his chest.

“What?” Melody asked, sensing something wrong. “Shouldn't Caleb and Poppy have come to hospital?”

“No, it's not that. It's just . . . You know the producer who was coming to the concert?”

Melody nodded, waiting.

“In spite of everything that happened yesterday, he still wants us to do a demo for him. And he wants us to do it tonight. He has a slot open at Abbey Road.”

“Abbey Road?” Melody sat up, now completely awake. “Abbey Road Studios? But that's fabulous.”

“Not without Tam.”

She stared at him. “You're not seriously telling me you don't mean to go ahead with this?” When he didn't answer, she said, “Andy?”

He shook his head, and when he met her gaze, she saw that he was close to tears. “How can I do something like this without him there? After everything he's done for me?”

“How could you
not
do it? How do you think Tam will feel if he finds out you'd passed up something like this? And what about Poppy and Caleb and what this would mean for them? You can't possibly be so selfish as to deprive them of this chance.”

Andy stared at her, wide-eyed, and Melody realized she was shaking with anger. “Oh, God, I'm sorry,” she whispered, appalled. “I didn't mean to lash out at you like that. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just want you to look after yourself.” She started to cough.

“Maybe you're right. But what about
you
looking after yourself?” Andy countered. “Isn't there someone you should be talking to about what you saw yesterday? No wonder you're a bit . . . testy.”

“Thanks. Not that it's not deserved.” Melody managed a smile.

“And if I do this demo,” Andy went on, “I can't go to hospital with you for your tests tonight. I have a responsibility to you, too. Or at least I thought I did.”

“Of course you do.” Melody stroked his arm. “But I'm used to doing things on my own. I'll be fine.”

“What about your parents? Couldn't you call them?”

“No.” It came out more forcefully than she'd meant. “It's just . . . my parents are a bit overwhelming sometimes. My dad's a . . . a journalist . . . and once he gets his teeth into something, he won't let go. If I didn't set boundaries, I'd never have a life of my own.”

“Is that so bad?” he asked, and she knew he was thinking of growing up without a father, and with a mother who was neither physically nor emotionally capable of caring for him.

“No, of course not. But I've fought my whole life to be independent. It's . . . important to me. You have to understand that.” There was so much she wasn't telling him—couldn't tell him, not just now. But at least what she
had
said was the truth.

“Is that why you haven't introduced me to them? I thought it was because you were ashamed of me.”

“Oh, no. Not in a million years.” She turned to him, putting her head on his shoulder, and after a moment he put his arms round her in a hug. “I promise I'll take you to meet them,” she said. “Let's just get this behind us. And you promise me you'll do that demo tonight.” She coughed again and Andy stroked her hair.

“What about your tests at hospital, then?”

As much as she hated to admit it, Melody realized that she didn't want to go alone. And that she was frightened, not only for Tam but for herself.

“I'll call Gemma,” she said.

Kincaid was normally neither impatient nor fidgety, but he hated waiting for people to get back to him—especially when those people were doing tasks he might have done himself. That was one of the reasons he'd loved the special homicide liaison team at the Yard—he'd been able to do more legwork than his rank normally allowed. Nor had he been accustomed to having an entire team under his command. Now he wasn't sure if that had been a blessing or a curse.

He hung over Simon Gikas's shoulder until Simon told him to go away, that he'd let him know if he found anything.

Pouring another cup of coffee from the CID room pot—and making a mental note to buy a decent machine for his own office—he settled back at his desk, rescanning the reports on the case while checking for messages from either Rashid or Jasmine Sidana, and all the while keeping an eye on the wall clock as it ticked round towards half past six.

He'd just thought he should check in with Gemma when his phone rang and her face flashed up on the screen.