To Dwell in Darkness (19 page)

“Hello, love,” he said. “I was about to—”

“Can you meet me somewhere for a drink?” she said. “Near your office. I'm at UCL Hospital.”

Kincaid's heart thumped. “Is everything okay?”

“I went with Melody for her tests.”

“Is she all right?”

“They're not seeing any systemic damage as yet, but the doctor insists that she not come back to work for a few more days.” A taxi horn honked in the background and the wind rumbled across the phone's mic, cutting off part of Gemma's sentence. “. . . and I could really use some moral support,” she finished. “Didn't you say there was a good wine bar near your station?”

“There's Vat. But that will be bonkers this time of day.” He thought for a moment. “There's another small place a bit closer to the station. It's called, um, La Gourmandina, I think. Next to Persephone Books.”

“Okay, see you in a— There's a taxi!”

The connection went dead.

Kincaid grabbed his coat from the rack and went out through the CID room, telling Simon where he was going and to ring him if anything came through.

If there was any light left in the sky, it was blotted out by the lowering clouds, and the wind had not died with the dusk. But, at least, he thought as he yanked his coat collar up around his ears, it wasn't raining, and he hadn't far to go.

He'd only glanced in the small deli/wine bar as he'd walked by on the way to the Perseverance, but when he entered the place he was glad he'd chosen it. It was small, quiet, and warm. A couple drinking wine occupied one of the high tables by the front window, and at another a woman sipped coffee while writing in a notebook.

He chose a table nearer the back of the small shop and ordered, a crisp white wine for Gemma and a decent coffee for himself. The waiter had just brought the drinks when Gemma came through the door.

She smiled and kissed him as she shrugged out of her coat, her cheek cold against his, then pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her coppery hair.

“Lucky taxi,” she said as she slid onto the stool. “And you”—she picked up her glass—“are an angel.” Raising her glass to him, she took a sip, then sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “Perfect.”

“You do look a bit frazzled. What's up? Are the kids okay?”

“The kids are fine. Charlotte's still at Betty's and I've put Kit and Toby to work making posters for the cat—not that they're happy about that.”

“Posters? Why?”

“Bryony brought her little scanner when she checked on mum and babies this morning. She didn't detect a chip. But she said as the cat was so tame, she might belong to someone in the neighborhood, and we should put up posters in the vet clinics and the coffee shops.”

“And the boys don't want to give her back to her owner.
Potential
owner.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Yes. I'm beginning to think Kit has a future as a barrister rather than a biologist. I've heard every argument in the book, including the most telling one—that if the owner had taken proper care of her, she wouldn't have been pregnant or lost. But that still doesn't make it right to keep her if someone claims her.”

“You don't sound too thrilled with the idea of giving her up, either.”

Her expression rueful, Gemma said, “Call me a sucker.”

Kincaid grinned. “I'm thinking Hazel Cavendish needs a kitten.”

“And your friend MacKenzie,” Gemma countered.

“But which two are you going to give up?”

Gemma gave him a little punch on the arm. “Don't even start with the crazy cat lady thing again. We're not keeping four kittens. No way.”

“That means you're open to the possibility of keeping fewer than four kittens.”

She laughed. “I can see that Kit's been taking lessons from you.” Gemma drank a little more wine, then admitted, “I am a bit partial to the black-and-white one.”

“Their eyes aren't even open, and you don't know what sex they are.”

“I know. It's stupid.” Her face fell, and now that her cheeks weren't pink from the cold, he saw that she looked pale and strained. He remembered that she'd said something about needing moral support.

“You can keep whichever and however many kittens you like, love,” he said gently. “But I don't think you came to talk about cats. Is it Melody you're worried about?”

“Partly. She looks terrible. And she seemed very . . . I don't know. Withdrawn, maybe. How bad was it, really, what she saw?”

He thought for a moment. “I'm trying to remember if I've seen worse. I can't say I have. And I was only there for the aftermath. I didn't witness it. She did.”

“I suppose we've both been lucky not to have worked a bombing.” Gemma drank a little more of her wine. The threat was something that all London coppers lived with, but anticipating was not the same as actually dealing with it. “And she's not only worried about herself, but about Tam. We all are.

“But the thing is”—Gemma slid her almost empty glass forward on the table—“it's horribly selfish of me, but I've never needed her help more.” She told him about the girls she'd interviewed that day, and the developments regarding the suspect in Mercy Johnson's murder. “But now that we have something concrete,” she went on, “we can't find the bastard.”

“He's done a bunk?”

“Not necessarily. It was his day off work, and he wasn't at his flat. But now I'm worried that when he hears we've been looking for him, he
will
do a bunk.” She frowned. “Although he's arrogant enough that it may not faze him. I suppose I'm just missing having Melody's input, but of course I couldn't even talk to her about it at hospital.”

“You've got DC MacNichol, right?”

“Yes. And she's done a bloody good job with this. But—” Gemma's face went still. “Oh. The hospital. I know what I meant to tell you. I went to see Tam this morning. He was awake. I think I caught him just as the painkillers were wearing off. I'm not sure how lucid he was, but he said that he saw the victim. Before he pulled the grenade. Tam said he didn't look frightened, only a little nervous and excited. And he said that he was young.”

“Young?” Ryan Marsh had been described as being close to thirty. “What did Tam mean by young?”

“ ‘A lad,' ” he said. “ ‘Just a lad.' ”

Kincaid's phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw that it was Rashid.

When he answered, Rashid said without preliminary, “Duncan, you had better get the missing boyfriend's blood type.”

First, the site needed to be cleared. It was a brutal process. The landlords sold up and the dwellers were displaced for no compensation.

—Bbc.co.uk/London/St. Pancras

He awakened to a surprising sensation of warmth and an all-enveloping darkness. Shifting a little, he felt the slippery confines of his sleeping bag. Unlike the cheap bag and bedroll he had left behind with his friend Medhi in London, the bag he'd stashed in the boot of the Ford was rated for subfreezing temperatures, protection against even this bitter unseasonable cold.

As his eyes adjusted, he began to make out shapes. The solid darkness above him was the camouflage-printed tarp he'd fixed in place with stakes made from birch branches, angled to protect him from both wind and rain. Now, to either side of the tarp, he could see the lacy fingers of the bare trees and the dim outline of clouds against the night sky. And there, in a gap between the clouds, a star.

When he turned his head, he saw the tiniest glimmer from the embers of the fire he'd built in his fire pit earlier in the day. They flickered, like fairy sparks.

He moved and couldn't stop a groan. His back hurt. His shoulders hurt. When he tried wiggling his toes, pain shot through his feet. How many miles had he walked? Too many, even for his good boots. And his feet had been so cold by the time he'd crawled into the sleeping bag that he'd been afraid sensation wouldn't return. Now he wished it hadn't.

His fingers, when he flexed them, were swollen and raw. Once he had reached the hidden island, he'd beached the canoe and covered it with bracken and branches, then found his lightly buried spade and begun to dig. First, the fire pit. When it was deep enough, he'd used damp logs to barricade three sides as protection against the wind.

Then he'd uncovered the five-gallon plastic jug of fresh water, enough to keep him going until he could set up the filter for the river water, and the first section of sealed eight-inch PVC pipe, filled with dehydrated rations and tinder for the fire.

Dryer lint and Vaseline. His wife had caught him once, saving the lint from the dryer filter, and asked him what in hell he was doing. “It's for starting fires,” he'd said. “Sometime you might need to start a fire.”

She'd looked at him as if he was speaking Greek, shrugged, and shaken her head. “You and your self-sufficiency thing. You're just like a kid.” The disdain had been clear. He supposed it was then he'd realized, at some subconscious level, that they had reached an unbridgeable gap.

But it
had
been play at first, really, the river hideout. A reminder of the time he'd spent scouting as a boy and camping with his dad. And a need for a rare day or two when he had to be no one but himself.

The events of last autumn, and his failure to perform the task he'd been set, had changed that. He'd begun to come to the island in the Thames whenever he could get away, and he'd begun to take provisioning more seriously. Thus the cache tubes, one filled with food, another with ropes and stakes and silver emergency blankets modified to make wind barriers, another with a compact fishing rod and tackle. All legal, all easily obtainable. Except for the last two. The larger tube held an Armalite AR-7.22 rifle, all the components broken down and fitted into the stock. It was good for killing small game and would float.

The last tube, a smaller one, held a false passport and several thousand pounds in cash. It was his desperation cache, the one he'd hoped he'd never have to use.

Anxiety clutched at him, making him begin to sweat in the warmth of the sleeping bag. His stomach cramped. He realized he was hungry. And thirsty. And he had to pee. The fire needed tending. He would have to get up, no matter how much it hurt, and no matter how hopeless his plight seemed.

Kincaid found Gemma a taxi on Theobald's Road, then went into the station and up to the CID room. There was no sign of Sidana or Sweeney, but Simon Gikas was still huddled over his computer.

“News, Guv?” Simon asked when he looked up and saw Kincaid's face.

“Rashid rang. He thinks there may very well be a birthmark on the victim's left shoulder. And he says the blood type is fairly rare—A negative—so if we can find out Paul Cole's blood type, it will help make an identification. And there's another thing leaning in Cole's favor.” He told Simon about Gemma's visit to Tam. “I need to show Cole's photo to Tam.”

He rang Michael, Tam's partner. “Michael, Duncan here. Are you with Tam?”

There was the sound of movement and a door closing before Michael said, “Yes. They've moved him into a room. I've sent Louise home, but I'm staying the night.”

“He's better, then?” Kincaid felt a rush of relief.

“So far his organs seem to be holding their own. The pain from the burn is worse, though.”

“Gemma says he told her this morning that he saw the victim before he pulled the grenade. We have a possible ID. I was hoping Tam could look at a photo to confirm it.”

“I don't think he could tell you if it was Father Christmas at the moment. They've changed his pain meds. It's given him some relief, but he's out. Doped to the eyeballs, poor love.” There was great tenderness in Michael's voice—a glimpse behind the partners' usual matter-of-fact facade.

Kincaid couldn't imagine how he would feel if it were Gemma in that hospital bed. “Michael, let me know if there's anything I can do.”

“I'd say catch the bastard who did this, but he's dead, isn't he?”

Kincaid didn't say that it could be a bit more complicated than that. “Could you ring me just as soon as you think Tam might be up to looking at a photo?” he asked. “Oh, and, Michael, tell Louise to take care of herself.”

Ringing off, Kincaid thought for a moment. What about the waitress in the café? The one Melody had said was so helpful. Could she have seen something?

He glanced at the clock. It was after eight already and he didn't know how late the café stayed open. Or if the waitress would be working the evening shift.

His phone rang, and this time it was Jasmine Sidana.

“Sir,” she said. No casual “Guv” from her. “No one at Paul Cole's residence hall has seen him since yesterday morning. The boy in the next room—they have single rooms”—Sidana sounded disapproving—“said he'd seemed a little off lately.”

“Off, how?”

“Apparently he was never particularly outgoing, but the last few weeks he hadn't been talking to anyone.”

“Did he mention seeing him with the girlfriend, Ariel?”

“No.”

Ariel had told him she and Paul had had a big row yesterday morning. Where had they argued, he wondered, if not in Paul's room?

“I spoke to administration,” Sidana continued. “Paul Cole was failing his courses.”

A serious row with his girlfriend, failing at uni—both possible indicators of suicide with a boy of Paul's age and apparent temperament. But Tam had told Gemma that he looked excited, not frightened, and surely someone about to commit suicide would look frightened. And in any case, it didn't explain how Paul Cole had got hold of a white phosphorus grenade. Or why he and not Ryan Marsh had been carrying it.