To Dwell in Darkness (29 page)

Kit shook her hand. “How do you do?” Erika had obviously been coaching him on his manners.

“And Toby,” Kincaid continued.

“I'm six,” Toby informed her. “Howja do?” he added, imitating his brother.

Sidana solemnly shook his hand as well.

“And this is Charlotte.” Charlotte smiled, then shyly tucked her head into Kincaid's shoulder. “They're kidnapping me for half an hour. When I get back, you can tell me what Sweeney's done.”

He glanced back as he led his family out the main doors. Sidana stood in the middle of reception, staring after them and looking utterly perplexed.

Kincaid felt a bit like the Pied Piper as he led his family down the street, periodically encouraging one child or another as they lingered at shop windows.

“That's your DI?” Gemma said in his ear as they walked. “She didn't look a bit pleased. What was that about?”

“Hopefully, not me this time. But I think the DC may be in hot water.”

They reached the café, a friendly, order-at-the-counter place on the corner of Lamb's Conduit Street across from Great Ormond Street Hospital. By dint of borrowing a chair and putting the two boys at the window counter, Kincaid managed to seat all of them in the busy place. There were other families with children, and several pushchairs blocking the already crowded space.

“You'll have to make up your minds,” he told the children, knowing the younger ones would take forever if not managed. “Charlotte, Toby, how about ham, cheese, and pickle?”

“Can we have Orangina?” asked Toby.

“You can. Kit?”

“I want hot chocolate,” piped up Charlotte. Kincaid took her cold hands in his and rubbed them. “Good girl. That will warm you up. Kit?”

Kit was still studying the menu, but he said, “Hummus and feta wrap, with cucumber and mint. And can I have a latte, please?”

Kincaid hid a smile. Kit and his friends had started to meet in coffee shops, and Kit was doing his best to learn to like coffee. Kincaid suspected he'd much rather have had hot chocolate.

“Crayfish and rocket for me,” said Gemma. “And I'll have a latte, too.” She winked at Kit.

“And tuna for me.” Kincaid closed the menu with a snap. “Stay here. I'll order. And don't let anyone steal my chair.”

When he returned to the table, Toby pulled at his sleeve. “We're going to the ballet. Tomorrow. MacKenzie's taking us to the . . . matinee.” He struggled a bit with the word.

“It's
Sleeping Beauty,
” put in Charlotte, who was bouncing with excitement. “I want to be the princess.”

“You can't be the princess, silly. You're too little, and you're not in it. And, besides, she sleeps all the time. Boring.” Toby rolled his eyes.

“Mind your manners, Toby,” said Gemma. “Don't call your sister names.”

Kincaid shot a glance at Gemma. “I thought you were going to lunch at Erika's.”

“Kit and I will still go. MacKenzie managed to get just enough tickets for the children at the last minute.”

As the server delivered their drinks, Kincaid cocked an eyebrow at Gemma. He knew MacKenzie Williams. If she'd decided the children should go to the ballet, tickets would have materialized. He suspected she was hatching a plot, and as Charlotte hadn't particularly enjoyed the ballet class, that whatever MacKenzie was up to had to do with Toby.

Gemma gave a little shrug that let him know she was thinking the same thing. “I told Erika I didn't know if you'd be able to manage lunch,” she said.

“It's not looking likely,” he answered as their sandwiches arrived.

He needed a break in this case. Doug hadn't rung with any news on Ryan Marlowe or on the missing girl, and his team hadn't turned up anything helpful other than the connection between Matthew and Lindsay Quinn. Once he'd seen Lindsay Quinn, he was going to pin Matthew down about the seller of the grenade.

“Dad, you're not paying attention.” It was Kit, sounding aggrieved. “I want to meet some of my mates at Starbucks when we get back from Leyton. Gemma said to ask you.”

“I don't see why not. As long as it's the Holland Park—” Kincaid stopped as the café door opened and Ariel Ellis walked in. She stood just inside the door, hesitantly, until Kincaid jumped up and went to greet her.

“Ariel? Are you all right? What are you doing here?”

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to intrude.” She flushed and pushed her candy floss hair away from her face. “It's just—I was coming to the station to see you, to apologize for yesterday, and I saw you through the window. I'll wait at the station.”

“No, come and sit down,” he urged, taking her elbow and guiding her to the table. “This is Ariel. She's been . . . helping us with an investigation.” He introduced Gemma and the kids, then added, “Can I get you something? A sandwich? Something to drink?”

Ariel smiled shyly at them. “Nothing to eat, thanks. But I'll have a cup of hot chocolate.”

“I'll get it,” said Kit, jumping up and leaving his half-finished sandwich on the plate. “Any whipped cream?”

She shook her head. “Just plain is fine.” Her pale skin seemed stretched over her cheekbones and Kincaid thought she'd lost weight just since yesterday.

He filled the awkward silence by fetching her a chair from another table. By the time she was seated, Kit had returned with her chocolate, which he delivered with as much care as if he'd been serving at the Savoy. She smiled her thanks and Kit managed to get back on his stool without falling over something.

“Please,” said Ariel, “don't let me keep you from eating. Is this a special occasion?”

“Our car wouldn't start, so we had to take the tube,” volunteered Toby, through a mouthful of ham and cheese.

Kit scowled at him and explained, “Dad left us his car today so we could take the dogs with us to visit our grandparents in Leyton. But it wouldn't start this morning. I think it's the alternator,” he added, sounding as if he could take a car apart in his sleep.

“You have dogs?” Ariel asked. “What kind? I love dogs.”

“I have a terrier named Tess. We're not sure what sort of terrier she is, though. She was a rescue. And we have a cocker spaniel named Geordie. He's a blue—”

“We have a cat, too,” broke in Toby. “Her name is Xena. And she has kittens! We rescued them. They were in a shed in the garden and they were
freezing
. We had to break in.”

Kincaid ruffled Toby's hair. “That's the part you're not supposed to tell anyone, mate.”

“That was really brave of you,” Ariel said to Toby, but she glanced at Kit, who flushed.

“I took the posters down this morning,” Kit said a bit defiantly. “Bryony said I could.”

“Bryony's our vet,” explained Gemma. “The cat wasn't chipped, but Bryony said we should put up posters in the neighborhood for a few days in case someone in the area was looking for her.”

Ariel's face fell. “I've never had a cat. My mum was allergic, and we just never . . .”

From Kit's expression, Kincaid could tell he'd caught the past tense. That was a direction in which he didn't want the conversation to go, especially with Charlotte at the table. “I see they have smoothies,” he said quickly. “Does anyone want one for a special treat?”

“Me.” Toby waved a hand in the air.

“Me,” echoed Charlotte.

Kit hesitated, and Kincaid guessed he was torn between refusing in order to seem sophisticated, and getting the drink he really wanted.

Kincaid pulled out his wallet and handed Kit some notes. “How about you get everyone what they want,” he said. “Ariel? Would you like one?”

She shook her head. “No, but thank you.”

As Kit herded the little ones up to the counter, Ariel turned to Gemma. “You have a lovely family. Thank you for including me.”

Smiling, Gemma touched her arm. “Thank
you
. Although they are a handful sometimes.” More quietly, she added, “I'm sorry for your loss. Duncan told me.”

Ariel's eyes filled with tears. “I still can't believe it,” she said, her voice trembling. She took a breath and turned to Kincaid. “I found something. That's the other reason I came. In my mail cubby at uni. A note from Paul. I don't know if it means anything.” She started to reach in her bag but Kincaid stopped her with a shake of his head.

“We'll have a look at the station, all right?”

“You go on,” Gemma said to Kincaid as he took the last bite of his sandwich. “You two need to talk. I'll settle up here. We should get on our way to Leyton, anyway. I promised I'd help Dad with the Saturday-afternoon rush.”

“Right.” Kincaid gave her a grateful glance. When the children came back with their smoothies, he stood and said, “Ariel and I need to take care of something at the police station.” He picked up Charlotte for a hug and tousled Toby's hair. “I'll see you all tonight.” He gave Gemma a quick peck on the cheek and ushered Ariel out.

As they walked towards the station, she said, “You tell your wife about your cases?”

“She's a police officer, too. A detective inspector. Now, let's see this note.”

Ariel reached into her handbag and handed him a sheet of paper. It looked as if it had been torn from an inexpensive journal.

The handwriting was barely legible, but Kincaid was able to make out the words scrawled across the page.

You'll all be sorry.

For two years after the passing of the Act sanctioning the London extension [of the railway], the Company had concentrated the whole of its efforts on the building of the railway from Bedford and of the train-shed, which was the first necessity for the reception of passengers at St. Pancras. It had still to provide for the permanent booking-offices, waiting rooms, and other amenities that would be required; and for the hotel that was to supply the station façade on to the Euston Road.

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

“Do you have any idea how long the note had been in your mail cubby?” Kincaid asked Ariel when he had seated her in the family interview room.

“I hadn't checked it since . . . that day,” she said. “I think I looked the day before, but I'm not certain. It's usually just junk, college leaflets and things, so I only check if I'm in the building and happen to think about it.”

“But Paul knew where it was.”

Ariel nodded. “Of course. He has one as well, and our names are on them.”

Kincaid made a note to check that the search team hadn't missed Paul Cole's mail slot. He looked at the page again, now in a clear evidence sleeve. “And you're certain this is Paul's handwriting?”

“It couldn't be anyone else's. Paul's handwriting is—was—dreadful. I could never understand why he kept a paper journal. He would talk about Samuel Pepys's life being preserved for posterity, and how today's records of daily life—e-mails and texts—will just disappear into the ether. Like disappearing London, I guess.”

“So he kept a journal?” Kincaid asked, keeping to himself that he already knew this. He wondered why Paul Cole thought anyone would
want
to read his scribbles in a century or two. But then why had Sam Pepys thought future generations would be interested in his digestive issues and toilet habits?

“Yes,” answered Ariel. “A cheap black one.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to it?”

“It wasn't in his room? Or his backpa— Oh, God.” She put her face in her hands. “I can't—I don't even want to think about—”

“Don't,” Kincaid said. “There's no point in torturing yourself by trying to imagine it. Do you think it's possible he put the note in your cubby the day of the . . . incident?”

“I don't know.” Ariel sounded near tears again.

“Then tell me exactly what happened that day. You said that you and Paul argued. Where? At Matthew's flat?”

“It started there, yes. But then we went back to his room at uni.”

“And?”

Huddling farther into her padded coat, Ariel said, “It went from me telling him to leave it alone—nagging Matthew about the smoke bomb, I mean. That it was stupid, and that his parents and my father would be furious if he went to jail. Then . . .”

Kincaid waited.

“Then . . . then he started telling me it was my fault I'd had the miscarriage. As if there was something I could have done. And I said how would we have supported a baby, and why would I want to have a child with someone who would do something as stupid as set off a smoke bomb in a railway station?” Ariel took a breath. “I didn't mean it. But I was so angry. I was shaking.”

“What did you do?” Kincaid asked.

“I left. I think he threw something at the door behind me. I never—I never saw him again.” She pressed her lips together in an effort not to cry. “If I had—”

“Don't,” Kincaid said firmly. “You are not responsible for Paul's decisions. And we have yet to come to any definite conclusions about what happened.” He stood. “Come on. I'll see you out. You go home and get some rest. And eat something. No more fainting, okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Ariel, and gave him a smile that trembled a little.

But when they got to the door of the station, she turned back. “I'm so worried about Ryan. No one's seen him. What if he thinks it was his fault?”

“We're looking into it. Now don't worry. We'll let you know when we have any news.”

After seeing Ariel out, he studied the note as he went back to the CID suite. He was still not at all certain that Paul Cole had meant to kill himself. “You'll all be sorry” could mean he'd convinced Ryan to let him set off the smoke bomb. It could mean that he was going to leave the group because he felt unappreciated. No one seemed to have liked him much, the poor git. And everyone had liked Ryan.