To Dwell in Darkness (34 page)

The river widened, and it seemed to Kincaid that there was nothing before or around them but gray water meeting gray sky. Then, ahead, a dark smudge of trees began to take shape, with water on either side.

“Is that our island?” Kincaid asked.

“You tell me.” Doug rested the oars and looked round. “I think so. If I'm anywhere close in my reckoning.”

Doug slid the oars into the water once more. The smudge drew closer, until Kincaid could make out individual trees and a tangle of undergrowth. A grey heron flew overhead, its great wingspan casting a faint shadow on the water, the yellow markings visible on its trailing legs, and vanished beyond the treetops.

Again, Doug rested the oars, but now he let the boat drift with the current, towards the island shore.

They sat quietly, and it seemed to Kincaid that they might, after all, be the only humans in this small slice of wilderness. And then he caught the scent of woodsmoke on the still air.

Gemma sat at the kitchen table, drinking a second cup of hot, milky coffee. The house seemed unnaturally quiet for a Sunday. Not only had Duncan left before she'd even awakened, but MacKenzie had picked up Toby and Charlotte early, saying she was going to take them to brunch at Wolseley's café in Piccadilly.

“Are you certain?” Gemma had asked. “You're braver than I am, taking them to such a posh place.”

“Not to worry,” said MacKenzie with her usual good nature. “I've corralled Bill into going with me, and the sooner the little ruffians learn some manners, the better. No offense meant towards Toby, of course,” she added with a grin.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “We already know you're a wonder-worker, so I suppose anything is possible.” She'd dressed the children in their best outfits from the Ollie catalog, although she wondered how long Toby would stay clean.

She still marveled at her friend, who most days played down her looks by wearing no makeup and ordinary clothes, and pulling her mass of dark curls back with a clip. But today MacKenzie was dressed to impress, and Gemma recognized the cover outfit from the new spring Ollie catalog. “You look fabulous,” she said a little enviously.

“We're a walking advertisement,” MacKenzie quipped, but Gemma knew it was true. They would see and be seen at Wolseley's and the ballet. She only hoped her two behaved themselves.

“Enjoy your day,” MacKenzie had added, kissing her on the cheek as she herded the children out the door. A whiff of heady, citrusy perfume that Gemma didn't recognize lingered behind her.

She fully intended to do just that, Gemma thought as she sipped her coffee and enjoyed the warmth radiating from the Aga. The kittens were doing well, and two were already spoken for. Last night her friend Hazel's daughter, Holly, who was the same age as Toby and his favorite playmate, had expressed a decided preference for the little black male. And Oliver, MacKenzie's son, had set his heart on the tabby, which was beginning to show white patches like her mum.

The day was her own until she and Kit went to Erika's for lunch. She could even, she thought, practice her much-neglected piano, for which she'd had little time since her transfer.

But first . . . She slipped the file folder from the bag she'd left on the kitchen chair. It held the notes on the Mercy Johnson case, and Gemma was determined to go over them once more. She was halfway through rereading the forensics reports when she heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.

Kit came into the kitchen just as Gemma closed the file. “You're working,” he said accusingly.

“Just checking a couple of things.” She examined him with a smile. “You look nice.” He was wearing a new shirt with a Gap pullover, and she could tell he'd just showered and washed his hair.

He ignored the compliment. “Can I have some coffee, please?”

“More milk, less coffee. I don't want a caffeine-addicted teenager. You have enough energy already.”

“Bzzzz,” Kit teased her as he heated half a mug of milk in the microwave. “Erika rang. She's roasting one chicken instead of two. Still plenty for me. I'm going to help with the veg, though, so she doesn't overcook the broccoli.” He retrieved his milk, picked up the coffee carafe, and glanced at her to see if she was watching. “Blast,” he said, grinning, and poured only half a cup.

Gemma stood and went to top up her own mug. “What's that on your cheek?” She wiped at a white streak with her finger.

“Geroff!” Kit ducked away from her.

“Shaving cream?” she said, sniffing. “
My
shaving cream?
My
razor?” It couldn't have been Duncan's—he used an electric.

“Well, I—” Kit blushed to the roots of his fair hair. “I thought there was a little fuzz, and I wanted to look nice . . .”

Gemma gave him an affectionate pat. “Rule number one, love. Don't ever use a lady's razor. It'll get you in big trouble. I'll buy you your own the next time we go to the shops.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” she said, although she didn't like to think about Kit needing to shave—

The thought struck her as she stood with her mug in one hand and the coffee in the other.
Shave . . .

“Gemma? Are you all right?” Kit was staring at her.

“Yes. I'm fine. I just need to check something.”

“Okay.” Kit gave her another look. “I'll be upstairs if you need me.”

Gemma waited until he'd left the kitchen, then sat down at the table and opened the file folder again. She pulled out the forensics report and reread the chemical names of a substance found on Mercy's skin. It was shaving cream. Traces on her thighs. Mercy was not quite thirteen. Would she have been shaving her legs?

She thought of the shaving and hair removal products they'd found in Dillon Underwood's bathroom. If he had shaved his thighs and pubic area to prevent hair transfer, could it have been
his
shaving cream on Mercy's legs?

She needed to talk to Mercy's mother again, find out if Mercy had been shaving, and if so, what brand of cream she'd used. She needed the lab to give her a brand on the traces they'd found on Mercy. If Mercy didn't shave, and the brand matched that in Dillon Underwood's bathroom, they might at least have a wedge.

Snapping the folder closed, she picked up her phone and called Melody.

Having had the foresight to wear waterproof boots, Doug maneuvered the skiff sideways to the island's edge, hopped out, and pulled it close enough that Kincaid could clamber out without getting soaked. Doug found a low-hanging tree to tie the boat fast. Then, they stood, listening, knowing that if there was anyone else on the island, they had been heard and spotted.

The only sounds were the faint twitter of birds and the gentle lap of water against the hull of the skiff. But the smell of woodsmoke was stronger, and Kincaid sensed another human presence.

He faced inland. “Ryan Marsh,” he said quietly. “My name is Duncan Kincaid. I'm a police officer, but this is not official. We know you're here and we need to speak to you.”

There was no reply, but he thought he heard a twig snap. He waited, and after a moment tried again. “Ryan, I'm the senior investigating officer on the St. Pancras incident. I need to talk to you about Paul Cole. Your wife told us where to find you, so I can't guarantee she won't tell someone else. I repeat—this is
not
official.”

Again he waited. Beside him, he could hear Doug breathing. The silence stretched like beads of water sliding down a string. Kincaid thought he could hear his own heart beating.

Then there was a faint rustle, and a man materialized between two trees a few yards inland. He wore an old anorak. His light brown hair was unkempt, his beard a few days past stubble. Around his neck he wore a blue bandanna, and even from that distance, Kincaid could tell that his eyes were blue.

In his right hand he held, loosely, easily, a small rifle.

“You don't look much like coppers,” said Ryan Marsh. His voice was rough, as if he hadn't used it for a few days.

“Nor do you,” Kincaid answered.

Marsh's lips twisted in what might have been a smile. “I haven't looked like a copper in a long time. Who's your friend?” He nodded towards Doug.

“Just that. My friend. My former sergeant. Doug Cullen.”

“Nice bit of boating,” Marsh said to Doug. “So tell me again why you two friends are here.”

“Because Paul Cole's death is my case,” Kincaid answered. “And because the cop you helped that day is also my friend. We thought you were the one that was dead until she recognized you from an old newspaper photo.”

“My reward for being a Good Samaritan,” Marsh said, again with that ironic twist. Then, “Is she all right? She was as brave as I've seen.”

“She's okay,” Doug said. “So far.”

Ryan moved a few steps closer. “My wife. You said you talked to her. Is she all right?”

“Fine. Worried about you.”

“You didn't tell her about St. Pancras?”

“Only that you had assisted a police officer, and that we were worried about you.”

“How did you find Christie?”

“Long story. Look, is there somewhere we can talk?” Kincaid asked.

While Ryan Marsh appeared to think about the request, Kincaid wondered if he and Doug had lost their minds, coming here alone, facing a man with a gun on an island. If Marsh decided to shoot them, would they ever be found?

“As in ‘Come into my parlor'?” said Marsh. “I suppose so. I don't think it's likely you two are going to jump me”—the gun shifted slightly in his hand—“and drag me into your skiff. Oh, and by the way, there's no phone reception here. Just in case you were thinking of making a call.” He motioned them forward with the gun. “You lead.”

When they'd walked past him, he guided them a few more yards. Suddenly a small clearing opened before them. There was a fire pit, several cleverly constructed windbreaks that also served as camouflage, and a small sleeping area under a tarp. There was a single camp stool near the fire.

Marsh had noticed Doug limping. “What's wrong with your ankle?” he asked.

“Bad break.”

“Take the stool, then.” To Kincaid, he said, “You, there,” and nodded towards a log. He squatted on his haunches where he could see them both, the rifle across his thighs.

Kincaid caught the scent of roasted fish. “Nice place you've got here,” he said. “Been here since when—Wednesday night? Thursday morning?”

Marsh ignored the question. “I want to know how my wife knew where I was. And if she told anyone else.”

“She followed you a few months ago,” Kincaid said. “She thought you were having an affair.”

“Aw, Christ,” Marsh murmured. He lifted one hand off the rifle to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I don't think she's told anyone else,” Kincaid continued. “But now she's really worried about you.”

“You said
unofficially
.” Marsh fixed his blue eyes on Kincaid. “Why are you here unofficially? No, wait. Start by telling me what you know.”

Kincaid thought for a moment, trying to work out how to simplify and how much to tell. “We know you were in Matthew Quinn's protest group,” he began, “and that you were living—at least part-time—in his flat. We know that you were the one who was supposed to set off the smoke bomb in the St. Pancras arcade. It was Iris who came to us and told us they thought it was you who had died. She was devastated.”

Marsh made a grimace of distress, but didn't speak. Kincaid went on. “We thought it was you, as well, after we'd interviewed the rest of the group. But then we found that ‘Ryan Marsh' didn't exist, and things started to smell, very, very fishy.

“Then we discovered that the victim was not you at all, but a young man, a fringe member of the group, named Paul Cole. And Melody—our friend—recognized you as the man who helped her during the fire. She was certain that you were a police officer. And she was absolutely positive that you knew the victim was Paul Cole, but that you hadn't been responsible for his death. We trusted her judgment. You had disappeared. We figured you had good reason. And that's why it's
unofficial
.”

“You didn't tell anyone in the security services?”

“No.” Kincaid saw Marsh relax a little. “But there are people who know where we are. Just in case you were wondering.” He smiled.

“Right,” said Marsh. “Point taken.”

“We saw three possible reasons why you had vanished,” Kincaid continued. “One, you deliberately killed Paul Cole.” He raised a hand before Marsh could speak. “If we ruled that out, it left us with the two other most logical options—you thought you would be blamed for his death or you thought someone meant to kill
you
. Or perhaps both. Now, why don't you tell us what happened.”

“I gave it to Paul. I gave him the bloody smoke bomb.” Ryan rubbed a hand across his stubble. “I felt sorry for him. Matthew had brushed him off like he was a fly.”

“You weren't worried he'd be arrested?”

“To be honest, I thought dealing with the consequences might help him grow up a little.”

“When exactly did you give it to him?” asked Kincaid.

“That morning. In front of King's Cross. He'd followed me from the flat.”

“And you were certain it was a smoke bomb?”

“Jesus, yes. I'd set off a dozen of the things at demonstrations over the years. I'd swear it was an ordinary smoke bomb. When I saw the fire—” Marsh stopped and swallowed, looking ill. “And then when I saw him, I—” He shook his head. Kincaid remembered Melody saying he'd been distraught.

“Did anyone else know that you'd given Paul the smoke bomb?”

Ryan Marsh frowned. “Yeah. His girlfriend. She was the one he most wanted to impress. Ariel. Ariel Ellis.”