To Dwell in Darkness (36 page)

If he'd been afraid Erika would laugh, she didn't. “Did she leave, this girl?” she asked sharply.

Kit nodded. “I told her I had to go. But I waited until I was certain she wouldn't come back before I left the house.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

He shook his head. “No. Gemma's in Brixton, and Dad—he left early this morning. I don't know where he is.”

“All right, then.” Erika nodded briskly, as if they'd come to an executive decision. “In all likelihood there is nothing to be concerned about. But you must tell your parents, and as soon as possible. Do you promise?”

From Erika's expression, Kit didn't think she was taking it lightly at all. “I promise,” he said. “But if Dad gave her our address and said she should come, I'm going to feel like an idiot.”

“Kit, I cannot imagine that your father did any such thing.” Erika's expression was as grim as he'd ever seen it. “And I do not think I want to consider the alternatives.”

Gemma had just got off the phone with the crown prosecutor, who had not been thrilled at being disturbed on a Sunday afternoon, when Melody came into her office.

“Any luck with the CPS?” Melody asked.

Gemma shook her head. “She says that even if we can get an exact match on the shaving cream, it's still circumstantial, and she thinks the defense will blow us out of the water.”

They had not been able to interview Mercy Johnson's mother in person, as she was working her shift at a care home, but Gemma had talked to her on the phone. No, she'd said, Mercy had not been allowed to shave, and she herself used a foaming salt scrub rather than an aerosol shaving cream. “Do you mind if we have our forensics team go through Mercy's things again, just in case they missed it?” Gemma had asked.

“Is it important?” said Mercy's mother.

“I don't know,” Gemma had answered honestly. “It might be.”

“Then do what you must,” Mercy's mother had answered tiredly, and rung off.

Gemma had been onto the lab as well, asking if they could narrow the cream on Mercy's skin down to a brand, in hopes that it would match one of the cans in Dillon Underwood's bathroom.

“We'll have to talk to the other girls again, too,” Gemma said now. “To rule out Mercy borrowing their creams or razors while visiting. But I don't think we can do any more today.”

“Come on.” Melody gestured towards the door. “I'll give you a lift home. It's much too miserable out for you to have to walk home from the tube station.”

Gathering her things, Gemma protested, “But I've already ruined your Sunday, and most likely for nothing. You must have been planning something nice, too,” she added, glancing at Melody's skirt, boots, and turquoise cashmere pullover.

“You saved me from my mum's Sunday lunch, and let me put off telling my parents about Andy a little bit longer.”

Gemma stopped what she was doing and gazed at her friend. “Why don't you want to tell your parents about Andy? And vice versa? You're not . . . ashamed of him?”

“Oh, God, no,” said Melody. “It's more the opposite. Honestly, I'm afraid they'll gobble him up.”

“Gobble him up?”

Melody sighed. “You don't know them. There's nothing my dad would love more than to be the power behind a new and newsworthy sensation—except for that new sensation to be linked to his daughter. I'm not having that, and I won't have Andy feel that his success is down to anything but his and Poppy's talent. So it's not going to be a simple ‘I have a new boyfriend' discussion.”

“I see,” said Gemma, and she did. “Maybe you should prepare Andy to meet the gorgon first. So that you can present a united front.”

“Maybe,” Melody agreed, but she didn't sound convinced.

“Take me home, then,” Gemma told her. “We both missed Sunday lunch, and I'm starving. I'll make us something, even if it's cheese on toast. And”—she glanced at the clock—“as it's Sunday, and the sun is over the yardarm somewhere, I think we could even have a glass of wine.”

Kit came in as Gemma and Melody were finishing their toast and cheese. Gemma had found half a jar of Branston pickle in the fridge, which had perked their snack up considerably, and they had opted for tea instead of wine, at least to start with.

“You're back soon,” he said when he'd greeted Melody. Gemma thought he looked surprised and a little uncomfortable.

“The work idea turned out to be a bit of a damp squib,” she said, wondering what was up. “You're early, too. I thought you and Erika would be glad of an afternoon to yourselves.”

“Oh, yeah, well, we were. But—I'll do that,” he said, as Gemma turned on the tap to do the washing up.

“Never refuse a washing-up offer,” Melody commented from the table as Gemma laughed and handed him the Marigolds she'd been about to put on.

Kit held the yellow gloves with the tips of his fingers and tucked them back under the sink with an expression of disdain. “No proper bloke would be caught dead using washing-up gloves. You should know that, Gemma.” He added a big squirt of Fairy liquid to the basin. “Have you heard from Dad?” he asked, his back to her.

“No. I rang him awhile ago, but it went to voice mail. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It's just . . . I tried, too. Do you think he'll be back soon?”

Gemma glanced at Melody, who looked as puzzled as she felt.

“Kit.” She went over to the sink, reached around him, and turned the water off. “What's this about? Is something wrong?”

He still didn't face her. “Something . . . weird . . . happened. Erika said I should tell you.”

Gently Gemma turned him around. His face was flushed. “Okay. Why don't you tell me, then.”

“Would you rather I left, Kit?” asked Melody.

“No. You should probably hear this, too.” He wiped his dripping hands on the tea towel. To Gemma, he said, “You know that girl who came into the café yesterday? Ariel?” Gemma nodded. “She came to the house. Not long after you left this morning.”

“What? She came here?”

Kit nodded. “She said Dad told her she could come see the kittens. She was all apologetic—said she hadn't meant to intrude and she'd come another time. So I—let her in.” The last bit came out in a rush.

“What happened?” Gemma asked carefully, fighting a frisson of apprehension and the urge to glance at Melody.

“Nothing. It was just . . . I don't know. It just seemed wrong. I can't explain why. And I feel stupider now than I did when I told Erika.”

“She didn't . . . touch you, did she?”

“Oh, God, no.” Kit looked mortified, but he didn't meet her eyes and Gemma thought perhaps the girl had done something that he wasn't willing to admit. “But she picked up a kitten and . . .” He shook his head. “It didn't feel . . . I didn't think she really liked it. I just wanted her to leave.”

“And did she?”

“Yeah. But—”

Gemma waited, trying not to push him.

“When I told her we found the kittens on Wednesday, she said that was when her friend had died, and that she thought she was
meant
to have one of the kittens. Was she talking about the guy who . . . burned?”

“I don't know,” said Gemma, trying to recall everything that Duncan had told her, although a glance at Melody's expression told her that was probably the case.

Shifting from foot to foot, Kit said, “She wanted to know where Dad was.”

“You didn't tell her anything?”

“No. Just that he was out somewhere.” Kit fidgeted. “Can I go upstairs now? I have a paper to finish for school tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Gemma told him.

Kit was halfway across the room in one stride. Then he stopped and turned back to Gemma. “Will you tell Dad?”

“Of course,” she said again. “As soon as he gets home.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a fleeting smile, and a moment later they heard him running up the stairs.

“Would Duncan have told the girl that, and given her your address?” Melody asked, coming to stand beside Gemma at the sink.

“I can't imagine that he would.” Gemma frowned. “Although he did seem to feel sorry for her. Still . . .” She gazed out the window. The intermittent rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky was heavy, and dark would come early. “I wish they'd get back. Doug hasn't rung you, either?”

“No. I'd just checked in case I'd missed a call or a text when Kit came in.” Melody picked up Kit's damp tea towel. “Here, you wash, I'll dry.”

Absently, Gemma opened the cupboard and reached under the sink again for her kitchen gloves. Then she stopped, the yellow rubber fingers dangling from her hand.

“What's wrong?” asked Melody, giving her a surprised glance.

“Oh, surely not,” whispered Gemma, staring at the gloves. “You heard what Kit said. ‘No proper bloke would be caught dead using kitchen gloves.' I've never seen Kit or Duncan use them.”

“Doug doesn't own a pair,” Melody said. “Nor does Andy. I've bought my own so I wouldn't ruin my hands doing the washing-up.”

Gemma held the gloves up between them. “Dillon Underwood had kitchen gloves under his sink. What if—I know it sounds daft—but what if that's what he used when he strangled Mercy? That's why there were no fingerprints on her skin. We looked for nitrile gloves, but not ordinary kitchen gloves.”

“Yes, but . . . Surely he would have washed them by now, or even bleached them?” protested Melody.

“But what if he didn't?” said Gemma. “What if those gloves were the only trophy he dared keep? And he'd have thought he was so clever, leaving them in plain sight.” She dropped the Marigolds on the work top and grabbed her phone from the kitchen table. “I'm going to have uniform and the SOCOs pick them up now. It's worth a try. We've already got the warrant.”

Gemma had made the call, and Melody had finished the washing up—sans gloves—when they heard the sound of a car. They both went to the front window. Gemma's orchid-colored Ford Escort had pulled up in front of the house. The doors all opened at once and three men got out. Absurdly, Gemma thought of clowns emerging from a tiny circus car. But this was Duncan and Doug, and from the back climbed a scruffy-looking stranger hoisting a large backpack.

“Oh, my God.” Beside her, Melody had raised a hand to her mouth. “It's him. It's really him. They found Ryan Marsh.”

Kincaid had sensed Marsh growing edgy as they drove into the quiet streets of west Notting Hill. By the time he'd parked the car in front of his house, Marsh's tension was palpable.

“Nice place you've got here,” Marsh said, sitting forward so that he was breathing down Kincaid's neck. “For a copper,” he added with a sneer.

Kincaid pulled the key from the Escort's ignition and turned round, deliberately. “Yes. It is a nice place. And I promise you I am not on the take. But if I am going to invite you into my home, I expect at least the semblance of respect. Is that clear?”

“Okay. Right.” Marsh sat back. “Family money, then?”

“It's a long story, and it's none of your business,” Kincaid said, wishing he was as certain now as he had been six months ago that his home was without taint. But this was neither the time nor the place to deal with his worries.

“Let's get you inside,” Kincaid said and opened his door.

Doug had spotted Melody's little Renault. “Melody's here.” He sounded relieved, and Kincaid suspected his ankle was giving him fits. They were tired and cold as well, although they had stopped at a motorway café and eaten. Marsh had sat with his back to the door and shoveled food in as if he hadn't had a proper meal in weeks, rather than days.

Kincaid led the way to the house, with Doug bringing up the rear. The dogs were already barking, and before he could put his key in the lock, the door swung open.

As Gemma shooed the dogs back, Melody faced them. She looked hollow-eyed and pale, still, and once they were inside, she and Ryan Marsh stared at each other as if they had both seen ghosts. “You're all right,” Melody said at last, reaching out as if she might touch him. Then she dropped her hand to her side.

“And you.” Marsh seemed to search her face. “I'm glad. I'm sorry I—”

Melody was already shaking her head. “It's all right.”

Nodding, Marsh set down his pack, then knelt to pet the dogs. They were sniffing round his ankles as if they'd never smelled anything more enticing. “Who's this, then?” Marsh asked.

“Geordie is the cocker,” said Gemma. “And the little terrier is Tess. I'm Gemma, Duncan's wife.”

Marsh stood and held out his still slightly grubby hand, but Gemma gave it a firm shake regardless. “You have kids, then?” Marsh asked, taking in the scattered toys. He seemed, thought Kincaid, reassured.

“Yes,” answered Gemma. “Two little ones. And a teenager. But the younger two are out with a friend. Come in the kitchen. I'll put the kettle on. Melody and I have drunk enough tea to sink a battleship already, but we can give you a start at catching up.”

It was an awkward gathering. Melody murmured something to Doug, concerned, Kincaid guessed, about his ankle, then pulled out a chair for him. She asked Gemma if they had an ice pack or a bag of frozen peas, and went to dig in their freezer. Ryan Marsh sat, but on the edge of his chair, and looked as if he might bolt any minute.

Kincaid pulled mugs from the cupboard while Gemma filled the kettle. “There's something you should know,” she said quietly as he stood beside her. “That girl, Ariel, the one who came in the café yesterday. She showed up here this morning, when Kit was on his own. She said you sent her. That you gave her our address.”

“She
what
?” Kincaid's voice sounded overloud, and he realized the room had gone quiet. “Of course I didn't give her our address. What did she want?”