To Dwell in Darkness (6 page)

“I've already got someone running through the station's feed,” said Callery, and Kincaid shot him a look.

Melody wondered just exactly who was in charge here.

The techs marked a perimeter and began taking photos. The flashes made Melody feel a bit dizzy. “I don't know how much we'll get here, considering there have been thousands of feet tromping through the space since it was cleaned last night,” said the talkative tech to Rashid, who had taken out his own camera. “But let us have a pass at it before you get up close and personal.” The tech turned to Melody. “Did you touch him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No. He was still burning in places. And he was—it was obvious it was too late to help him . . .”

“How close did you get?”

She tried to think, but it was such a blur. Five feet? Ten? Where had they been standing, she and her helper, when they'd broken through the throng and seen the body? “About there, I think.” She pointed to a spot.

“Did anyone else go close to him?”

Melody shook her head again, suddenly reluctant to describe her companion. Had he been real? She wanted to see the CCTV footage for herself before she said anything. Nick Callery had stepped away and was speaking urgently into a radio.

“We'd better take some trace samples from you, just for elimination,” said the tech. He had a round face, the shape emphasized by the suit's hood and his stylishly shaved red-blond stubble. “I'm Scott, by the way.” He gave her a friendly grin and she smiled back, a little shakily.

“DS Talbot.”

“Sit tight, DS Talbot, and I'll get back to you,” Scott told her, with another quick smile.

Melody wondered where he thought she should sit and almost laughed. She really was feeling odd.

“Tell me more about these protesters,” said Kincaid as Scott and his colleague continued to mark and photograph, while Rashid prowled the perimeter with his own camera.

“They were facing the band, so their backs were to me. I got the impression that they were all Caucasian, except for one girl, who might have been Asian.” Melody paused, trying to re-create the scene. “They were all wearing winter gear, hats and jackets. One bloke was tall—he stood out above the others. I remember thinking that their placards looked homemade, and that they were hoping to get the attention of any media cameras here for the band.”

“We'll need any media footage,” Kincaid said to Nick Callery. “And we'll hope we got bystanders out before they uploaded the entire scene to Twitter or Instagram. Were any of the press held with the evacuees?”

“I'll check.” Callery got on his radio again.

To Melody, Kincaid said, “Did you see any of them after you saw the victim burning?”

“No. No, I never looked back that way. It was chaos, and then the smoke . . .” The memory seemed to trigger her cough.

“Dr. Kaleem,” called Scott. “You can have a go now.”

They all moved in a little closer as Rashid approached the corpse. “DS Talbot,” said Scott, “can you tell us how far the phosphorus splattered? The radius will help us determine exactly what was used.”

“Far enough to burn the people sitting outside the café, obviously. But everyone else was moving. Rolling or running away. I'm sorry not to be more helpful.”

Scott nodded. “The range of a white phosphorus grenade is about twenty-five feet. We're going to need a bigger team,” he added, glancing at Callery and Kincaid. “There's no way we can process this scene without more manpower.”

“On it.” Kincaid turned to Jasmine Sidana and murmured instructions.

Rashid was crouching now over the corpse, his blue Tyvek suit made bulky by the leather jacket underneath.

“Is the victim male?” Kincaid asked, impatience evident.

“Judging from the facial bones, probably,” said Rashid. “Parts of the shoes are left . . . hiking boots, I'd guess, a fairly large size. But the hands are gone. And the center of the torso . . .” He used a probe, carefully. “The body contracted, of course, but I'd say he was holding the device at waist level, more or less.”

“Any ID?”

Rashid glanced back at Kincaid. “Bloody hell, Duncan. This guy is toast. I'll be lucky to get teeth. Although”—he prodded again with the probe—“there does seem to be some fabric remaining underneath him. It might have been somewhat protected by his torso. A backpack, maybe? There's not going to be much more I can tell you until I get him on the table. We'll need a gurney to get him into the van.” He stood and rejoined them, pulling back his hood.

“If you're finished with me for the time being, I need to check on Tam,” said Melody. “And, oh, God, someone has to ring Michael and Lou—” She tried to draw a breath and began to cough. Michael was Tam's partner, Louise their next-door neighbor and closest friend.

Rashid peered at her, then stripped off his glove and took her wrist, pressing his fingers on the pulse point. “Melody, you look like hell. You're white as a sheet, and your heart rate is sky high.” He gave her hand a pat and let it go, but gently. “How much of that smoke did you breathe?”

“I covered my face.” It's bloody phosphorus, she heard in her head, and the blue handkerchief flashed in her memory. “I tried to cover my face,” she said aloud. It came out almost as an apology. “I didn't have a bandanna.”

“You're going to hospital.”

She'd never heard Rashid use that tone of command.

“What? But I— Tam—”

“No buts.” Rashid turned to Kincaid. “It's toxic, the smoke from white phosphorus. She needs to be monitored. And she needs oxygen. Now.”

“But—” Melody tried again to protest, but she felt woozy.

A firm hand grasped her elbow. “I'll take her to the medics.” It was the officer Kincaid had introduced as DI Sidana. “Steady,” said Sidana. Then, more softly, “It's Hindi, the word
bandanna
. Did you know that? The root of the word means tie-dyeing.”

Melody knew when she was being managed and she wasn't having it. “I'm fine, really. I—”

A squawk came from Nick Callery's handheld radio and they all turned.

Callery listened, murmured something Melody didn't catch, then clicked off.

“That was British Transport,” he told them. “One of their officers has a witness who says she can identify the victim.”

“Where is she, this witness?” Kincaid asked Callery.

“Down at the market concourse. They've got some coffee going, and a warm place to sit.”

“Sidana, I want you to stay here,” said Kincaid. “Make sure DS Talbot gets the medical care she needs, and oversee the scene.”

“But, sir. I should be in on the interview. I'm second in command—”

Kincaid stepped away from the others and jerked his head for Sidana to follow. “It's precisely because you are my second in command. I need someone here that I can depend on. Sweeney's perfectly capable of taking notes on the interview and I'll fill you in afterwards.” More softly, he added, “Look, Sidana, I'm not sure what's going on here with SO15. I want someone from our team on the scene until I know who has jurisdiction. Clear?”

“Sir.” Sidana nodded. She didn't look happy, but she didn't seem inclined to argue further, which was an improvement.

“Rashid,” Kincaid added, “you'll let me know as soon as you have anything?”

“Of course. But right now I'm going to deal with the living.” He put an arm round Melody's shoulders and steered her towards the triage unit.

Kincaid motioned to Sweeney and they both followed Callery, who had already started back along the concourse. Taking advantage of the brief chance for privacy, Kincaid made two phone calls.

The first was to Gemma. “I'm fine,” he said when she answered. “Andy and Poppy are fine. Melody needs some observation in hospital for smoke inhalation. But Tam was pretty badly injured. I don't know if Andy will have called Michael and Louise. Can you do it?”

“Which hospital?”

He hadn't thought to ask. “I don't know. UCL is the closest A-and-E. But Tam, at least, may need to go to the burn unit at Chelsea and Westminster.”

“Don't worry. I'll find out,” said Gemma. He could hear the kids in the background, the little ones clamoring to speak to him. Gemma shushed them. “What about Doug?” she asked. “He should know about Melody.”

“I'll ring him. More soon,” he said as he caught up to Callery. “Love you,” he added softly, then rang off.

Callery raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”

“Wife.”

“Ah. The long-suffering little woman. Keep your supper warm, will she?”

“I doubt it.” Kincaid felt a wave of irritation. “She's a DI. Brixton. Look, I've got to make one more—”

His own phone interrupted him. It was Doug Cullen. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Doug said before Kincaid could speak. “I saw it on the news. Where's Melody? I know she was going to be there. She's not answering her bloody phone and I—”

“Slow down, Doug. I was just going to ring you. She's okay, but she's going to need to be checked out. Probably at UCL A-and-E. She'll fill you in. Got to go.” He clicked off.

They'd reached the market concourse.

“The manager of the Starbucks opened up for us,” said Callery. “He's serving up coffees to the officers. And the witnesses.”

Two women sat at a table inside the curved glass wall of the Starbucks. One was in British Transport Police uniform. Her cap lay on the table, and her brown hair, which must have been loosely pinned up beneath the cap, was falling in strands about her face.

Seeing them, she jumped up, said a quick reassuring word to the other woman at the table, and came out to meet them. Her expression was intelligent, her manner competent. “I'm PC Rynski. Colleen.”

Kincaid introduced himself and Sweeney. “And this is DCI Callery, from SO15. That our witness?” He nodded at the woman in the shop, who had put her face in her hands.

“Yes, sir. Her name is Iris. She hasn't given me a last name.”

“Can you give us a little background?”

Rynski took a breath and brushed hair from her eyes. “I was on duty in the concourse. The band was playing. I saw a group with placards. I thought they might be disruptive. I'd just begun to move them towards the exit when the grenade went off.”

“You're sure it was a grenade?” asked Callery, his tone sharp.

Rynski looked at him, face expressionless. “I was in the military. Two tours in Afghanistan. I know a WP grenade when I see one. Sir.”

“Then what happened?” Kincaid urged, not wanting to lose this officer's cooperation.

“It was my job to get people out. It's toxic, white phosphorus, and I didn't know what else might happen. It was bloody chaos in the concourse, people running every which way and shouting. This group bolted for the street, signs and all. I didn't think about them again until I saw her”—she nodded towards the girl in the shop—“crying outside. She'd better tell you the rest.”

PC Rynski led them inside. “Iris, these are the policemen who need to speak to you.”

The young woman looked up. Her face was so swollen and splotched from weeping that Kincaid couldn't tell if she might be pretty. Her blond hair showed two inches of dark roots and wasn't particularly clean, and he could see, even with her bulky coat, that she was a bit overweight.

“Hi, Iris.” Kincaid pulled out a chair and sat down. Callery followed suit, and at a glance from Kincaid, Sweeney sat down behind and to one side of the witness, just out of her line of sight.

When Rynski started to excuse herself, Iris gave a hiccupping sob. “Don't leave me,” she pleaded.

After a questioning look at Kincaid, Rynski pulled up a chair as well.

“Iris,” Kincaid began, “it sounds like you had a really bad day. Would you like some more coffee? Something else hot to drink?”

“Could I—could I have some hot chocolate?” The girl's teeth were chattering.

The manager, who had been unobtrusively wiping down the serving counter, came over. He had a goatee, and despite the cold, was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off the colorful tattoos on his forearms. “Can I, you know, get you anything?”

“Hot chocolate for the lady.” When Sweeney started to open his mouth, Kincaid shot him a quelling glance. “Thanks.”

“What's your last name, Iris?” he asked as they waited for the hot chocolate. A machine behind the counter hissed loudly in the now-quiet station.

“Bark— Barker. Iris Barker. I know it's old-fashioned, but with all those shows on the telly these days—the historical ones—it doesn't seem so bad.”

The manager brought the steaming hot chocolate in a paper cup. Kincaid pulled a few banknotes from his wallet.

“Oh, it's on the hou—,” the manager began, but Kincaid was already shaking his head. “For your trouble,” he said, handing over the notes.

“It's a pretty name,” he told Iris, although at the moment he couldn't imagine anything less flowerlike than this girl, cupping the hot chocolate with pudgy, cold-reddened fingers, oblivious to the new tears streaking her mascara-stained cheeks.

“I was bullied at school.” Iris hiccupped again and gingerly held the cup to her lips. “Barking pansy, they called me. Might have been funny if I'd been a boy.”

“Can you tell us what happened today? You were protesting something?” Kincaid asked as she took another sip of the chocolate.

“ ‘Save London's History.' That's our slogan. Do you know how much damage is being done by the Crossrail project? Why do we need another rail route running right through Central London? There are twenty-six miles of new tunnels. That means ruins dug up without proper archeological supervision. Pre-Roman artifacts, even. All so that people can get somewhere faster. And can you imagine what else could be done with the sixteen
billion
pounds it's costing?” Iris's voice vibrated with indignation. “Things that might really help people? We thought we might get some media coverage, you know, because of the band. People need to know.”