To Dwell in Darkness (10 page)

And he was still in a boot cast, which made getting round on the tube not as easy as he would have liked. He'd walked from his house in Putney to Putney Bridge tube station, then changed trains twice, so his ankle was aching when he reached street level at Euston Square tube station. Stepping out of the glass vestibule, he flinched at the bitter blast of the wind.

When he looked east down Euston Road, he could see the traffic still backed up between Euston and St. Pancras station. What a mess. And for Melody to have been in it—

Shuddering, he turned the other way, gazed up at the glass-and-steel hulk of University College Hospital, and limped across Gower Street.

The emergency entrance was easy enough to find. Gaining admittance turned out to be a different matter. It took showing his warrant card to the dragon on reception to get him through the door into the A&E's inner sanctum. A harried but more helpful nurse at the charge desk directed him to a curtained cubicle.

He hesitated, but there was no place to knock, so he pulled the edge of the curtain aside and peered in. Melody was propped up on a gurney, still, he was relieved to see, in her street clothes. A gaping hospital gown would have sent him into a paroxysm of embarrassment.

She had an oxygen cannula in her nose. Her face was soot smudged and her eyes red rimmed, but otherwise, she looked alert. And irritated.

But her face lit up in a smile when she saw him. “Doug. What are you doing here? How did you—”

“Duncan told me. I wanted to make sure you were all right. No sad flowers, though,” he added with an apologetic shrug.

Melody grinned at the reminder of the rather pathetic bouquet she'd brought him when he'd broken his ankle. “Sit.” She pointed imperiously at the one plastic chair in the cubicle and he saw that she had an oxygen sensor on her index finger.

He sat gingerly, not wanting to jostle any of the intimidating bank of equipment behind the gurney. “I thought you might be able to use some help getting home. Or at least moral support,” he added, gesturing at his ankle, “since I'm not so great on the physical support. I spoke to Gemma, too. She'd have come except she has the kids.”

“I'm not going home.” Melody's voice was tight. “They say I have to stay overnight. They'll move me to a room as soon as one's free.”

“But you seem fine.” He glanced at the oxygen machine, bubbling gently in the background.

“They're concerned about damage from the smoke inhalation. White phosphorus is highly toxic, apparently, and they have to test my blood levels. They haven't said what they'll do if the results aren't good.” Melody blinked and reached for the cup of water on the cart beside the gurney.

Doug tried to remember when he'd seen Melody look frightened. She was the one who seemed to charge into everything head-on, and always left him envying her confidence.

“I'm sure you'll be fine,” he said a little too heartily.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Her smile this time was uncertain. “We're neither one of us very good at this, are we? The hospital reassurance thing.”

They were an odd couple as far as friends went. Thrown together by their respective bosses, Kincaid and Gemma, during a case, they had disliked each other instantly. He had thought her cavalier and arrogant, she had thought him—as she'd told him more than once—a self-righteous prick. Gradually, they had come to an uneasy détente, and then, to their mutual surprise, had begun to develop something more complicated, a sort of friendship that neither of them, loners by nature, had expected.

“I'd say that was a good thing,” Doug responded now. “The lack of practice. Um, can I get you anything?”

“I suspect they'll supply a toothbrush, and I don't intend to be here any longer than necessary.”

“Shall I ring your parents?”

“Oh, God, no.” Melody looked more distressed than she had at the prospect of her possible medical complications. “The last thing I need is my father barging in and expecting everyone here to jump to his command. And God forbid he sees me on the news feeds.”

Kincaid had told him only that Melody needed to be checked out at the A&E. “What? Why would you be on the news—”

The cubicle curtain swung open. Doug turned, expecting a nurse or a doctor, but it was Andy Monahan. Pale and disheveled, he looked worse than Melody. “Doug.” Andy held out a hand.

Doug stood and shook it. “Andy.”

Now there was an awkward thing. Doug hadn't been sure his friendship with Melody would survive her relationship with Andy Monahan. Not that he didn't like Andy—he just couldn't quite get his head round the fact that they were—no, he didn't even want to go there. He could feel himself flushing, and he hated the little nagging spark of jealousy.

But if he'd had any doubts about the couple's feelings for each other, he only had to see the way they looked at each other across the sterile cubicle.

“You want to know why she's worried she'll be on the news?” Andy asked. He shook his head at Doug's offer of the chair and moved to the side of the gurney, where he rubbed at a smudge on Melody's forehead. The gesture seemed more intimate than a kiss. “Did she tell you what she did? She ran
into
the fire. She tried to help the nutter who set himself alight. She could have been—”

“Andy. It's my—”

“Job,” Andy finished for her. “I know. But somehow I never thought . . .”

Reaching for Andy's hand, Melody gave it a squeeze. “How's Tam?”

Andy sank into the chair he'd refused as if his knees had suddenly given way, but he didn't let go of Melody's hand. “The burn is painful, but it can be treated. But they say white phosphorus burns can cause serious organ damage. And that they won't know, maybe for days, how bad it is.”

The look Melody shot Doug made it clear she didn't mean to tell Andy that they were keeping her overnight to check more than the effects of smoke inhalation. “Michael and Louise?” she asked.

“There. But Tam's in ICU, so they're taking turns with the allowed visits. Louise refuses to go home, so I've said I'll pop in to look after the dogs.”

Tam and his partner, Michael, a landscape designer, lived in the flat adjoining that of Louise Phillips, the solicitor who had been Charlotte Malik's late father's partner. The three had formed an odd little family, stronger than most Doug had seen that were related by blood.

“If anything happens to Tam . . .” Andy didn't finish the sentence. He looked from Melody to Doug, then said, his voice shaking with anger, “How could someone do something like that?
Why
would someone do something like that?”

Kincaid had had Jasmine Sidana and Sweeney interview everyone else except Matthew Quinn, while he watched with Nick Callery from the viewing room. Sidana had done a good job. They had all told the same story as Iris, that Matthew had bought the grenade at a protest.

Their stories had been consistent in other respects as well—they all thought it was a smoke bomb; Ryan had offered to set it off; they had only meant to attract some attention for their cause; and they had never meant to hurt anyone, least of all Ryan.

All, except for Trish Hollingsworth, were former or current university students. Dean Gilbert, the young man with the glasses and the goatee who had carried the placards, had been studying advertising. Lee Sutton, the bearded boy, computer science. They all lived in Matthew's flat, apparently on his generosity, as none of them seemed to have regular jobs.

Nor, apparently, did Matthew. When Kincaid and Sidana had settled across the table from him in the interview room, Kincaid asked, “How did you manage to get the flat in the Caledonian Road? It's not exactly a squat.”

Quinn shrugged his bony shoulders. “I don't have to tell you.”

Kincaid kept his tone conversational. “You feed that lot, too? Must be pretty expensive.”

“I have some money,” Quinn said grudgingly after a moment. “And they get a bit here and there from their families, most of them. Not that it's any of your business.”

Kincaid noticed that, contrary to his earlier belligerence, Quinn hadn't asked for a solicitor. He wondered why.

“So, tell me about the smoke bomb,” he said. “Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.” There was a hint of pride there, even after the day's consequences.

“But you must have got the idea from somewhere.”

Quinn shrugged again. “Lots of protests use smoke bombs.”

“So somebody suggested it to you.”

“No.”

“Was it Ryan Marsh?”

“No. I told you.” Quinn shifted, as if trying to adjust his large frame to the ordinary-size chair. His knees bumped the underside of the table. “We might have talked about it. I don't remember. Ryan's done lots of cool stuff.”

“Were you trying to impress him, then?”

“No,” Quinn barked at him. “He thought it was stupid. But I was—I thought—” For the first time, Matthew Quinn looked near tears. “I said we should do it anyway. I don't understand how this could have happened.”

“You were absolutely sure the grenade was just smoke?”

“Of course I was sure,” he spat at them. “Why would I have thought otherwise? It was labeled, and I'd seen videos . . .”

Sidana leaned forward, managing, with the slightest twitch of her mouth, to convey utter disbelief. “How could you be certain that what you saw on a video was what you bought?”

Quinn didn't answer.

“Where did you get it?” Kincaid asked.

Quinn looked like he might balk again, then he muttered, “Just from some bloke.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Name?”

“Man, I don't remember. It was just some guy I met at a demo. I had no idea what I was going to do with it at the time.”

“It was just something to keep around the house, like a blender?” Sidana's sarcasm was cutting.

“No. No— It was— I'd seen them used in protests. I just wasn't sure when would be the right time.”

Happy enough to let Sidana play bad cop for the moment, Kincaid made an effort to keep his tone neutral. “What made you decide that today was the right time?”

“The band. It was the band. We knew there would be media there.”

“Christ,” Kincaid muttered under his breath, earning him a surprised glance from Sidana. If Andy ever heard this, he'd take the responsibility for Tam's injury on himself.

“I read something online about how to deploy a smoke bomb,” Quinn added, sounding pleased with himself.

“So that will be in your browser history?”

Quinn looked at Kincaid as if he'd said something incomprehensible. “But you can't look at my computer—”

“Oh, yes, we can.” Kincaid couldn't help feeling satisfaction at Quinn's obvious dismay. “It's part of the search warrant. Every computer in that flat will go to forensics, and nothing is ever really erased. You know that, don't you?”

“But you never said anything about a search warrant,” Quinn said stubbornly.

Kincaid glanced at Sidana, saw her looking just as perplexed. “Matthew.” He leaned forward, making certain he had eye contact with Quinn. “Can I call you Matthew? There has been a death. A very painful and unpleasant death, whether accidental, suicide, or homicide, and injuries, some of them severe, to other people. You admittedly acquired the device responsible. Of course we will be searching your flat. And we will be holding you—all of you—here until we have some answers.”

“Could anyone really be so clueless?” Kincaid asked as he and Sidana entered the CID room, followed by Nick Callery and DC Sweeney.

Sidana frowned. “He's like a little boy playing at terrorist.”

“Doesn't make him any less dangerous,” said Callery. “And I think he's not nearly as gormless as he makes himself out to be.”

“He still didn't ask for a lawyer,” Kincaid added. “Is it because he's decided to go with the ‘little boy lost' act?”

Nor had any of the others, even when informed they were being held overnight. They simply might not have the resources or be aware that they could ask for a public defender, but he wasn't convinced either of those things was true of Matthew Quinn.

“We have twenty-four hours,” Kincaid told the team as Simon Gikas joined them. “Less than twenty-four hours,” he added, glancing at his watch, “to come up with something that will allow us to hold them longer. I want to know everything there is to know about Matthew Quinn. And the others.

“We won't get the search warrant until first thing in the morning. I want everyone to be fresh, so do the best you can tonight, but get some rest.” He turned to Callery. “Do you have an update on St. Pancras?”

“The trains are running again. But that area of the arcade is still cordoned off and will be guarded until forensics has been over every molecule.” Callery sketched them a salute. “I'm off. Things to do, people to see.” He sauntered out.

Kincaid raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. It was after ten o'clock. The station had been closed for almost five hours. It could take days to sort out the train delays that would affect not only all of Britain but spill over into Europe.

To Simon, he said, “I want someone going over the CCTV footage as far back as necessary. The victim didn't appear from out of nowhere. He has got to be on camera at some point, and I want to see his face. Simon, can you organize—”

“Boss,” Gikas interrupted. “I've come across something very odd. They all claimed this Ryan Marsh was a well-known protester who'd been arrested at demonstrations, right? Well, there are no arrests recorded for any Ryan Marsh. Nor am I seeing a Ryan Marsh in the public databases that looks like a good match for the description of our victim.”

Having assigned everyone a task, Kincaid walked out of Holborn Police Station and stood, shivering against the wind, irresolute. This was turning into such a bizarre case, and he really wanted someone to chew it over with. By the time he got home, Gemma would—at least he hoped she would—be asleep, the children tucked in their beds.