To Dwell in Darkness (26 page)

Underwood shrugged. “Do you know how many people come in our shop every day?”

“But you remember the special ones. The ones that come back.”

He uncrossed his legs, and it seemed to Gemma that his eyes grew flatter. “If this is about that girl, I told you before. I don't remember her.”

“The
girl'
s name was Mercy Johnson. She was twelve years old. She came to see you regularly because she wanted her mother to buy her a computer for her thirteenth birthday. Unfortunately, Mercy didn't see her thirteenth birthday. She was raped, strangled, and left on Clapham Common like a piece of rubbish.”

Most people, on hearing such a description, couldn't help a grimace of shock or distaste, or a blink. Dillon Underwood's face remained completely blank. “That's too bad,” he said. “But it's nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, I think it is, Dillon. And I'm surprised you don't remember her, because you gave her a phone.”

This time he did blink. “I don't know what you're on about.” His accent was South London, his voice slightly nasal and a little too high pitched.

Gemma had brought in a file folder. Now she opened it and pulled out a print. It was the photo from Izzy Lamar's phone, blown up. It was clearly Dillon Underwood, and there was no doubt he was handing Mercy Johnson a phone. “Tell us about this, then.”

He stared at the photo. Gemma saw his hand twitch with the desire to touch it, but he controlled it, rocking back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Who took that?”

“I don't think that's any of your concern. But it is you, and it is Mercy, and you are handing her a phone.”

“It was those little sneaks, wasn't it? Those girls, always watching and whispering, the cows.”

It was the first crack, the first hint of venom, and Gemma had to stop herself casting a jubilant glance at Melody. “So you admit you gave Mercy a phone.”

Underwood didn't answer. Melody was scribbling something on the notepad, shielding it with her hand just enough to make certain he couldn't read it, even upside down and across the table.

“Dillon,” said Gemma, “we have a photo, and we have witnesses. We can prove you knew Mercy and that you gave her a phone. Now tell us why.”

“All right, then.” He tore his eyes away from Melody. “I felt sorry for her. She came in the shop all crying and carrying on. She'd lost her phone and her mum was that pissed off, she wouldn't get her another one. A kid that age, they live for their phones, don't they? So I gave her a cheap burner phone. Put ten pounds on it. There's no law against it.”

“Why give it to her in front of the tube station? You must have arranged to meet her.”

“I couldn't give it to her in the shop, could I?”

“Why not?”

Gemma saw him struggle with that one for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I only thought of it as she was leaving. She had to get home to her mum or something. I told her I'd look out for a phone and see what I could do. I had it with me when I saw her outside the tube.”

“That's a good story, Dillon. But Mercy's friends said it was her suggestion to meet for coffee at the Starbucks. And that the entire time she was fidgety, watching for someone, then she tried to get them to leave her on her own. It was you she was watching for, wasn't it, Dillon? And you couldn't give her the phone inside the shop because you didn't want anyone there to see you do it. Did you pay for the phone or did you just take it out of stock so it couldn't be traced?”

He crossed his legs again. “It was some old phone lying round in the stockroom. Sometimes people just leave the old ones when they get a new phone.”

Gemma didn't believe that for a minute. She guessed he'd taken a new phone from stock, but theft of stock was common in electronics shops, and going over the inventory wouldn't do them much good if they didn't know what kind of phone he'd given her. They'd not been able to tell the brand from the photo. “And you paid cash for the top-up?” she asked with a little smile, as if she thought he'd been a Good Samaritan.

“I don't use credit cards. Big Brother and all that. No law against that, either.”

“And you told Mercy the phone was hers to do with as she wanted?”

“Well, yeah, why wouldn't I?”

“If she'd told her mum, you could have been in trouble with the shop.”

“Yeah, and her mum would have taken it off her. Fat chance she'd have told her.” He was getting cocky again as he got comfortable with his story.

Melody handed Gemma a note. It read, “What if Mercy didn't lose her phone? What if she set it down in the shop when he was showing her the computers, and he took it?”

Gemma glanced at her, nodding, and wrote back, “Perfect opportunity to set up untraceable contact.”

“What are you doing?” asked Underwood. “You're like two stupid girls in school passing notes.”

How he must have hated that, thought Gemma, because he would always have thought the notes and the giggles were about him.

She ignored the question and the comment. “Can you explain to me why Mercy didn't tell her friends about the phone?” she asked. “Her best friends? Or call or text them from it?”

“How should I know? Maybe she lost that one, too.”

“I'll tell you what I think, Dillon.” Gemma leaned closer to him, and as she did she caught an odd smell. It wasn't fear—she could recognize the acrid stink of fear in an instant. The odor coming from Dillon Underwood was slightly soapy and somehow chemical. Unpleasant. She wrinkled her nose and went on. “I think you told her not to. That the phone was a secret, and that it was only to be used to communicate with you. And I'll bet you stole another cheap phone for yourself so there'd be no record of the contact.”

“I never. And I didn't steal anything,” he shot back.

“What happened to the phone, Dillon? It wasn't in her flat or on her body. Did you take it after you murdered her?”

“I told you before. I was at a club with my mates that night.”

“You also told us you didn't remember Mercy Johnson. You lied. I think you're lying about being at the club that night, too. I think you texted Mercy and told her to meet you on Clapham Common. What did you tell her? That you had something for her? Or did she think you fancied her?”

“I never saw her outside the shop but that one time, and you can't prove that I did.” There was a spark of anger in the flat eyes now.

“Oh, but we have your DNA now, Dillon. We took samples from your flat. Your toothbrush. Your razor. We'll be able to match it to evidence collected from Mercy's body.”

He smiled at her. “No, you won't. Because I wasn't there, and I never touched her. Now, I want to go back to work. And I'm not talking to you anymore unless I have a lawyer.”

“You could have kept him the remainder of the twenty-four hours,” said Melody when Gemma had authorized the custody sergeant to sign Dillon Underwood out.

“I don't think it would have accomplished anything, especially since he finally got round to demanding a solicitor. I'd rather he think he's convinced us.”

“And did he?” asked Melody, sounding skeptical.

“I think he's guilty as sin. I think he murdered Mercy Johnson, and I'm going to prove it. I just can't see why he's so sure of himself.”

“Now that he's admitted to the phone, defense could argue that any trace DNA found on her body was cross-contamination from the phone.”

Gemma frowned. “Would he know that?”

“I suspect he would.”

“Maybe,” Gemma answered slowly. “Unless it's under her fingernails or somewhere ordinary transfer would have been unlikely. I'm going to put a rush on the tests,” she said with decision. “And I'm going to tell Izzy's and Deja's parents to keep them under lock and key. He knows now that they saw him give Mercy the phone. He may think they saw something else.”

“Would he be that stupid?” asked Melody. “He's a calculating bastard, and he'd know that if anything happened to either of those girls, we'd be on him like a shot.”

“He's also vicious,” said Gemma with utter conviction. “And he thinks he can get away with anything. I'm going to make those calls, and then we're going to pick his alibi to pieces.”

W. H. Barlow, the engineer behind the design of the stores, used iron beams and pillars to maximise the utilisation of space. He said, “The length of a barrel of beer became the unit of measurement upon which all the arrangements of this floor were made.”

—meantimebrewing.com
/stpancras-station

Stephen Ellis had put his daughter to bed. She'd revived within a minute or two but had seemed unfocused, uncoordinated, and a little confused. Ellis had lifted her and helped her into the bedroom, refusing help from Kincaid or Sidana.

He'd come back apologetic. “I'm so sorry,” he'd said. “It's the shock. She's had these episodes under severe stress, ever since the accident. She should be all right when she's had a little sleep.”

Kincaid and Sidana had taken their leave and driven back to Holborn station in Sidana's Honda.

“I'm not sure what's worse,” Kincaid said as they walked into the station, “delivering unexpected bad news or bad news that's been dreaded.”

“I suppose fainting is better than hysterics,” Jasmine answered. “Woman gave me a black eye once when I told her that her husband had been killed in a pub fight.”

“You were lucky she wasn't holding a frying pan, then.” This merited a sideways glance and what he thought might have been a smile.

The CID room was empty except for Simon Gikas.

“Where's Sweeney?” Sidana asked, not sounding a bit pleased.

“He left an hour ago. Said something about pulling a tendon in the gym this morning.”

“He's a slacker.” Sidana's lips were pinched in disapproval.

Although Kincaid hadn't seen anything about George Sweeney so far that impressed him, he didn't envy the man being on the sharp end of Jasmine Sidana's tongue.

“Well, I'm not,” Gikas said with a grin, “and I've found something interesting for you.” He swiveled in his chair to face them. Kincaid leaned against one of the worktables, listening attentively. Sidana, having dropped her bag and coat at her desk, came to join him.

“You remember I found that Matthew Quinn gets a check every month from the corporation that owns his building?” asked Gikas.

“The mysterious KCD,” agreed Kincaid. “King's Cross Development.”

“Right. Well, I did some digging into the corporate records, and guess what I discovered?”

“Don't kill us with the suspense.”

“One of the corporation's owners—in fact, the major shareholder—is Lindsay Quinn. He's one of the movers and shakers in the revitalization of the King's Cross area. And he is also Matthew Quinn's father.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose Quinn senior knows what Quinn junior is up to? A viper in the nest?”

“I thought you'd want to talk to him. I managed to get his PA on the phone. He was tied up this afternoon, but can see you tomorrow at the Booking Office Bar at the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel. That seems to be his favorite place to hold meetings.”

“Nice. Thanks, Simon.” Kincaid thought for a moment. “I think I'll hold off talking to Matthew Quinn again until after I've spoken to his father.” He turned to Sidana. “Have you heard anything back from the family liaison officer at the Coles'?”

Sidana checked her phone. “He says no on the journal, but that Paul's bedroom was full of books on trains. His mother says he'd been a train anorak since he was a kid, but there were timetables in his room that looked as if they'd been used fairly recently.”

“I don't know what that tells us.” Kincaid said. “That he picked St. Pancras to burn himself to a crisp because he loved trains?” He shook his head. “Seems a bit daft. And I'm still not at all convinced that he did intend to burn himself up, poor bugger.”

After talking to Simon, Kincaid had gone through the day's reports at the station. Finding nothing that seemed particularly helpful, he'd decided to brave Friday rush-hour traffic and try to make it home on time. Until he could talk to Lindsay Quinn, or got DNA results back, or heard from Doug, or came up with a new line of inquiry, he was in a holding pattern on Paul Cole's death.

Friday night was pizza and games night at the Kincaid/James household. But the ritual had rules, and those were that the pizza had to be homemade, and no electronics were allowed. The idea had at first been met with protest from the boys—Toby wanted takeaway pizza
and
television
and
electronic games, while Kit didn't object to the homemade pizza but did not want to be separated from his phone. Charlotte was perfectly happy with anything that they all did together.

Arriving unscathed and only a bit late, Kincaid parked the Astra behind Gemma's Escort. He got out and locked the car, but then he stood for a moment, looking up at the house. The blinds had not yet been drawn, and light shone from the front windows. He could see Gemma and Kit in the cheerful blue and yellow kitchen.

They had all come to love this house. It was a haven for the children, and the first home he and Gemma had made together. If anything had happened to Denis Childs, or to Denis's sister, would they lose it?

He told himself to stop worrying. He was not doing himself or anyone else any good. But he hated the feeling of not having control over his own life, and that had been plaguing him since his transfer.

Gemma glanced out the kitchen window, then turned away. She wouldn't have seen him standing out here in the dark and cold. He gave himself a mental shake, strode up the walk to the cherry-red front door, and put his key in the lock.