To Dwell in Darkness (31 page)

“I don't believe that's illegal.”

“Setting off a smoke bomb in a public place with intent to cause disruption is certainly illegal,” Kincaid countered.

“But Matthew
didn't
set it off, and I think you'd have a hard time proving intent.” Quinn pushed his teacup aside with a clink that was audible even over the noise in the bar. “I'm very sorry for the boy who was killed, but I want my son kept out of this, Mr. Kincaid. And if you find it necessary to speak to Matthew again, he'll have a solicitor present.” He stood, and Kincaid thought it interesting that he didn't signal for the bill.

It was an obvious dismissal and Kincaid didn't like being dismissed. But he was willing to let it go for the moment. He stood as well and said courteously, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Quinn. It's been most enlightening. I expect we'll be speaking again soon.” He held out his hand for Quinn to shake, turned, and walked away.

The frontage of St. Pancras is Gothic . . . That something as new and up-to-date as a railway terminus hotel should speak the architectural equivalent of the language of Dante or Chaucer is ostensibly bizarre.

—Simon Bradley,
St. Pancras Station
, 2007

Kincaid left the bar by the exit that led straight into the upper level of the railway station. He knew he'd better get to Matthew Quinn before his father did. It was obvious that Lindsay Quinn would do whatever he could to keep any of this from sticking to Matthew, and that paternal concern might be the least of his motives. The south exit on this level of the station led straight out into Euston Road. He could walk to the Caledonian Road flat.

But he paused, for just an instant, to look out at the station. Light flooded in through the single great span of the train shed roof. He remembered reading that when William Henry Barlow had designed it, it had been the largest single-span train shed in the world. Even though it might have been surpassed since, it was still stunning. How could Paul Cole or Matthew Quinn or the nameless protester who had sold Quinn the smoke bomb—if that were the case—have wanted to damage something so beautiful?

He suspected now, however, that Matthew Quinn was driven by deep-seated jealousy and resentment towards his father, in which case anything was possible.

The rain had diminished to a cold mist. As Kincaid walked up the Caledonian Road, he passed Housmans, the legendary anarchist bookshop. He wondered how long Housmans would last as the gentrification crept northwards from King's Cross. But for the moment, Matthew Quinn had picked a good neighbor for his defiance of capitalist greed.

When he reached the building, he rang the bell for the top flat and the door clicked open. Cam was waiting for him with the flat door open when he finished the climb.

“You're in pretty good shape,” she said by way of greeting. “Not even out of breath.”

“Not bad for a middle-aged copper, you mean. It's running with the dogs and playing football with the kids.”

She stepped back to let him enter. “It's just me, I'm afraid. I saw you from the window.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“The others have scattered like rats, even Trish. They didn't like their night in the nick. Poor Matthew.” She gave a little pout of false sympathy. “He's gone looking for the lads, to see if he can at least change their minds. But for once, I suspect his persuasive skills will fail him.”

“Why are you still here, then?” Kincaid asked, looking round the bare and unwelcoming room. The television was off, and there was a visible layer of dust on the furniture. He could smell the frying grease from the chicken shop, even with the windows closed.

“Well, it's interesting, isn't it?” Cam said. “I can finish my dissertation. ‘The Dissolution of a Radical Group Due to Failure of Agenda.' What do you think of that?” She curled up on one end of the sofa. Kincaid sat on the other end, but didn't take off his coat. The flat was frigid, and Cam was dressed in multiple layers.

“I think ‘failure of agenda' doesn't quite describe it. I'd say it was a rousing success if the point was to cause a major disruption and cost the capitalist fat cats a great deal of money—”

“No, it really wasn't,” Cam protested. “It was just to get attention for the group's manifesto. A little camera time.”

“Well, it didn't exactly work out, did it?” Kincaid leaned towards her. “Cam, even if it
had
only been a smoke bomb, what did you think would happen? There still would have been a massive panic that it was a terrorist threat. The station would have had to suspend service. And a lot of people would have been terrified, perhaps even injured in the crush.”

Cam drew her knees up under her baggy jumper and tucked her hands into the opposite sleeves. She had been tough and defiant, and out of all the members of the group, the only one with whom he'd felt a connection. Now she looked tired and disillusioned. “It was stupid. I don't know now what we were thinking. And now everyone is afraid we
will
be connected with what happened. Ironic, isn't it? There we are on video, waving our silly placards, then running like scared rabbits along with everyone else. It was only Iris who was brave enough to stay. I'd never have thought it of her, and I admire her for it. And she stood up to Matthew when he bullied her over it.”

“Whose idea was it to stage this at St. Pancras? At the very beginning. Do you remember?” Kincaid asked.

Cam drew her slender brows together as she thought. “It was Matthew's, I'm sure. He saw St. Pancras as the heart of the spreading capitalist takeover that was going to destroy the real London.”

“He didn't consider that the restoration of St. Pancras—the hotel as well as the railway station—preserved two priceless examples of Victorian architecture that otherwise would have gone to ruin? They almost did, you know.”

“No. Just the opposite. He said St. Pancras was the epitome of capitalist excess when it was built, and that the refurbishment mirrored the same thing in our time.” Cam shrugged. “I know it sounds lame now, but he was so vehement that it almost made sense.”

“Did it ever occur to you that Matthew might have a very personal motive for targeting St. Pancras, and this area in particular?” Kincaid asked. He was aware of the fact that Matthew might return at any moment. He didn't want to lose his chance to question Cam on her own, but he didn't want to push her too hard, either.

“Other than Crossrail and being close to the university?” Cam looked puzzled. “No, not really.”

“Did none of you ever wonder how Matthew paid for this place or where the money came from that he doled out to the group?”

“He said he did some tutoring. Engineering students,” Cam added, but there was doubt in her voice even as she said it.

“He never told you that his father is a very successful property developer? And the major shareholder in a corporation that owns, among other properties slated for redevelopment in the King's Cross area, this building?”

Cam just stared at him. “You're fucking joking,” she said at last.

“Not only was Matthew's father letting him live in the flat rent-free, he was giving him an allowance to do it.”

She started to laugh. “That bloody bastard. So he's been biting the hand that feeds him. And fed us. What a hypocrite. If anyone had found out, he'd have lost all credibility in the protest groups.”

“What if someone
did
find out?” Kincaid said. “Ryan Marsh? Or Paul Cole?”

It seemed to take Cam a moment to absorb this. Then she shook her head so violently her dark hair whipped across her face. “No. No. Matthew may be an arse—and an even bigger one than I thought—but to kill someone to keep that secret? I don't believe it. That's—that's unthinkable.”

“
Could
someone have found it out?”

Cam thought for a moment. “Ryan, maybe. You never quite knew what Ryan was up to. He planted things”—she anticipated Kincaid's question and cut it off—“I don't mean physical things. I mean ideas. He'd just mention something, very casually, maybe something someone did at a demonstration he'd been in, or a leaflet he'd written, and the next thing you knew it was Matthew's idea and the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Is that what happened with the smoke bomb?”

Again Cam hesitated. Then she said, “No, I don't think so. It was just some guy Matthew met at a protest. Matthew was going on about how no one paid attention to us and the guy said he had something that would make people sit up and take notice. It was after that when Matthew came up with the idea of St. Pancras.”

“Was it the same bloke that sold Matthew the smoke bomb?” Kincaid asked. “If you know, you need to tell me. You're finished here, and the stakes are much higher than you finishing your dissertation.”

Cam shifted on the sofa and rubbed a sleeve across her eyes, then sighed. “You're right. I don't like this. I don't like any of this. I can't believe Paul's dead. But I honestly don't know. I didn't actually see anything change hands that day.”

“So what happened after Matthew bought the smoke bomb? And said that he wanted to set if off in St. Pancras?”

“At first Matthew wanted to do it himself. He said he'd wear something that would make him unrecognizable on video—although that seems unlikely, considering Matthew,” Cam added with a small smile, “and then he'd disappear in the smoke. The rest of us would be demonstrating in a group away from the incident, and of course we would be on video, especially because of the rock band.

“But Ryan said there was always a possibility that something could go wrong, and that he should do it because he'd been arrested before. Everyone else had clean records.”

“That seems rather decent of him,” Kincaid said a little skeptically.

“Well, that's the thing. Ryan is—was—whatever”—Cam grimaced—“always decent and sensible. He was good at organizing, but he never ranted about stuff, like Matthew. I know he was this seasoned protester, but you always felt that in a way he was looking after us.”

“So Ryan talked Matthew into letting him deploy the smoke bomb?”

She nodded. “Not that Matthew argued all that much.” Cam's tone was derisive. “Now I can see why. I don't think his dad would have been too thrilled if he'd been arrested for intent to create public disorder.”

Having met Lindsay Quinn, Kincaid had to agree. “So where did Paul Cole come into it?”

Cam blew out a frustrated breath. “Oh, Paul . . .” She glanced at Kincaid. “Is it terrible to speak ill of the dead? It was all about attention. He said he didn't care if he got arrested—it would serve his dad right to have to get him out of jail. He was jealous of Ryan, but Ryan seemed to take it good-naturedly enough.”

The lumpy sofa kept threatening to suck Kincaid into its depths. He moved to the edge, so that he looked directly at Cam, and said carefully, “Do you think Paul's attention getting would have gone as far as suicide?”

Slowly Cam shook her head. “No. I can't imagine—but then you never do, do you? Unless they threaten, and even then you wonder if it's just for show. And Paul—I know it sounds terrible—but you'd think that if he meant to kill himself, he'd have milked it for every ounce of drama.”

“Ariel came to the station today,” Kincaid said, watching Cam. “She found a suicide note from Paul in her mail cubby at the university.”

Cam's eyes widened. “Today? She found it today? Oh, God, that's terrible.”

“Ariel said they had an argument that morning, first about Paul wanting to set off the smoke bomb, then about her miscarriage. Do you think he was that distraught over the loss of the child?”

Cam got up and walked to the window, standing with her back to him. Kincaid waited, and after a moment she turned. “Ariel didn't have a miscarriage. And Paul knew it because I told him. So if he was distraught, it was because he'd found out she'd lied to him. If I hadn't—”

“Just tell me what happened,” Kincaid said, cutting her off.

She began to pace. Even in her agitation, she moved like a dancer. “Ariel made no secret of the fact that she was pregnant. But she was not exactly glowing with motherly anticipation. Not that I can blame her. I wouldn't have picked Paul as promising daddy material, either. But Paul was all puffed up. You'd think he'd accomplished something unique.

“And then one day I saw Ariel leaving the abortion clinic—there's one here in the Caledonian Road. I wasn't even quite sure it was her, but I recognized the padded coat. So I went in and said I'd come to be with my friend during her procedure. They said I was too late, she'd just left, so I knew it was true. I didn't say anything to anyone at first—why would I? But then Ariel came to the flat the next day, sobbing, saying she'd had a miscarriage.

“After that, we didn't see her as much, but Paul was here all the time, moaning about how it must have been his fault somehow. So I told him.” Cam stopped and stood facing Kincaid, her arms crossed defensively, the gray light from the dirty windows forming a nimbus around her dark hair. “I felt sorry for him.”

Kincaid remembered that Ariel had said Paul blamed
her
. If he found out she'd had an abortion rather than a miscarriage, he would have had good reason.

“If Paul killed himself because I told him the truth—,” began Cam.

“If—and it's a big if—Paul killed himself, it's no responsibility of yours,” Kincaid said firmly. “And that still doesn't account for where—or how—he got the grenade. Or what's happened to Ryan Marsh. Or—”

The front door slammed and there was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs.

Cam whirled towards the door, dropping her hands to her sides. Kincaid stood, absorbing her tension.