To Dwell in Darkness (32 page)

The door burst open, slamming against the interior wall. Matthew Quinn stalked into the room, hair even wilder than usual. When he saw Kincaid, his face contorted with fury. For a moment, Kincaid braced himself for an attack.

But Matthew merely raised a shaking finger and pointed at Kincaid. “You! You went to see my father. And now he's cut off my allowance and told me I have to vacate the flat.”

“Did you think your father wasn't going to learn about your involvement with this, Matthew?” Kincaid asked, relaxing a little. “You aren't stupid—your father assured me of that. How could you think there wouldn't be consequences?”

“There's no law against demonstrating. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.” Matthew's anger seemed to be quickly dissolving into petulance.

“Then tell me about the bloke who sold the smoke bomb, at the demonstration.”

Matthew gave Cam a surprised glance, then said, “Bitch.”

Cam shrugged. “I'll just be getting my things.” She went to the kitchenette and began to pull a few things out of the cupboards.

“Tell me,” Kincaid repeated to Matthew.

This time it was Matthew who shrugged. “I don't know. It was just some guy you see sometimes at fairly big demos. Ex-army, I think, because he tells stories about Iraq and Afghanistan. He said it was just a smoke bomb, harmless. He said you never wanted to use a real flash-bang because they could cause a world of hurt. They used them in Iraq, throwing them into civilian compounds.”

“That was no flash-bang that Paul set off in St. Pancras,” Kincaid said grimly, “although that would have been bad enough. It was a white phosphorus incendiary grenade. It could have been military grade. Do you know this man's name? Where to find him?”

“No.” Matthew shook his head. “He never said. I just paid him cash. I offered him bitcoins, but he couldn't be bothered.”

“Who else was there when you bought it?”

“Cam, obviously.” Matthew gave Cam an evil look. “Most of the group. But people were milling around and I really wasn't paying attention.”

Kincaid wondered if Ryan Marsh had been investigating the sale of illegal munitions. But if he'd had any doubt about what the smoke bomb was, would he have let Paul Cole set it off?

Matthew went to the sofa and sank down on it. “What am I going to do now?” he asked, like a little lost boy.

“Go home,” Kincaid suggested. “Keep yourself available, because we're not finished with you by any means.”

“And what about everyone else, Matthew?” asked Cam, who'd come back into the sitting area and picked up a duffel bag. “I'll be all right, but will Iris? Or Trish? Where do you think Trish will go? We were never any more to you than toys, as disposable as Wren.”

Kincaid saw the shock on Cam's face, then Matthew's, saw Cam lift her hand to her mouth as if she could call back the words.

And he realized then that they'd never believed the girl had just disappeared. They had always known exactly what had happened to Wren.

Sir George Gilbert Scott (1811–78) was the winner of the Midland Railway's competition to design their London terminal—and by far the best known of the competitors.

—Alastair Lansley, Stuart Durant, Alan Dyke, Bernard Gambrill, Roderick Shelton,
The Transformation of St. Pancras Station
, 2008

“Sit.” Kincaid gestured Cam to the sofa, then held up a hand to keep Matthew where he was. “Both of you.” When Cam complied, hugging the duffel bag to her lap, Kincaid pulled up a rickety wooden spare chair so that he could face them both.

“Tell me,” he said. “What happened to Wren?”

Matthew and Cam glanced at each other, but it was Cam who began to speak. “It was New Year's Eve. The boys had brought in some lager and we were going to just kick back. Ryan was out somewhere, he didn't say. Paul wasn't here, either, and I think Ariel was feeling a bit put out. She said we should do something radical. She got this idea about tagging something with our slogan, and she said she knew a place. Ariel's an artist—she's good with a paint can.” Cam hesitated. “I shouldn't even be telling you that—it's illegal . . .” At a look from Kincaid, she swallowed and continued. “Right. None of the lads was up for it—they'd already had a few beers—so Wren said she'd go. Ariel said she had her dad's car. They left.” She stopped again, and now she was clutching the duffel bag for dear life. Matthew still hadn't said a word.

“Go on,” Kincaid said. “I'm listening.”

“Nobody thought any more about it. Ryan came back and asked where Wren was. Then a couple of hours later, Ariel came in by herself. She was hysterical. We couldn't calm her down. It was Ryan finally who made her talk. He slapped her. He was frantic by that time. We all knew something really bad had happened. But we had no idea—” Cam gave a little sob. When she spoke again, her voice shook.

“She said—Ariel said that they went to a railway embankment, a place she'd tagged before. They left the car—Ariel said it was a good walk. But when they got to the top of the embankment, she discovered she'd left one of the paint cans. She went back to get it. Then she—she heard the train. And then a terrible squeal of brakes. She ran back, but when she got there, the train was stopped. And she could see—she could see that Wren had gone under the train.” Tears were streaming down Cam's face now. She made no effort to wipe them away.

“What did she do then?” Kincaid asked more gently.

“She said there were lights and shouting and she could hear sirens. She was terrified. She ran back to the car and came straight here. Ryan was—I don't even know how to describe it. He kept asking her over and over exactly what had happened. Ariel said she didn't know if Wren had jumped or fallen. And Ryan kept asking if she was sure she hadn't seen anyone else. If someone had followed them. He was . . . crazy.”

“Why didn't you notify the police?” Kincaid asked.

“Ryan said not to. She had no family. There was nothing anyone could do. Not that Matthew was eager to tell anyone”—the look Cam gave Matthew was scathing—“because he didn't want to be connected with it. Ariel was willing, but Ryan said she needn't do it.”

“And everyone listened to Ryan?”

“You couldn't
not
. He took charge of everything. But after that . . .” Cam dug a tissue out the duffel and blew her nose. “Ryan was never the same. He was grieving for Wren. We could all see that. But there was something more. He started taking his things with him whenever he left the flat, and he disappeared for days at a time. I think—I think he was frightened of something.”

Kincaid left Cam and Matthew after getting their new contact information, and telling them that he had better hear from the rest of the group or he would track them down.

Hailing a passing taxi as he walked back towards King's Cross, he gave the driver Ariel's address in Cartwright Gardens, but when he got there and rang the bell there was no answer. He debated a moment, then hailed another cab to take him back to Holborn station.

Both Simon Gikas and Jasmine Sidana were still in the CID room. He told them what he'd learned about Wren, which he could do now without bringing Doug into it or telling them he'd already known how Wren had died.

“I'll track it down,” said Simon, turning to his computer. “Maybe I can get a better idea of whether she jumped or fell.”

Or was pushed
, Kincaid thought, remembering that Ryan had kept asking Ariel if they had been followed or if she'd seen anyone else, but he didn't say it aloud. He didn't know what—or whom—Ryan was afraid of, but the fear had infected him.

“Any luck on matching the handwriting on the note in Ariel's cubby?” he asked Jasmine.

“The family liaison officer sent over some papers from Paul's room at his home. The lab's handwriting expert hasn't had time to do a detailed analysis, but from a first look, she says she thinks it's the same.”

“Right. But that still doesn't convince me it was a suicide note.” He glanced at his watch. “You two should go home. It's late, and I don't think we're going to accomplish much more here today. I tried Ariel's house, but no one was home. But it might be better to question her about Wren when you've learned a little more, Simon.”

And when he wouldn't be less likely to slip up and mention that he already knew where the accident had happened, Kincaid added to himself.

Kincaid took the Central line home to Notting Hill. When he came out of Holland Park tube station, the rain was coming down in earnest. With a grimace, he turned up his coat collar and unfurled his umbrella. Starting north on Lansdowne Road, he sidestepped puddles and fought to keep the wind from whipping his brolly inside out.

He passed a man in an overcoat walking a buff-colored cocker spaniel. The dog looked as miserable as Kincaid felt. Were Gemma and the kids back from Leyton? he wondered. He hadn't heard from her since he had seen them at lunchtime.

Once he felt that odd twitch between his shoulder blades again, but when he turned back, he saw nothing but a few ordinary-looking, umbrella-wielding pedestrians. He laughed at himself for having had visions of being followed by dark cars with tinted windows, and by the time he reached the house, he was looking forward to dry clothes, a fire, and possibly a finger's worth of his best Scotch before dinner.

Just as he put his key in the door, his mobile rang. “Bugger,” he muttered, dropping both umbrella and keys as he fumbled for the phone.

It was Doug. “I think I've found Ryan Marlowe's wife,” he said. “She's in a village in Oxfordshire, really a suburb of Reading.”

“Christine Marlowe,” Doug continued. “Age twenty-nine. Two children. Employed as a bookkeeper to a local builder. She lives in Caversham. We can be there in an hour.”

“That's near Henley,” Kincaid said, recognizing the name.

“Well, I suppose, yes, but nearer Reading.”

“I can pick you up—,” Kincaid began, but he saw the Astra sitting at the curb and remembered that it wouldn't start. “Damn and blast. My car's out of commission. I'll have to use Gemma's.”

“Melody's here,” said Doug. “She's got her Clio. We'll pick you up. Give us half an hour.”

“What's Mel—,” Kincaid began, but Doug had rung off.

He had enough time to greet Gemma and the kids and to change into dry shoes, at the least.

“Should I keep it hot for you?” Gemma asked as he bent over to sniff the pot she was stirring on the cooker. “It's Turkish ratatouille. Hazel and Holly are coming over to see the kittens, so we're going veggie.”

“Already found a mark, eh? Good for you.” He kissed her ear. “Better not keep dinner warm for me. I've no idea how long I'll be. Give Hazel my best, will you? Any news on the Tim front?”

“From what I gather, they've reached a comfortable détente. It seems to be working for them for the moment.” She turned so that she could look up at him. “Want to tell me about this mysterious interview?”

His phone beeped with a text from Doug saying they were pulling up outside. “When I get back,” he promised.

On his way to the door, he gave Sid, who was perched on the kitchen table looking disgruntled, a rub on his furry black head. “Never thought you'd have to share the attention with a girl cat and babies, did you, mate?”

Melody's little bright blue Renault Clio was idling at the end of the walk. As Kincaid climbed in the back, he got a glimpse of her in the dome light. She looked more rested and seemed to be wearing her own clothes for the first time since the incident. He hoped that meant she'd been home.

“Where's Andy tonight?” he asked, buckling up as Melody put the Clio into gear.

“They've let Tam go home. Andy was helping Michael get him settled in. Then he and Poppy are doing a set at the Twelve Bar. Everyone wants their piece of them now.”

“Only the beginning, I suspect,” Kincaid said; then he told them what he'd learned that day.

“So it's possible Wren wasn't a suicide?” asked Doug. “And Marsh wasn't accounted for during the time she died, nor was Paul Cole. Could either of them have been involved?”

Kincaid thought about it. “From what Cam said, I'd say Marsh was very unlikely. Neither Cam nor Matthew seemed to have had any idea where Cole was that night. But I can't see why he would have killed this girl.”

“Maybe he'd had a row with Ariel,” Melody suggested. “And that's why she wanted to do something reckless. He could have followed them, been jealous of Wren, and decided to get rid of her. It doesn't seem to have been the most functional of relationships, Paul and Ariel.”

“True. But no one's implied that Ariel and Wren were anything more than casual friends. Why should he have been jealous? How did you find Christine Marlowe?” Kincaid asked Doug.

“Amazing what's in public records if you know where to look,” Doug answered with such a self-satisfied smirk that Melody spared him a glare.

“Braggart,” she said.

Melody was a good driver, and they fell silent as she navigated through the rain-streaked streets of West London and then onto the M4.

Soon they were driving through Reading, and when they reached the outskirts, Melody used her sat nav to guide them to the northern edge of Caversham.

Christine Marlowe lived in a quiet suburban street. The semidetached house was brick and pebble dash. Its garden looked muddy and slightly neglected, and a child's bike lay abandoned on the front walk.

“I suppose I should do the talking,” Kincaid said as they got out of the car. “Since you two are not official.”

“I don't think any of us are official at this point,” Doug reminded him.

“Better my head than yours,” Kincaid murmured as he rang the bell, and then he realized that was exactly the stance that Ryan Marsh had taken with the group over the smoke bomb.