“How is he?” Kincaid asked, looking around the waiting area. There was an anxious-looking middle-aged couple in the far corner, but no one familiar. “Is there no family here?”
“Diane is sitting with him. They allow two people in the room, but I—” Faith shook his head and grimaced. “I thought they might need some time alone. And what good can I do in there?” He gave an eloquent shrug of his thin shoulders. “But I thought I should be here for Diane when the consultant comes to give her an update. She—”
“Denis is conscious?” Kincaid interrupted with a spring of hope.
“No.” Faith shook his head. “They’ve induced a coma to reduce the swelling on his brain.”
Glancing at the couple across the room, Kincaid lowered his voice. “What exactly happened?”
“We don’t know. A couple of teenagers found him lying in the churchyard at St. James Clerkenwell. Girls cutting through the churchyard after dark,” Faith added with a grimace. “At first they thought he was drunk—he was mumbling and trying to stand—and they hurried by. But then one of them thought he looked ill and went back to check. Thank God. They called 999. The medics found him unconscious. Blow to the back of the head.”
It was Kincaid’s turn to frown. “Mugged?”
“Not unless the muggers were interrupted. And that seems unlikely since they took time to kick him. His wallet and phone were still in his pockets.”
“Did the girls see anyone?”
“They said not.”
“Time?”
A sharp look from Faith reminded Kincaid that he was interrogating a senior officer—his senior officer. “Sorry,” he said, making an effort to sit back in his chair.
“I understand you’re concerned.” Faith’s reply was not exactly a reprimand but held a note of warning. He went on, “It was about nine, just fully dark. But it’s doubtful he’d been there long. The churchyard is a regularly used pass-through.”
Kincaid tried to think back. He’d met Denis at eight. How long had they talked? He hadn’t looked at his watch when Denis left. Had it been more than half an hour? And even assuming that, how long did it take to walk from Roger Street to St. James Clerkenwell?
However you figured it, he might have been the last person to see Denis Childs before the attack.
“Diane says he left their house in Sekforde Street about half past seven for a walk, but we have no idea where he went.” Faith might have read his mind.
Kincaid heard the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and sweat prickled under his collar. Across the room, the woman gave a soft little hiccoughing sob. Did he trust Faith enough to admit that he had been with Denis?
But Faith shifted in his chair, glancing at the door into the ward and then his watch, and the moment passed.
“It was a good thing he still had his wallet,” Faith said. “Not that the ambulance service wouldn’t have rushed him into trauma care under any circumstances, but knowing he was a police officer certainly didn’t hurt. And when they called Diane from A and E, she told them about the transplant straightaway. They’d kicked him in the sides. We don’t know yet what that might have done to his new liver,” Faith added, and Kincaid saw that his fists were clenched.
Kincaid considered Faith’s presence at the hospital, and his obvious closeness to both Denis and Diane Childs. “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I knew Denis thought very highly of you as a colleague. I didn’t realize you were such close friends.”
“We were at the academy together. Our wives were best friends for thirty years. That’s how they met.” Glancing at Kincaid, Faith answered the question Kincaid had begun to formulate. “Linda died of cancer two years ago. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without Denis and Diane . . . Well, never mind. But I would do anything for either of them. Of course I’m here.” His voice was fierce.
Oh, Christ. Kincaid rubbed a hand across the Sunday stubble on his chin. So Denis had sent him into safekeeping with his most trusted friend, and he in turn had spent the last few months seething with resentment. If only he had—
The ward door opened and they both turned as if jerked by magnets, then stood. It was Diane Childs. When she saw Kincaid, she smiled and came to him with her hand outstretched. As he took it, she said, “Duncan. How lovely of you to come.” Her hand felt childlike in his. Slender, her dark hair barely threaded with gray, she had always seemed tiny beside Denis’s bulk, but today, alone, she looked even more delicate. She wore no makeup other than a brave bit of rose lipstick, and her eyes were a startling deep blue against her pale skin.
“Any change?” asked Faith.
Shaking her head, she managed a smile as she sank into a chair. “No. But that’s good, they say.” She pulled the edges of her sapphire cardigan together.
“Let me get you a coffee,” said Faith, rocking on his feet as if he couldn’t bear to sit.
“If I have any more coffee I’ll take off like a rocket. But, maybe . . . hot chocolate?” She shivered visibly. “The room is warm but I feel a little chilled.”
Faith’s brows drew together in disapproval. “You haven’t eaten.”
Diane Childs laughed, the sound so startling in the waiting area that the couple across the room looked up, distracted from their worry. “Tom. Stop it,” she said with evident affection. “Go fetch me some hot chocolate, please. And just to make you happy, a sandwich.”
For a moment, Kincaid thought Faith would protest. But having at least won part of his argument, he nodded and went out the way Kincaid had come in.
He was still feeling bemused by the idea of his superior officer being ordered about when Diane fixed him with her disconcerting deep blue gaze and said, “Tom can be a bit of a mother hen. But then I imagine you know that. Best to let him have his way.” Touching light fingers on his arm, she added, “And I wanted a chance to talk to you.”
Kincaid froze. Did she know Denis had met him? Did she know anything about the things that Denis had been hinting at last night?
He scrambled for a reply, but all he could think was that she smelled faintly like his mother’s Cheshire borders in summer—sweet pea, that was it, the scent he remembered. “I’m sorry,” he managed, “about what happened—”
Diane was already shaking her head as if impatient with the condolence. “Denis has never been very good at telling people how he feels—and the fact that it’s not encouraged in the police hasn’t helped. But he talks about you often—and about Gemma and your children, especially your little daughter. I think perhaps he envies you that.”
Taken aback, Kincaid gaped at her. That was the last thing he’d expected. But then he thought of all Denis’s smooth little questions, inserted so seamlessly into other conversations. He’d always assumed it was Denis’s way of keeping tabs on his officers—a good guv’nor knew that his officers’ home life affected their work and so kept up with it—but it had never occurred to him that Denis’s interest might be personal.