“Commissioner Neville always spoke so highly of your husband, Mrs. Childs,” said Trent. “A fine officer, one of the best.”
A rush of anger made Kincaid fight to keep his voice level. “Yes. One of the best. And he will continue to be so.”
Tom Faith gave a quick nod of agreement. “We all know Denis Childs is too stubborn to give up.”
Had Denis been too stubborn for his own good? Kincaid suddenly felt he couldn’t stay in the claustrophobic waiting room a moment longer. He apologized to Diane Childs, who said, “Of course, you must go. Denis will appreciate your taking so much time from your family on a Sunday.” She, too, emphasized the present tense, and her smile was almost conspiratorial. Realizing that he liked her very much, Kincaid gave her a quick hug, then took his leave of the senior officers.
Once he was out of the building he found it easier to breathe. As he walked to the hospital car park, he went round and round the same series of events.
Denis Childs had been worried enough about something—or someone—that he had sent Kincaid an anonymous text on what must have been a burner phone, setting up a meeting in a place where neither of them was known. Once there, he’d been his usual cagey self, but had warned Kincaid against some shadowy people within the force and told him not to meddle in things he didn’t understand. A few minutes later, he had been brutally assaulted.
It was wrong, all wrong, just like Ryan Marsh’s death.
A roaring noise he’d been half ignoring grew louder. Looking up, his saw the distinctive red of the air ambulance as the helicopter descended towards the rooftop landing pad. Perhaps at that very moment someone else’s life hung in the balance. Denis Childs had been given a chance. Ryan Marsh had had none.
Kincaid stopped, watching the helicopter set down, his mind only half engaged with the scene before him. One death, one attack that might yet prove fatal. What would happen next? Was he at risk? Was Gemma?
He had to get to the bottom of this, and he was beginning to believe that he had to start with the death of Ryan Marsh. But he needed help, and he didn’t know where to turn or who he could trust.
The helicopter settled like a great brooding bird, its blades still. Kincaid wondered if whoever had arrived from the air would leave via the morgue.
The morgue.
Of course. He was an idiot not to have seen it.
He knew exactly who could help him, and exactly what he would ask.
Chapter Seven
May 1994
Someone was smoking a joint. That was always a ticklish situation at these little get-togethers. Most of them smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and no one wanted to play the narc and give it the “So, who is it, then?” But the May night was unseasonably warm and the windows of the first-floor flat in Earl’s Court were open to catch any breath of breeze. All they needed was for a neighbor or a passerby to report them.
While it was certainly not condoned, a blind eye was turned to minor drug use—they were, after all, supposed to stay in character, even here. But the lot of them getting arrested for something as petty as possession of a little weed would not go over well with the brass.
Not that any of them were drug dealers, mind you, that wasn’t the mission. But they were rebels—anarchists, some of them—and a little of this and a little of that came with the territory. Most of them didn’t let it go further. At least as far as he knew.
He wondered if there was a snitch among them tonight. There was something about Mickey, the newest recruit, that rubbed him up the wrong way. The man had a bland, freckled face and hair like a puff of duck’s down, and he was always bloody smiling.
They were an odd bunch, no doubt about it. Less than a dozen men—and at the moment, two women, although Sheila and Lynn hadn’t shown up yet tonight—scruffy and earnest, they were Special Branch’s darlings. And they were professional liars, the lot of them. They grew their hair—or shaved it, if their targets were skinhead groups. Thank God he hadn’t had to do that—he’d look like André the Giant.
They changed their names. They spent one night a week at home with their families, and the rest living their cover lives, invented with histories and exit strategies that would have done Tolstoy proud.
But every Wednesday night they met in this run-down flat behind Earl’s Court tube station, where the floor vibrated with the rumble of the trains beneath them. It was “An opportunity to share and de-stress,” supposedly, but they were expected to stay in persona, even with their fellow undercover officers. It made for some strange conversations, and was anything but de-stressing. Nor was it comfortable. The ratty sofa and chairs had once been brown, the tiny kitchen didn’t bear thinking about, and someone had hung a biohazard sign on the door to the toilet, which wasn’t far from the truth. It might be safe but it wasn’t much of a house, he thought, and smiled a little at his own lame humor.
“What’s so funny, mate?” asked Mickey. “Want to share it with us?”
So he was watching, the little bugger, but for whom? His handler? If that were the case it would mean that somebody, somewhere up the ranks, didn’t trust him. Not good news. “Not anything you’d understand, Mickey, lad,” he said easily, and saw the man’s painful flush.
“Fuck you,” Mickey countered, with his usual originality.
The exchange drew a few looks. Jim Evans, a big, bald bloke from Essex, laughed and said to Mickey, “Have another beer, man. Chill, you know?” The talk went back to murmurs, and Jim pulled another Carlsberg out of a paper sack, passing it to the man beside him, Dylan West.
Dylan West, a poser if ever there was one. Tall and thin, with dark, brooding eyes that made women think he was deep, and an ingrained air of superiority. They’d been at the academy together. He hadn’t liked him then and he liked him even less now. Trust the wanker to pick a name straight out of a bodice ripper.
There was a jaunty rap at the door and Jim jumped up to open it. “Sorry we’re late to the party, boys,” said Sheila, holding up a bottle of wine in each hand. “But I’m sure we’ll make up for it,” she added, grinning as she sashayed into the room, followed by Lynn.
Sheila was always in the lead. With her combat boots, short skirt, and the T-shirt hugging her small but obviously bra-less breasts, she fit the part, except that no one knew exactly what part that was. If they all walked a fine line between staying in character but not talking about their specific assignments, Sheila never crossed it. He sometimes wondered if she was playing a part at all. If so, it was as natural for her as breathing. And he wondered if Lynn minded.