Nodding as if that were settled, Ivan said, “You’d best do that. But I thought you might like an update on your chief super.”
“He’s not my—” she began, but the automatic protest died on her lips. “What? Is he—”
“Stable. But not conscious. And a little bird said that his wallet and phone were on him when he was found.”
“How do you—” Melody stopped. There was no point in asking. Her father had more snitches than the Met.
“So if he was mugged, they were interrupted,” Ivan continued.
“You don’t think so.” Melody frowned. “You think he was . . . attacked? But why?”
Ivan shrugged. “Random viciousness, maybe. But there have been rumors about Denis Childs for years.”
“What rumors?” Melody managed to say around the cold knot that was forming in her chest.
“Oh, a checkered past. Friends in the wrong places. You know the sort of thing.” He paused, as if considering his words. “I’m just wondering if maybe something caught up with the elusive Detective Chief Superintendent Childs.”
Charlotte tugged hard on Gemma’s hand and came to a dead stop in the middle of the pavement. “Mummy, I don’t want Oliver to go live with somebody else.”
“Lovey, Oliver isn’t going anywhere. Remember, we talked about that?” That was an understatement, as they’d had the same conversation a dozen times since yesterday, and Gemma was struggling to hold on to her patience. She was late getting Charlotte to her school near Pembridge Gardens because all the kids had been cranky and uncooperative that morning, and Duncan, whose day it was to do the school runs, had announced he wanted to go into Holborn early. “You’re going to see Oliver in just a minute, if we hurry,” she said, determinedly cheerful.
But Charlotte was not going to be jollied. She tucked her head into Gemma’s shoulder and wrapped her legs around Gemma’s waist, clinging like a limpet and beginning to sniffle. “I don’t want to go to school.”
“I’m sorry, love, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do,” said Gemma, and instantly hated herself for it. Of course it was true, but no one knew that better than Charlotte.
Charlotte had come home from the Williamses’ distraught, and Gemma knew she couldn’t have helped overhearing talk about Reagan Keating’s death. For Charlotte, her parents’ deaths had meant the end of everything that was familiar, and a new home, a new family. She’d obviously translated that into worry over losing Oliver.
“I don’t want to,” Charlotte wailed, the sniffles threatening to turn into sobs. “I want to go home. With you.”
Just then, the town house door opened and the headmistress herself stood there waiting for them with a smile. “Now, Miss Charlotte,” she said briskly, taking Charlotte from Gemma’s arms. “We have some special treats this morning you don’t want to miss. You can’t have a treat if you’re crying, can you?” Over Charlotte’s head, she mouthed, “I heard. Go.” She made a walking motion with her fingers. “Wave at Mummy, now,” she instructed Charlotte, and as soon as Charlotte had given Gemma a teary salute, she stepped inside and closed the door smartly behind them.
Gemma stood for a moment, feeling ridiculously bereft, then shook her head and started back to the car. Of course Charlotte would be fine, and maybe if she was in charge of hordes of under fives every day, she’d have Miss Jane’s knack with them. She pulled up her shoulder bag and started for the car.
But the removal of one problem allowed her mind to go back to the other, nagging worry—Duncan. When he’d come home from the London yesterday afternoon he’d only given her the bare details of his visit, then he’d been silent as a tomb the rest of the evening. She’d have put that down to simple distress over the condition of a friend, except that he’d admitted that he hadn’t mentioned that he’d met with Denis.
“You haven’t told anyone?” he’d said sharply when she’d brought it up.
“No. Why didn’t you tell Chief Superintendent Faith?” she’d asked, frowning.
“Let’s just keep it to ourselves for the moment, okay?” had been his oblique answer.
She hadn’t pushed him. She knew he was keeping secrets, and she intended to make him level with her. But she needed some time alone with him, away from the kids.
Her phone rang. Juggling her keys, she pulled her mobile from her bag and glanced at the screen. It was Marc Lamb, her former boss at Notting Hill nick. And he was calling on his personal phone.
Gemma felt a rush of dismay. She’d meant to call Lamb, but in the chaos of Monday morning with an upset child it had slipped her mind.
“Sir,” she answered a little breathlessly. “James here.”
“Gemma. Have you got a moment?”
Leaning against her car, she said, “Of course, sir. I was just going to ri—”
Lamb didn’t give her a chance to finish. “I had a call yesterday from Bill Williams,” he said. “You know him, I believe.” Lamb’s tone made it clear it was not a question.
“Yes, sir. But I didn’t realize you did.”
“Williams is very involved with community safety initiatives. Ours paths cross,” he said drily. And money talks, he might have added. “I understand you had some contact with the family and the employer of the girl who was found in Cornwall Gardens on Saturday,” Lamb continued.
“Yes, sir.” Gemma felt sure she was about to get a bollocking for interfering in an active case. “Sir, I was only there to offer MacKenzie Williams a bit of moral support.”
“Yes, quite,” said Lamb. “Mr. Williams is very concerned that the police are using every resource to investigate the girl’s death. I’ve just rung the officer in charge at Kensington. The postmortem results should be in this morning, but in the meantime, she’d like you to stop in and have a word.”
“Me? But, sir, I have to get to Brix—”
“DI Boatman asked for you specifically when I told her you had a connection.”
“But I don’t—”
“As did Bill Williams,” Lamb said with finality, but Gemma hardly heard him.
“Kerry Boatman?” she said, frowning. “I know her.”
“So she said. She’s expecting you.”
Kincaid needed some time to think without the distraction of driving in Monday-morning traffic. The clamor and bustle of Whitechapel Road did nothing to clear his mind, and when he neared his destination he was no closer to being sure he was doing the right thing. But as he came into the hospital precinct, he saw the helicopter on its pad, a blaze of red against the city’s morning haze. The sight of it once again gave him an odd sort of comfort. At least it wasn’t out on a crash mission at the moment. Maybe that was a good omen.
Except for the angle of the light, everything looked just as it had the previous afternoon. But this morning he was going nowhere near Denis Childs’s critical care ward. He’d asked Diane to ring him if there was any change, but he didn’t want to be seen visiting again. The less visible the connection between him and Denis, the better.