“What?” Rashid looked up, startled, his pen still. “Chief Superintendent Childs? Is he okay?”
“No. He’s in a coma. Blunt-force injury to the brain.”
Rashid grimaced. “You’re right. Not good. But what does he have to do with your dead copper?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid admitted. “But Denis was afraid, just like Ryan. He said there were people in the force who wished him ill.” Kincaid wasn’t going to say Denis had been on the way home from meeting him, even to Rashid.
Rashid studied him for a long moment, his handsome face creased in a frown. “I’ve never known you to be fanciful,” he said at last. “And I would hate for anything to happen to you. I’ll look up your case. But you should tell Gemma what you told me. And”—he cut off Kincaid’s protest with a wave of his pen—“you should talk to someone outside the Met. Surely there’s someone you can trust.”
Chapter Eight
It had taken half an hour in the shower with the water as hot as he could stand to get Doug Cullen moving without groaning. Even with his sore muscles eased a bit, his ankle was so tender he was tempted to put on the hated boot cast.
Examining himself critically in the mirror as he shaved, he realized that he was sunburned, too. The splash of aftershave stung his cheeks and his neck was red as beetroot. He’d spent all his Sunday afternoon digging in the garden, working with a sort of manic intensity, not stopping until the sun was easing towards the top of the garden wall and his shoulder muscles simply refused to lift the spade one more time.
He now had a back garden ringed by perfectly turned beds, and no idea what to plant in them.
When he’d at last cleaned himself up enough to pop out for a takeaway, he’d almost stumbled over the offering outside his front door. The cups of tea had long gone cold and scummy, and Melody’s note, he guessed, had been tugged by the breeze until it was anchored only by a corner. He read it, frowning, then pulled his mobile from the pocket of his jeans.
It was switched off. He’d forgotten to turn it on when he’d come in from the river. Bugger.
Carefully, he’d unfolded the tattered garden plan that had been tucked beneath Melody’s note.
She must have thought him an absolute prat, refusing to answer her knock. And he had been, to tell the truth. He’d eased the kink in his shoulder, hesitating with his finger poised over the phone keypad.
In the end, too exhausted to think of a decent apology, he’d pocketed his phone again and left the call for the morrow, but now, as he rode the tube into work, he was no further forward. He didn’t look forward to Monday mornings at the Yard these days, but today it was a relief to have a distraction from worrying about Melody.
As soon as he entered the CID floor, however, he felt something slightly off. There seemed a suppressed air of tension, and when one of the department secretaries hurried by with an armful of files, she glanced up and then away, not meeting his eyes.
“Um, excuse me?” Doug said, struggling to think of her name.
She paused and turned back to him, a reluctant expression on her dark, round face.
It wasn’t until he tried on a smile that he remembered the sunburn. Maybe that’s why she was staring at him with what looked like dismay. “Where’s the fire?” he asked.
“Sorry?” She looked at him blankly.
“I mean, you seemed in a bit of a rush.”
“Oh. No, it’s just the AC wants these and he’s in a mood. Everyone is, with the news about Detective Chief Superintendent Childs.”
“What? What news?”
“I thought you’d know. It was in this morning’s Chronicle.” She lowered her voice and gave a conspiratorial glance round. “Someone attacked him on Saturday night. He’s in hospital. Dying, the rumor is.” Tightening her grip on her files, she added, “I’ve got to go or the AC will kill me.”
Doug watched as she hurried off down the corridor. The chief? Dying? He couldn’t believe it. Slowly, he made his way to Chief Superintendent Slater’s office. Slater was his nominal boss, since Kincaid had been transferred to Holborn, and Doug disliked him intensely.
“Sir,” he said, tapping on Slater’s door just as Slater was hanging up his phone. “I just heard—is it true about Chief Super Childs?”
“If you mean that some bugger jumped him in the bloody churchyard, yes.”
“But I heard that he was—”
“Dying?” Slater shook his head. “Induced coma. According to the AC.” An unfamiliar expression crossed Slater’s heavy face. “In any case, he won’t be coming back to the Yard anytime soon, which means more work for the rest of us. So I suggest we get on with it.”
Doug took the dismissal with a nod. When he was out of sight of Slater’s office, he took out his mobile. Did Kincaid know? He dialed Kincaid’s number but it went to voice mail, as had all his calls the last few weeks. Damn the man. What was wrong with him?
He rang off without leaving a message. Then he punched Melody’s number without a thought for his apology.
The last time Gemma had seen Kerry Boatman, Boatman had been a detective inspector at Lucan Place Police Station in Chelsea. But Lucan Place was gone, sold off for its real estate value by the Met. Boatman was now at Kensington, the divisional station, and she had advanced to DCI. The station, a solid, utilitarian, redbrick block near the top of Earl’s Court Road, had none of the charm of Victorian Lucan Place.
Gemma entered through the front doors. It had been some time since she’d seen the public side of a police station, and she was always a little amused by how innocuous police stations seemed. Like most modern London stations, from the lobby Kensington Police Station could have been mistaken for any ordinary business or government office—at least until you noticed the blue uniform blouses of the two female officers behind the glassed-in reception area. And assuming you didn’t know that the glass was bulletproof.
When Gemma had introduced herself at reception, one of the officers made a call, then buzzed her in and escorted her up to DCI Boatman’s office.
Boatman stood to greet her, coming round her desk to shake Gemma’s hand. She looked much as she had when Gemma had last seen her, a small, slightly stocky woman with a friendly smile. Her dark hair was a bit longer, and there were a few threads of gray at the temples, but Gemma would have sworn she was wearing the exact same navy suit.
“Thank you for coming,” said Boatman with a smile. “Would you like something? Tea? A coffee?”
The office was spacious, and there was a blur of green treetops visible beyond the window. Kerry Boatman had done well for herself. “Coffee would be great,” Gemma answered. “Thanks.”
As Gemma took the proffered chair, Boatman stepped out the door and murmured a request to a uniformed officer. Then she returned to her desk and leaned against its front edge, arms casually folded. “How are you?” she asked. “Family doing well? You have boys, if I remember.”