Gemma nodded. “That’s right. Two. And a daughter now as well. She’s three.”
“Oh, congratulations.” Boatman smiled but looked a bit puzzled, and Gemma guessed she was wondering how Gemma had managed to acquire a three-year-old since they’d worked together last year.
“Foster daughter,” Gemma explained. “You’ll know about girls, I expect,” she added, remembering the two grinning girls in the photos on Boatman’s desk at Lucan Place.
“For my sins, yes. They’re ten and twelve now. Frightening how fast they grow up.” Boatman appeared very practiced at putting people at ease, but her deliberate manner had the opposite effect on Gemma. She sensed she was being played and she didn’t like it.
There was a tap on the door and the uniformed PC brought in a coffee tray with all the accoutrements. When Boatman had done the honors, Gemma took a sip and raised an eyebrow in appreciation. “Proper coffee. That’s lovely.”
“I’d never get through the day, otherwise.” Boatman took her cup and returned to her chair, an obvious signal that it was time to get down to business. “About this nanny in the garden,” she said. “Chief Superintendent Lamb rang up first thing this morning, wanting a progress report.” The slight narrowing of Boatman’s eyes made Gemma think she didn’t appreciate being manipulated any more than Gemma.
“It seems that the girl had some very well-connected friends,” Boatman went on. “And that you knew her. When I heard your name I thought you might have some insight on events.”
“I didn’t actually know her,” Gemma corrected. “She looked after a friend’s son occasionally, and she also did some modeling for her catalog.”
“So you never actually met Reagan Keating?”
Shaking her head, Gemma said, “No. But MacKenzie Williams was very upset by the news. She asked me to go with her to the Cusicks’. I thought it was the least I could do.”
“Quite right, although I doubt it was a pleasant visit. Who did you speak to?” Boatman settled back in her chair, cradling her coffee cup, as if she had all the time in the world for a friendly gossip.
“Nita Cusick, Reagan’s employer, and Reagan Keating’s mum, Gwen.” Gemma didn’t mention Jess.
Boatman sipped her coffee and stared into space for a moment, obviously thinking. When she looked back at Gemma, her gray eyes were razor sharp. “Did either of them know you were a police officer?”
“It didn’t come up. I’ve no idea if MacKenzie had mentioned it earlier. I was there as a friend.”
“Of course.” Boatman held up a hand in an apologetic gesture. “I understand. I just thought you might have got a little less . . . guarded . . . impression of the situation than we might, officially. You know how barriers go up when people know they’re talking to the police. Even the most blameless souls start thinking about the parking ticket they forgot to pay.”
Gemma smiled. “Exactly what situation are we talking about here?” she asked. “Gwen Keating said the officer she spoke to suggested that Reagan’s death was drug or alcohol related. Is that true?”
“Did he? Damn,” Boatman added under her breath, looking irritated. “Sergeant Enright is a clod with no common sense and fewer people skills. He had no business sharing assumptions with a shocked mother.” Before Gemma could remind her that she hadn’t answered her question, Boatman added, “Mrs. Cusick and the mother, how did they take the suggestion that the girl’s death might be down to drugs or alcohol?”
“About as well as you can imagine. The mother was adamant that her daughter would never have overdosed on either. So was Mrs. Cusick.” Gemma set her coffee cup down on the desk with a click. “Look, DCI Boatman, what’s going on here? I was there as a guest. I can’t offer you any kind of a professional opinion on Reagan Keating’s habits.”
“It’s Kerry, Gemma. I thought we were on a first-name basis.” When Gemma didn’t respond, Boatman sighed and added, “Apparently, Mrs. Keating and Mrs. Cusick were at least partly correct. I’ve had the preliminary report from the pathologist. According to the initial tests, her blood alcohol level was quite high.”
“But, you just said they were correct.” Gemma was surprised as well as puzzled. She realized she’d been putting more weight on the assurances from MacKenzie, Nita, and Gwen Keating than perhaps she ought. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. The pathologist says it’s unlikely the girl’s alcohol level was high enough to kill her. She did, however, find some other indications of foul play. What, I don’t know yet.” Boatman raised a hand before Gemma could interrupt. “I was just on my way to the mortuary. I’d appreciate it if you’d come along.”
The exterior of Holborn Police Station was as unwelcoming as ever, its glass and dull concrete facade not improved even by the bright May morning sun. As Kincaid climbed the front steps, he pulled his lanyard from his jacket pocket and slipped it on. Entering reception, he almost bumped into Chief Superintendent Faith coming out.
“Sir,” he said automatically, then felt a little jolt of apprehension. Why was Faith leaving the building first thing in the morning? “Sir, is there . . . any news?”
“No, no change.” Faith looked tired, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced than they had been yesterday. “I’m just going to check on Diane.” Frowning, he seemed for the first time to focus on Kincaid. “Have you been to hospital already?”
For an instant, Kincaid wondered if someone had seen him at the London. But that was ridiculous. He’d gone nowhere near the critical care ward. “No, sir. Not since yesterday. I thought I might stop in later.”
“Oh, right. Good man.” Faith clapped Kincaid on the shoulder and turned back towards the doors. Only then did Kincaid notice the man behind him.
“Duncan. Good to see you.” Nick Callery held out his hand and gave Kincaid’s a firm shake.
Kincaid had worked with Callery, a DCI in the counterterrorism unit, while investigating the St. Pancras grenade death. It was the case that had led him to Ryan Marsh, but he’d never shared anything about Marsh with Callery or his unit. Callery wore what Kincaid thought of as his usual attire, a silvery gray suit that matched the color of his short silver hair. He was, Kincaid guessed, in his forties, with a trim, athlete’s build, and his lightly tanned face was unlined.
“Yes, you, too,” he responded, with more warmth than he felt. He’d found Callery a bit overbearing.
“I was sorry to hear about what happened to Denis Childs. I’d just stopped in to ask the chief here if he’d had any news. I understand you worked with Childs for some time.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” That was as much as Kincaid found himself willing to say.
Callery didn’t seem to find his abruptness odd. “Your friend,” he went on, “the officer who responded to the grenade. Talbot, wasn’t it? How is she?”