By the time she reached Brixton, she’d decided to keep Ivan’s innuendos to herself, at least for the time being. Heaven forbid she carried tales from Ivan that she might have to document to senior staff. She left the stack of papers on an empty seat and saw the other passengers reaching for them before she’d stepped off the train.
The police station was a short walk from the Underground station, north along Brixton Road past the Station Road Market. It was quiet on a Monday morning, most of the stalls shuttered, but it still looked cheerful in the bright sunshine. She passed a dreadlocked young man who glanced at her red outfit, then gave her an approving grin and murmured, “Sweet.” The little encounter boosted her confidence and she walked into the police station a few minutes later still wearing a smile.
The smile, however, only lasted until she got to CID. There was no sign of Gemma, and their boss, Superintendent Krueger, wore an expression that promised a blistering for some unlucky peon. Krueger was on the phone. Ending the call, she glanced round the CID room, and when she saw Melody her frown made it clear that Melody was the one who was in for it.
“Sergeant.” Krueger motioned Melody into her office. “In here.” Krueger was a slender, dark-haired woman in her forties. Rumor had it she had a wicked sense of humor when she’d had a few drinks, but Melody had never seen it.
She closed the door with some trepidation. “Ma’am.”
Krueger didn’t sit. Not a good sign. “Your guv’nor, Sergeant, has somehow managed to get herself seconded to another case.”
“Ma’am?” Melody had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’ve just had it from the chief super at Notting Hill. Something about having connections with the victim.” Krueger made “connections” sound like a dirty word.
“Connections?” Melody repeated blankly. “What connections? What victim?” She heard herself, knew she sounded a stupid cow, but her mind had gone into overdrive. Was it someone they knew? Or did this have to do with Denis? But Notting Hill had no connection with Denis. And Denis wasn’t—
Krueger interrupted the whirlwind of Melody’s thoughts. “I can see that DI James has not seen fit to inform you of this development. Perhaps she’ll fill you in when she decides to grace us with her presence. In the meantime, you’re in charge.”
Taking that as a dismissal, Melody said, “Ma’am,” once more, then turned and escaped to her desk.
DS Shara MacNicols, the detective sergeant on their team, glanced from Melody to Krueger’s door and rolled her eyes, muttering, “Warpath,” under her breath.
“Do you know anything about this?” Melody whispered.
“Not a thing.” Shara shook her head and beads on the ends of her tiny braids made a faint clicking sound as they bounced. They were blue today, Melody saw.
She tapped her computer to life and tried to look busy. Thank God their only active investigation was into the death of a homeless man whose body had been found in Battersea Park. The pathologist’s report was in her inbox. Glancing through it, she took a little breath of relief. Malnutrition, hypothermia, kidney and liver failure from chronic alcoholism. Natural causes, then. Poor old bloke, but his demise was not something that required Gemma’s immediate presence.
With a surreptitious glance at Krueger’s office, she held her mobile below the level of her desk and pulled up Gemma’s number. “What the hell is up, boss?” she typed. Then, “Where are you?”
There was no reply.
Chapter Ten
“I want to see the crime scene,” Gemma said to Kerry Boatman as they left the mortuary.
“But I thought you were there yesterday.” Kerry, who had been checking her phone, glanced up at Gemma with a frown.
“I was in the Cusicks’ house. I didn’t have any reason to go into the garden. I’d have looked like some sort of voyeur.”
“Aren’t we all, though,” muttered Kerry absently, then she gave Gemma a sharp look. “What’s this about the victim’s boyfriend?”
“I saw a photo of him in Reagan’s room. Her mother says his name is Hugo, but she doesn’t know his last name. And she got the impression that Reagan had gone off him lately.”
“So they argue and he kills her?” Kerry shrugged. “Possible. But he’d had to have had access to the garden.”
“Isn’t there a gate?”
“No. There’s a heavy, locked door in a brick wall at the Ladbroke Grove end. It would take a ninja climber to get over it.”
“Someone could have had a key,” suggested Gemma.
“I suppose it’s possible someone could have got hold of a key,” Kerry agreed. “But I think it’s much more likely our perpetrator was either a resident or someone who had access through one of the houses. I’ve got an appointment with the gardener in half an hour. We’ll find out about the key.”
Gemma heard the inclusive “we” and shook her head in protest. “But I’ve got to get to Brixton—”
“Not to worry. I had a chat with Chief Superintendent Lamb on the way over. By now, he’s had a chat with your guv’nor.”
“Bloody hell,” said Gemma. Krueger would be having kittens. “You really have hijacked me.”
“You could always say no.”
“And get in Marc Lamb’s bad graces?” Gemma could tell from Kerry’s self-satisfied expression that she knew she had Gemma well and truly fixed.
They met Clive Glenn at the Ladbroke Grove end of Cornwall Gardens. It had grown warmer as the morning progressed and Gemma could feel the sun hot on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. If this weather kept up, she was going to have to start wearing sunblock.
Clive Glenn was certainly tanned enough. He was also good looking in an American advert, outdoorsy way. In his late thirties or early forties, Gemma guessed, with hair and a short beard just beginning to gray. That he was fit was evident, given his jeans and tight T-shirt. But when he spoke, his accent was as posh as Melody Talbot’s, and Gemma had to stop herself looking surprised.
The glint in his eye as they finished their introductions made her think he’d seen her slight start and was laughing at her.
He’d arrived before them and they found him leaning against the tail of a small truck parked near the garden entrance. The truck’s bed was filled with equipment and bags of what looked like mulch.
The entrance itself was as Kerry had described it—a wooden door, painted a soft blue, and set in a high redbrick wall that stretched between the two houses on either side. It was impossible to see into the garden, and it would take a ladder or climbing equipment to get over the wall.
“This is the only entrance?” Gemma asked, sounding sharp even to herself. She wanted to wipe the amusement from Glenn’s face. “What about the Kensington Park Road end?” she added. Of course she’d walked or driven past it often enough, but she couldn’t remember ever noticing the garden, much less an entrance.
“It’s an iron fence. Ten feet high, and grown over with very prickly Cecile Brunner roses. No gate.” It seemed to Gemma that there was still a slight mockery in Glenn’s voice, but if Kerry noticed it as well, she didn’t react.
“So how do you get in this end, then?” said Kerry.
Glenn pulled a key from the pocket of his jeans. It was a tarnished brass lever lock and was nearly as long as his hand.