Kerry, on the other hand, seemed anything but happy. “Who have you seen, Mr. Glenn? Playing musical houses. Was it Reagan Keating?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t know. It’s just an impression. Shadows moving in the dim half-light. The sound of doors closing. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve never recognized anyone.”
“But you’ve seen which houses the people came from?”
“No. Not even that. I can’t help you.” His answer was flat, final, his clamped lips making it clear he meant it.
Gemma knew he was lying.
“I’m getting the crime scene team on this,” Kerry said when Glenn had left them. “Although I think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that there’s anything left to find.” Putting her phone to her ear, she walked away from Gemma and began to pace up and down on the gravel path as she talked.
Gemma moved into a patch of shade and stood, gazing at the spot where Reagan Keating’s body had lain. Why this spot, at the edge of the glade? Did it have some special significance? Was there any possibility the body had been moved here? Kate Ling hadn’t mentioned lividity. Pulling out the little notebook she still carried in her bag, mobile notwithstanding, she jotted a reminder to herself to check.
The tree was beautiful, as perfect as a drawing in a children’s picture book, set against the green sweep of lawn. What was it called in some of the old books Kit read aloud to Toby? Greensward, that was it. It had an Old English sound that made Gemma think of knights and enchantments. Or maybe she was just associating it with the way the girl had been described—laid out like a sleeping princess. She needed to see the crime scene photos for herself.
The turf showed no evidence of a struggle, although she did find a length of foot-wide parallel indentations at the edge of the path. Gemma thought it likely they had been made by the mortuary gurney, but there was always a possibility that it had been something else—a cart or a wagon, used if the body had been moved. She made another note, then looked up, trying to see how this spot related to the entire area. Was it visible from the nearby houses?
She thought the trees and shrubs would have screened it completely from the houses on the left. On the right, the small private patios were dense with shrubs and flowering plants, although she thought it might be just possible to see the patch of lawn from the upper windows of the nearest houses. That left the approach from the center of the garden.
There, casual beds of azaleas swooped down towards the formal beds in the garden’s center, the riot of color punctuated by clumps of spent tulips and daffodils. Gemma thought a witness would have to have been quite close to have had an unimpeded view. She wondered how much light there had been late on Friday evening. The tall houses themselves would block any illumination from streetlamps in the surrounding area.
It had been a very private place to die.
She’d pulled her mobile from her bag, intending to take some quick photos, when Kerry finished her call. “They’re on their way,” she said as she rejoined Gemma. “However much good it will do. And I’ve had them radio the beat constable to come keep an eye on things until the SOCOs get here. Again”—she rolled her eyes—“not that I think it likely to make much difference when everyone and their dog has probably been tramping over the place all weekend. But I’m hoping the officer on duty is the one who took the initial call.”
Wrong shift, Gemma thought, but didn’t correct her.
“What do you think of the gardener?” Kerry asked. “Right out of D. H. Lawrence, isn’t he?”
Gemma thought it over. “He could have known her better than he admitted. There’s definitely something he’s not telling us. But he’s not exactly a bit of rough, if that’s what you were getting at.”
“Dishy enough that a twenty-something might fancy him.”
“Yes, but there’s a big gap between her fancying him—or him fancying her—and him having a reason to kill her,” Gemma argued. “If he’s married, he doesn’t wear a ring.”
“We’ll find out. I’ve got his particulars. And I’d like to know if he was making up the whole midnight shenanigans story out of whole cloth, or if he’s protecting someone.”
“I’d say start with his Mrs. Armitage. He seems to admire her. We’ll find out if it’s mutual.” Gemma gazed at the surrounding houses. Clive Glenn had been right about the number of residents, and she knew from her own communal garden that many of them probably didn’t know one another. Even if the lack of access limited the number of suspects, finding connections to Reagan Keating was going to be a daunting proposition.
The constable arrived, but it was not the same officer who had been called to the scene on Saturday morning. Kerry, frowning again, gave him instructions on where to wait until the crime scene team arrived, and asked to be notified immediately when they did. “No point cooling our heels here in the meantime,” she said to Gemma. “But I think when we speak to residents, we should keep it to suspicious death, at least for the time being. I’d not like the girl’s mother to hear that her daughter was murdered before I have a chance to speak to her. I tried ringing her a few minutes ago but got voice mail.”
“Gwen Keating told me she meant to go back to work today. She said she couldn’t abandon her students this close to the end of term. And what else would she do?” Gemma added. “I don’t think sitting home alone would be bearable.”
“I’ll ring her again this afternoon, then.” Kerry looked unhappy.
Clive Glenn had told them Mrs. Armitage lived on the north side, near the Kensington Park Road end, but they’d only walked a few yards when a woman came out of the nearest house on the left.
“Can I help you?” she called, stopping at the low iron fence and gate that separated her patio from the gravel path.
“We’re police officers, ma’am.” Kerry took her warrant card from her bag as they joined the woman.
“Detectives?” The woman studied Kerry’s ID, then returned it. “Are you here about the girl who died? I saw you from my study window, talking to Clive.” Slender and sensible looking, with short, mouse brown hair and a pleasant voice, she reminded Gemma of a younger version of Kincaid’s mother, Rosemary.
“We are looking into her death, yes,” Boatman answered. “And you are?”
“Marian Gracis.”
Gemma extended her hand over the gate with a smile that she hoped hid her irritation with Boatman for not introducing her. “I’m Detective Inspector Gemma James. Did you know Reagan Keating, the young woman who died, Mrs. Gracis?” Using “Mrs.” with a stranger was always tricky. Women who were not married or had kept their own names could be offended, but to Gemma, “Ms.” always sounded casual to the point of rudeness.
“To speak to,” said Marian Gracis. “She seemed a very nice girl. What a terrible thing to happen. Do you know anything yet?”