“We’re looking into it,” Boatman told her. “And of course we’re interested in talking to residents here in Cornwall Gardens. Did you see or hear anything unusual on Friday evening, Mrs. Gracis?”
Marian Gracis frowned. “But I understood that Reagan just . . . died. What would I have seen?”
“Perhaps she was with someone earlier?” suggested Gemma. “Someone who might have known if she was feeling ill. Or . . . odd in some way.”
“If you’re implying that Reagan took drugs, I don’t believe it.” Some of the woman’s friendliness had evaporated. “Nor do I believe she took her own life. Oh, yes,” she added, as if they’d expressed surprise, “rumors are going around the garden. My boys heard it from one of Roland’s sons. And of course Mrs. Armitage is buttonholing anyone who has the bad luck to run into her.” Her expression made it clear that she didn’t hold Mrs. Armitage in the same regard as Clive Glenn.
“Your sons,” said Gemma, “are they friends with Jess Cusick?” She thought Marian Gracis was about the same age as Nita Cusick.
“Not friends, exactly. They’re a good bit older. Fourth and sixth form. But Jess did tag after them when he was younger and he wasn’t so tied up with his dance classes.” Marian shook her head. “He’s such a talented boy. This must be so awful for him. Especially after that poor boy’s death last year.”
“What boy?” asked Gemma. No one had mentioned anything about another death.
“Henry Su. He was in Jess’s year, but I don’t think they were exactly friends.”
“What happened to him?” asked Kerry.
“Asthma attack. All the neighbors were searching for him when he didn’t come in that night. They found him in the old toolshed at the back of the Sus’ house. Apparently the door was stuck and he couldn’t get out. He must have panicked, poor kid, and triggered his asthma. Anyway, it was all dreadful, but now the Sus have torn down the old shed and are building a huge extension, and Mrs. Armitage is on the warpath.” Gracis sighed. “Rightly so, but I don’t think anyone else has the heart to tackle the parents on it.”
“When did this happen?” asked Gemma.
“Oh, before Christmas. It was bitterly cold. No one could imagine what the boy was doing in the shed.”
“You said this boy—Henry—and Jess weren’t exactly friends. Why was that?” Gemma thought that Toby would be thrilled to have another boy his age close by.
Marian Gracis looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, especially a child.”
After a moment, Gemma prompted her. “But?”
Gracis hesitated a bit longer, then gave a rueful shrug. “You want to like children, to think the best of them. You really do. God knows my boys were insufferable sometimes. But the truth is that Henry Su just wasn’t a very nice child. I think somehow that made it all the more horrible. People felt guilty because they didn’t feel worse, if you know what I mean.”
“Not nice in what way, exactly?” asked Gemma, even though she could sense Kerry’s impatience.
Gracis bit her lip, then grimaced. “Honestly, Henry Su was a bully. But you should ask Roland. He has a son the same age and Henry made the boy’s life a misery.”
When Melody’s mobile rang, she fumbled it off her desk in an effort to silence it before Krueger, who was standing in the door of her office with her back to the CID room, heard it.
“About time,” she whispered when she got the phone to her ear, sure it was Gemma calling.
“For what?” said Doug Cullen, sounding puzzled.
“Doug. I thought—” Melody caught herself, lowered her voice. “Hold on, okay?” Leaving the CID room, she ducked into Gemma’s office. After all, DS Krueger had said she was in charge. She shut the door and sat at Gemma’s desk. “I thought you were Gemma,” she said, dropping the whisper. “She’s gone walkabout this—”
“Denis Childs was attacked,” Doug broke in, sounding breathless. “He’s in hospital. He’s in a coma.”
“I know.”
“You know?” Doug’s voice rose another octave. “And you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“I seem to remember that you weren’t speaking to me.”
“Oh, that. My phone was turned off.” When Melody didn’t respond, he added, “Look, sorry. I didn’t—it was stupid, all right?”
“You could say that,” Melody agreed, knowing she was being annoying and enjoying it.
“Can we talk about this later?” Doug’s frown was evident in his voice. “Does Duncan know? About Denis?”
“I told Gemma. I assume she told him, but I haven’t spoken to her since.”
“Wait a minute. Then who told you?”
Melody hesitated. There were voices in the corridor now. “I can’t talk here,” she whispered. “I’ll take an early lunch. Meet me at the Caffè Nero across from Brixton tube.” She disconnected before Doug could argue.
Melody loved the old Morleys department store. She supposed one day it would either be tarted up or torn down, but for now she could enjoy the feeling of being transported back a few decades whenever she walked through the door. The Caffè Nero was on the first floor, so she entered through cosmetics and took the stairs to the coffee shop.
She bought a small latte, then found a table by the front window with a view of the Brixton Underground sign. Peering down at the street, she spotted Doug coming out of the Underground station. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and the knot on his tie was pulled down. He was limping, and as he paused to search for the café, he pushed his round glasses up on his nose.
He disappeared from view and a few moments later came into the café, his limp more pronounced. “Bloody stairs,” he said, sinking into a chair with obvious relief.
“There is a lift, you know.”
Doug scowled at her. “Bloody nuisance trying to find it.”
Melody wasn’t sure if he meant the lift or the café, but neither one was difficult. “What have you done to yourself?” She nodded towards the ankle.
His frown grew deeper. Doug Cullen, with his blond, fine hair and Harry Potter glasses, was much too baby faced for such a glare. “I’ll get you a coffee while you think about it,” Melody said.
When she came back with his drink, his expression had relaxed a bit. He wasn’t just hot, she realized as she studied him, but sunburned. “Bit too much rowing,” he said in answer to her question from a moment earlier, taking the coffee with a nod of thanks.
“Surely you weren’t out long enough to get that burnt.”
A blush turned his face an even deeper red. “I may have done some digging.”
Melody gave him a skeptical eye. “May have? Some? How much some?”
He shrugged. “All the beds. I guess I . . . um . . . got a little carried away.”
“Good God. No wonder you’re limping. You are a prize idiot, Doug Cullen.”
“Yeah, well.” Sipping at the coffee, he winced, then took off the lid and blew across the top. “Maybe so.” He met her eyes for a moment. “Look, I am sorry about yesterday. I was an ass.”
“I’ll say,” she muttered, then added, “I was worried about you.” It was her turn to fidget and she turned her cold paper coffee cup. “Can we just forget about it?”