Peacock’s eyes went wide. “Definitely not about the parking, then. You’d better come in.” He turned and led them in. They passed a formal living room and a dining room on either side of the hall, as well as a wide staircase sweeping upwards. The front rooms were done in a dark chocolate with cream molding, but the room they entered at the back of the house was a deep terra-cotta. The ceilings were very high, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled much of the space not taken by the windows overlooking the garden. At one end, there was an open-plan kitchen and a comfortable-looking family dining area. There were books and newspapers scattered about on tables and sofas, and a reassuring smattering of the debris left in the wake of boys.
In the living area, a scuffed leather armchair was positioned with a view into the garden. Beside it was a shaded lamp. Papers, an open laptop, and a pair of wire-framed glasses were thrown casually over the ottoman. “We’ve obviously caught you working, Mr. Peacock,” said Gemma, determined to take the lead. After all, if Kerry Boatman wanted her on the case, she was bloody well going to do more than take notes. “You’re neighbor Mrs. Gracis—Marian—gave us your name. We’re looking into the death of Reagan Keating.”
“Oh. That. Of course. I heard about it, but I thought she’d overdosed or something. Why are the police investigating?” Peacock had put on his glasses. His eyes were sharp and very blue.
“For the moment, we’re treating it as a suspicious death,” said Kerry. “Mrs. Gracis told us you worked from home. We thought that if there had been anything odd going on, you might have noticed.”
“But she died during the night, poor girl. Or so I was told.”
“It’s our job to look into things thoroughly when something like this happens.” Kerry was more conciliatory than Gemma had heard her before. “Which means we’d like to speak to as many of the residents as possible. Could we—”
“Oh, of course. Sorry.” Peacock gestured towards a slightly worn pair of velvet sofas. He shifted the ottoman aside and folded his length into the armchair. “But I don’t know how I can help you.”
Gemma perched on the edge of the sofa nearest him. “What is it that you do, Mr. Peacock?”
“I’m a journalist. Freelance. I write on economics. I have a proper office upstairs, but I like working down here, especially on fine days.” The windows were open, but the heavy plantings at the west end of the garden made the house seem very private.
“And your wife?”
“She’s an architect. Her office has subsidiaries in the States and Germany, so she travels a good bit.”
So Roland Peacock was home alone during the day—at least while his sons were at school—and sometimes at night, if his wife traveled. He was, she realized, a very handsome man. Not in a film-star way—his face was too long, his hairline receding—but there was something extraordinarily attractive in the way his features fit together. And his blue eyes, now slightly shielded by the spectacles—were mesmerizing. She could certainly imagine a younger woman being smitten. “Did you know Reagan Keating, Mr. Peacock?” she asked. “I understand one of your sons is the same age as Jess Cusick.”
“Yes, my Arthur is the same age as Jess. They were friends.”
“Were friends?” Gemma asked, wondering if something had happened to the boy.
“I suppose they still are,” Peacock clarified. “But Arthur’s away at school now, so they don’t see each other much. And after the—there was a tragedy here, last year. I can understand if it put the boys off doing ordinary things.”
“You’re talking about the boy who died?” asked Gemma, glad he had brought it up.
“Henry, yes. Henry Su.”
“The three boys were friends?”
“No, they weren’t friends.” Peacock was surprisingly adamant. “They were the same age, and Arthur and Jess always got along well. But . . . Henry was . . . different.”
“Different, how?” Kerry spoke sharply enough to make Peacock give her a startled glance. He might have forgotten she was there. When he hesitated, she added, “Don’t say you don’t want to speak ill of the dead. The dead are dead and it won’t hurt them.”
“But I can’t see—”
“Nor do you know how any information you have might help us.”
Roland Peacock looked at her. After a moment he took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Henry Su was a bully and a troublemaker. Hard to say if that was due to being horribly overindulged by his parents, or just his natural inclination. He teased the other kids mercilessly. To be honest, that was one of the reasons we decided to send our Arthur away to school. Henry was in the same year at the local school and was making his life a misery there and at home.”
“What exactly happened to Henry Su?” Gemma asked, wanting to confirm what Marian Gracis had told them.
Peacock grimaced, then put his glasses on again so that Gemma couldn’t quite read his expression. “Henry liked to hide. I suppose it was a way of getting attention. Usually, the kids would ignore him, glad to be shut of him for a bit. If they’d looked, that day . . .” He shook his head. “Things might have been different.
“Henry was asthmatic, you see. He managed to lock himself in the little shed where his father kept tools and gardening things. I suppose when he couldn’t get out, it triggered his asthma. He didn’t have his rescue inhaler. He—he wouldn’t have been able to get his breath.”
“He suffocated?”
“He was unresponsive when we found him—by this time it had got dark and his parents were frantic. Everyone was out searching. They kept him on life support for a week before the doctors convinced his parents to let him go. But they didn’t donate any of his organs.” Roland shook his head again, his mouth set in a grim line. “I suppose I can understand that. It was tragic. But perhaps his death wouldn’t have been so pointless if it had allowed someone else to live.”
Gemma thought suddenly of Denis. His sister’s unselfishness had given him a new chance at life, only to have it now hanging in the balance.
“To make it worse,” Peacock went on, “now his parents are building a bloody great extension where the shed was. It’s illegal, and it’s horrible, but no one really wants to take them on because it seems insensitive. Except Mrs. Armitage, of course, the head of the garden committee.” Peacock’s expression relaxed into a smile. “She doesn’t suffer from delicacy.”
“She found Reagan Keating, didn’t she?” said Kerry.
“So I heard. Poor kid. What do you think happened to her?”
“So you did know Reagan?” asked Gemma, well aware that he had not answered their original question.
“I’d met her, of course. I remember how cut up she was the night Henry was found. But I’ve not seen her much since Arthur went away to school, and I can’t say I ever knew her well.”
“Is there anyone on the garden who was a particular friend of Reagan’s?”
Roland Peacock thought for a moment, frowning. “You might speak to Asia Ford, in the house next to the Cusicks’ but one. She seemed quite friendly with the girl at the garden party.”
“Garden party?” Gemma repeated.