“A wee bit paranoid, perhaps,” said Ronnie. “Unless”—he gave Kincaid his most intense blue gaze—“there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I—there was—” Suddenly, Kincaid changed his mind about another round. He wasn’t going to get through this without a little Dutch courage. Without a word, he took Ronnie’s glass as well as his own to the bar. He came back, not with beer, but with two double measures of the pub’s best whisky.
He took a swallow. When his eyes stopped watering and he could get his breath, he told Ronnie everything he could remember about Ryan Marsh, ending with the night Ryan Marsh died. “I found him. I didn’t tell anyone that I was there. Not even Gemma. And I hope to God none of the duty officers recognized me.”
Ronnie sat quietly, sipping his whisky, his gaze unfocused. Drained, Kincaid closed his eyes, so that he was startled when Ronnie said softly, “You don’t think it was suicide, do you, mate?”
“No. I don’t believe it. I never did. I’ve asked a pathologist friend to double-check the postmortem results.”
Ronnie considered for a moment, then tapped his forefinger on the table. “So. Let me get this straight. You have two cops who seemed to be afraid of someone within the force. You suspect one was murdered—although you have no proof—and that one was the victim of a murder attempt—although you have no proof. You also think that you might be connected by the perpetrator—or perpetrators—with one or both of these men.”
Kincaid nodded, reluctantly. “You think I’m bonkers.”
“You’ve always been bonkers, at least according to your sister,” Ronnie said with an unexpected grin. Sobering again, he added, “However, in this case, I think maybe you are . . . not.”
“What?” Kincaid frowned. “You’re telling me I’m not crazy?”
“First of all, unless you’ve suddenly taken leave of your senses, you have good instincts, and good judgment. You should trust both.” Ronnie looked Kincaid in the eyes. “And there’s something else. There was a cop coming in here for a while. Early retirement from the Met, he said, moved back here to his home county for his health—although I got the impression that his health problems included drinking large amounts of alcohol on a regular basis. He was a DCI, he said, and when he’d had a good deal of booze, he muttered things about knowing too much and being turfed out because of it. I haven’t seen him lately. Maybe I should look him up. His name’s Frank Fletcher. Ring any bells?”
When Kincaid shook his head, Ronnie went on. “Coincidence, probably. Alcohol-induced paranoia, a drunkard making excuses for his failures. But, when we talked about the job, I’d have sworn he was a good cop.” Ronnie shrugged. “There are always rumors about corruption within the Met—and any other force, for that matter. Mostly bunk, but—”
“No smoke without fire?” The words had slipped out, but the adage brought unpleasant memories to Kincaid’s mind. He took another sip of his whisky, trying to vanquish the taste of ash.
“So.” Ronnie tapped the table again. “If your pathologist friend says he thinks your undercover cop did not commit suicide, what exactly do you intend to do about it?”
Kincaid blinked. “I don’t know.”
Ronnie shook his head. He leaned towards Kincaid, elbows on the table. “You’re shooting in the dark. I don’t like it. You don’t know enough about either of these men. You don’t even know if your undercover cop was rogue or still on the Met’s payroll. Is there any connection between these two, Childs and Marsh?”
“No. Not that I know—” Kincaid stopped, thinking furiously. “Wait. Ryan Marsh was inserted into the antidevelopment protest group in Camden months before Denis arranged my transfer there. That night, when we met, Denis said he sent me to Holborn because he trusted DCS Faith. But what if—what if he knew Ryan Marsh would be on my patch? But then he’d have to either have known Marsh, or known something about the group—” He stopped, rubbing his face. “That really is bonkers. You’re right. I’m running blind. I’d never go into a case this way.”
Ronnie was so close now that Kincaid could feel his breath on his face and smell the tang of whisky. “You need to learn every single thing you can about this Marsh, and about your guv’nor,” Ronnie said, jabbing him in the chest with a forefinger. “And, listen, mate, you have got to tell Gemma. Now. Or you are going to be in a world of trouble.”
Chapter Fourteen
Gemma woke on Tuesday morning no less cross than she had gone to bed the night before. When Kincaid had rung for the second time, the children had been in bed and she’d been taking the dogs out. She had, of course, left her mobile on the kitchen table, so had missed his call by minutes. When she listened to his message, he said he was staying the night on Juliet’s sofa rather than going to his parents’ farm. He’d sounded a bit slurred.
She hadn’t rung him back.
She slept fitfully, tossing and turning and waking to look at the clock. In spite of the cocker spaniel and the two kittens curled on her feet, the bed felt empty and cold.
When the sun rose, she was glad of an excuse to get up. As she got herself and the children ready for the day, she found herself looking forward to morning coffee and a chat with Melody. Then she realized she wasn’t going to Brixton, wasn’t seeing Melody. She had a different agenda.
After MacKenzie had given her Hugo Gold’s name and phone number the night before, Gemma had rung Kerry Boatman with the information. Kerry had rung back a few minutes later, saying that Gold had agreed to see them at nine that morning, at Bill’s in Kensington.
She and Kerry decided to meet at the entrance to the Kensington High Street tube a few minutes beforehand, as the café was in the tube station arcade.
It was another bright day and Gemma’s temper improved as she stood outside the station, watching the bustle of Kensington High Street and enjoying the sun that—for the moment at least—felt pleasant. When Kerry appeared, coming from the direction of Earl’s Court Road, she looked more relaxed than Gemma had seen her.
“I walked,” Kerry explained when Gemma told her she looked well. “Clears the cobwebs.” She slipped back into the navy suit jacket she’d slung over her shoulder. “And at least we have a place to start this morning, thanks to you.”
“This seems an odd choice for an interview.” Gemma gestured at the arcade.
“His suggestion. He said he lives in Holland Park and would be on the way to his university classes. Sounded quite cut up about the girl’s death.”
“He knew about Reagan?”
“Not until your friend Mrs. Williams rang him last night—or so he says, anyway. Let’s see what he has to say.”
“Do you know this café?” Gemma asked, gesturing at the arcade.
“I stop there sometimes on my way home for a latte. It’s a nice place to sit for a bit and think—between one fray and the next, if you know what I mean.”