Despite Mrs. Armitage’s advice, Gemma and Kerry had tried the Sus, then the Peacocks. Mrs. Armitage had also said that she thought Roland Peacock went in to his newspaper on Tuesdays. Mrs. Armitage was, of course, correct, so after finding no one at home, they then went on around to Blenheim Crescent and rang the bell at Nita Cusick’s. When there was no answer there, they walked round the corner into Kensington Park Road, looking for the address Nita had given them for her office. It was a small, elegant space, sandwiched between a gourmet provision shop and an Italian bistro, and only a few doors from Kitchen and Pantry. There was no sign advertising the business, only a small brass plate by the door identifying it as cusick public relations. Through the window they could see a front room that looked more like a chic sitting/conference room than an office.
When Gemma opened the door, a bell chimed, and Nita came hurrying out of a room at the back. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, and Gemma wondered who she’d been expecting. She looked, Gemma thought, as if she’d aged five years since she’d seen her on Sunday. Then, she’d looked thin but fit. Today, the flesh seemed to have melted from the bones in her face, and in her fitted sleeveless dress her shoulders looked almost obscenely skeletal.
“Can we have a word, Mrs. Cusick?” Kerry asked, but Gemma heard the concern in her voice.
“Oh.” Nita looked baffled for a moment, as if processing the request, then said, “Of course. Come into the back.” She led them into a windowless office which, while not exactly untidy, looked more inhabited than anywhere Gemma had seen in Nita’s house. The back wall was lined with black-and-white photos of Jess dancing. In some, he was even younger than Toby, and Gemma was fascinated by the progression in his grace and posture.
Although Nita didn’t offer them seats, Gemma and Kerry took the two visitors’ chairs.
“I understand you’ve heard the news about Reagan,” Kerry began without preamble.
“Gwen Keating called me first thing this morning.” Nita shivered, even though it was warm in the office, and slipped into a cardigan that had been thrown over the back of her chair. “I still can’t believe it. It was bad enough that Reagan was dead . . .” She shook her head. “But murdered? There must be some mistake.”
“I assure you there is not, Mrs. Cusick. And that we’re doing everything possible to find out who was responsible. Now, if we can just—”
Nita didn’t let Kerry finish. “Her . . . body. Gwen wants to make funeral arrangements. Now that you’ve done . . . whatever it is that you do . . .” She seemed unable to finish the thought, and looked so ill that Gemma felt sorry for her.
“I promise we’ll let both you and Mrs. Keating know as soon as Reagan can be released,” said Gemma.
“Gwen wants to have the service there. In Cardiff. Which is understandable of course, but Jess . . . I don’t know what to do about Jess.”
“Does he want to go to the funeral?” Gemma asked.
“I don’t know. He won’t talk to me.”
Gemma heard the indignation in Nita’s voice and a little of her sympathy evaporated. She couldn’t help but think of Kit at almost the same age, trying to find a way to deal with his shock and grief over the loss of his mother. “He’s only ten,” she said. “This must be very hard for him.”
“Yes, of course.” Nita nodded. “His father thinks Jess should stay with him for a few days, but I said he’d just have to come home and deal with it all over again.”
She had a point, Gemma supposed, although she was inclined to agree with Jess’s dad.
“Mrs. Cusick,” said Kerry, “we’ve been given to understand that Reagan knew one of your clients, a Mr. Edward Miller.”
Nita frowned. “Edward? Of course she knew Edward. He and Thomas come to the house occasionally.”
“Thomas?” asked Gemma.
“Edward’s brother. They own a boutique gin distillery. Very up and coming.”
Gin, Gemma wondered, or the brothers? “According to Reagan’s friend,” she said, “Reagan and Edward Miller had been seeing each other socially.” Silently, she cursed Kerry for having infected her with police-speak.
“What?” Nita looked as if a bomb had fallen in the room. “If you mean she was going out with Edward, that’s absurd. Edward and Thomas come from a prominent family—”
“So you’re saying Reagan wasn’t good enough for Edward Miller?” said Gemma.
“No, of course not. Reagan was a perfectly nice young woman. But their backgrounds are very different. Reagan attended business college, Edward went to Harrow and Oxford. And if this is true—which I doubt—it was very unprofessional of her.” She couldn’t have made it clearer that the help had no business fraternizing with above-stairs.
“Where could we find Mr. Miller?” asked Kerry, seemingly unconcerned with the social niceties.
“On the premises of the distillery, I should think,” said Nita, grudgingly. “Red Fox Gin, in Shepherd’s Bush. But I’d really prefer you not bother him.”
Back at the marina, Kincaid returned the canoe, telling the chatty marina owner that, yes, he’d had a pleasant and uneventful paddle. Then he squelched back to the car and took his already worn but dry socks from his overnight bag. He sat on the edge of the backseat as he changed his socks and shoes, gazing at the river beyond the marina car park. It did look peaceful, he thought, but his mood didn’t match.
He’d stood for a long time, staring down at Ryan’s cache, deliberating. In the end, he’d put everything back into the tube except for the memory card. He’d had the tube half buried when, on impulse, he’d opened the end once more and, dumping out the desiccant, removed the bandanna. Then he’d finished refilling the hole, and had camouflaged the spot as best he could with leaves and brush.
Now, he looked down at his hands, which were raw and red. What was he going to do with what he’d discovered? What had Ryan been planning, and what was on the memory card that he’d gone to such pains to keep safe?
Did he dare look at the thing even on his home computer? He wasn’t at all sure he had the expertise to protect activity on his computer from scrutiny, if someone should decide to look at it.
But the worst thing was that he needed a sounding board, someone he could trust, to talk to. He was beginning to see that he’d kept things to himself for far too long. And that he had better start working on his apologies.
Taking out his mobile, he dialed Doug Cullen’s number.
Chapter Sixteen
July 1994