His sandwich came, and by the time Doug walked through the door, he’d finished his meal and his drink and had ordered coffee for them both. He had an instant to examine Doug while Doug searched the room for him. It had been almost two months since he’d seen his friend, and he was shocked at how drawn Doug’s face looked beneath the familiar round glasses. Drawn, and sunburned. What the hell, Kincaid wondered, had Dougie Cullen been doing? He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and with his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and a satchel over his shoulder, he looked more like a schoolboy than ever.
Then Doug saw him and crossed the room without a smile. Kincaid stood and held out his hand. Doug hesitated, then gave it a brief shake. It felt awkward, and Kincaid’s hands were sore from digging.
“Thanks for coming,” Kincaid said, when Doug had taken the offered chair. “I’ve ordered coffee for us both. I thought we’d need clear heads. But have something else as well, if you like.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
“What have you done to yourself?” Kincaid asked, gesturing at Doug’s pink face. “Costa del Sol?”
“Gardening.” Doug’s scowl made it clear that small talk was out.
The barman brought the coffee. Thanking him, Kincaid poured, then watched as Doug added generous doses of sugar and cream. He waited, and when he had Doug’s full attention, he began as he’d known he’d have to begin, with the night of Ryan Marsh’s death and what he’d seen.
“You were there?” said Doug. “You saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because . . .” Kincaid looked round, making certain that the people at nearby tables were deeply engaged in their own conversations. “Because I was bloody terrified. I knew Ryan was afraid for his life. He thought the grenade in St. Pancras had been meant for him. And I knew that night that something about the scene was wrong.”
“But—”
“I thought I had to make sure that no one knew any of us had any connection with Ryan. I thought you would be safer if you thought it was suicide. And, then, after a few weeks, I thought maybe I was crazy. But I couldn’t”—he paused, staring at his hands and scrubbing one thumb hard against the other—“I couldn’t make myself talk about it.” He looked up at Doug, and after a moment got a slow nod of understanding.
“It was bad?”
Kincaid nodded. “Yeah. It was bad.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
“Because I found out I wasn’t crazy.” Kincaid explained what Rashid had learned.
Doug was shaking his head before he’d finished. “Why now? Why ask Rashid now? Why tell me, after months of keeping me in the dark?”
“Because of Denis.”
Doug stared at him. “What does any of that have to do with Denis?”
Kincaid looked round again, then lowered voice. “I met Denis. Saturday night. I think I was the last person to see him before he was attacked. He asked me to meet him at a pub in Holborn. He thought he was being watched, and followed, just like Ryan. He hinted there was something rotten going on in the force, and he warned me off asking any sort of questions, for my safety, and my family’s. And then someone tried to kill him as he walked home.”
“Christ,” whispered Doug. “Does anyone else know you met him?”
“I told a friend in Cheshire. A cop. He’s a good guy, and I needed to talk to someone with no connection to the Met.”
“Cheshire?” Doug looked a bit whiplashed.
“My dad had a little health scare. I had to make a quick visit.”
Frowning, Doug said, “That still doesn’t explain why you’re telling me all this now.”
Kincaid took a breath. “Because I realized it’s not my right to try to protect you without your knowledge. That I might actually be putting you in more danger by keeping you in the dark. And because . . .” Kincaid drank the rest of his cold coffee, fortification for the last hurdle. “And because I need your help.”
“So were they lying about Reagan arguing with Hugo? Or did she have rows with Hugo and with Sidney?” asked Kerry. “And why would she accuse Sidney of cheating?” They were standing a few doors from the piano bar in Kensington High Street. Gemma wished she could have a sit-down and a coffee in the shade at Carluccio’s, but Kerry was obviously not in the mood for chatting over a cup of espresso.
“I’m going to give Thea Osho a ring.” Gemma pulled out her mobile. “I’m sure she knows more about what was going on that night than she’s told us.” But there was no answer at the number Thea had given them. She texted, asking Thea to ring her back as soon as possible, then noticed she’d missed a text from Kincaid while they were in the bar.
“Bugger,” she said aloud when she’d read it.
“Something wrong?” asked Kerry.
Forcing a smile, Gemma said, “Husband’s gone walkabout. Are you ready to call it a day? If not, I’ll need to make arrangements for my kids.”
Kerry gave a sympathetic tsk, but shook her head. “I can’t believe that this girl was completely without faults. No one is, in my experience. We know from the postmortem that she’d had sex recently with someone, but until we get the DNA profile from the semen, we can only assume it was Hugo. I can’t imagine that it was that weedy Sidney, although I suppose stranger things have happened. And if Mr. Poncey Distiller is telling the truth that it wasn’t him, we need to look at our other options. We haven’t ruled out the gardener, who has no alibi. Or Roland Peacock.” She glanced at her watch. “I wonder if we could catch his wife at home now?”
The woman who answered the Peacocks’ door was thin and blond and had the sort of elegance that made Gemma feel horribly wilted after a day spent doing interviews in the heat.
“Mrs. Peacock?” asked Kerry, and introduced them. Looking more irritated than concerned, Pamela Peacock led them into the house they’d seen yesterday.
“Roland said you’d been round about that girl,” she said over her shoulder.
If Edward Miller had irritated Kerry, this woman, with her middle-class drawl, set Gemma’s teeth on edge. “You mean Reagan Keating, ma’am,” Gemma corrected. “She was twenty-four. Hardly a girl.”
“She was a nanny.” Mrs. Peacock gave Gemma an amused glance. “And anyone under thirty is a girl to me— Sergeant, is it?”
“Detective Inspector,” Gemma responded, as pleasantly as she could manage. She put Pamela Peacock in her early forties, and as well-preserved for her age as Nita Cusick. It was amazing what money could do. Her own mother at forty had looked every inch of it.
They’d reached the kitchen. Something delicious smelling was cooking in a Le Creuset casserole on the hob. Gemma found herself hoping that it was Roland Peacock’s doing, and that this woman hadn’t managed to put together a gourmet meal without marring her perfect linen outfit or her flawless makeup. The chair where Roland had sat yesterday was empty and his work had been tidied away.
“Is Mr. Peacock at home?” asked Kerry.
“No. Our son had a rugby practice. Sit, do.” She gestured at the dining area, but didn’t offer them tea or coffee.
“Well, that’s fine,” said Kerry as she and Gemma sat on dining chairs, “as it was you we wished to speak to.”
Pamela Peacock raised a plucked eyebrow. “How can I help you, then?”
“We’re trying to learn a little more about Reagan. That helps us put together a bigger pic—”
“I’ve heard she was murdered. Jean Armitage told Roland. Frankly, I think that’s preposterous. Surely, you’ve made a mistake. The girl probably overdosed on drugs.”