“Why would you think that, Mrs. Peacock?” asked Gemma.
“Well, those things happen.” Pamela Peacock shrugged. “We all know it.”
“Is this based on your personal knowledge of Reagan’s habits?”
“No. I hardly knew her.”
“But your husband was quite friendly with her, I understand. They were chatting quite recently, at the garden party, Sunday before last.”
Pamela had been leaning casually against the kitchen island. At that, she straightened and crossed her arms. “You’ve been talking to Jean Armitage. Roland was nothing but polite. Parties are parties. He’s a man of considerable charm, and I can see how a young woman would be flattered by his attention. And I’d warn you not to pay too much attention to Jean Armitage. She enjoys her little dramas.”
Finding she trusted Jean Armitage’s account considerably more than Pamela Peacock’s, Gemma translated this as, Everyone was smashed on punch and limoncello. Roland was flirting outrageously with Reagan Keating, who didn’t slap him, and Jean Armitage is a meddlesome bitch.
“I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Peacock,” said Kerry with an understanding smile, pouring oil on the waters. “But what can you tell us about last Friday evening? I understand your son was ill?”
“Stomach flu.” Pamela looked as if even the thought made her want to vomit. “Roland sat up with him. I’d just come back from a grueling business trip. Besides, I don’t do sick. That’s always been Roland’s forte.”
Thinking of nights spent sitting up with one child or another, Gemma almost envied her easy delegation. “Um, can you confirm that?” she asked.
“Of course I can. We had to call the damned GP out.”
Gemma wondered where they had managed to find a GP who made house calls, not to mention in the middle of the night. “How’s your son?” she asked.
“Just allowed back at school today.” Pamela’s voice softened a bit. “Poor Georgie. That’s why Roland wanted to keep an eye on him at rugger practice.”
“Your husband told us that your other son—is he the elder?—is away at school this term.”
“No, George is the elder. It’s Arthur, our younger son, who’s away at school.” Pamela shook her head. “It seems a bit pointless now. We think we’ll bring him home next term.
“To be honest, it has been a bit hard for him. I suppose that if your child has been bullied, boarding school is perhaps not the best option.” Pamela’s smile was weary. “But we couldn’t see what else to do.” When they didn’t immediately respond, she added, impatiently, “Surely Jean Armitage has told you about Henry. Henry Su.”
“I believe your husband mentioned him,” said Gemma. “This was the boy who died?”
Pamela made a face. “It was horrible. But he’d made life such a misery for Arthur that we’d already decided to send him away next term.”
“I understand he was difficult. Didn’t he tease Jess Cusick, too?”
“You’d think that with his dancing, Jess would have been an easier target than Arthur. Arthur is only a swot, and a bit delicate at games. Jess, however, seems to be made of sterner stuff. Perhaps his dancing has made him tough.” There was no malice in her voice, only an unexpectedly revealed fondness for her son.
“I’ve met Jess,” said Gemma. “He seems very focused.”
Pamela’s laugh held no humor. “You could say that. Focused enough to let the nasty business of Henry Su’s death roll off his back. They blamed him, you know, the Sus. And they blamed the nanny. Reagan.”
“Reagan?” said Gemma, startled. “Why?”
“They said if she’d been watching Jess properly that day, she’d have realized Henry was missing and sounded an alert.”
“But Henry wasn’t her responsibility.”
Pamela Peacock sighed. “I’m not sure that makes much difference to parents who have lost a child and are looking for anyone to blame but themselves.”
“You bugger,” said Doug with feeling, when Kincaid had explained what he’d done that afternoon. “So that’s why you were in Wallingford. I’d have gone with you.” He looked as disappointed as a child denied Christmas.
“I know. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“So what did you find?”
Quietly, Kincaid told him.
“He was going to bolt,” said Doug, after considering for a moment. “He never meant to kill himself.”
“No.”
“Maybe he’d made connections among campaigners he’d infiltrated. Maybe he thought he could take the family and disappear abroad, where no one had any idea who he really was.” Doug frowned, swirling the sugary syrup in the bottom of his coffee cup. “Most of the undercover cops have elaborate exit stories planned years in advance. They’re intended to be put to use when they go back to the regular job, but maybe Ryan really meant to enact his.” Doug seemed somehow to find the idea comforting. “You remember,” he went on, “how we found Ryan in the Met’s records, first as uniform and then as CID, and then he disappeared off any active roster?”
Kincaid nodded, not sure where this was going.
Doug glanced at him, then back at his coffee, as if uncertain how to go on. “You know it was Melody’s father who first heard that Denis had been attacked. He . . . suggested . . . to Melody that perhaps something from Denis’s past had come back to haunt him.”
“Denis’s past?” Kincaid said in surprise.
“Well, that’s what I thought, too. But, then, I thought, why not have a look, so I did. The pattern is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.”
“What pattern?”
“One like Ryan’s. Exemplary record. Uniform to CID in record time. A year as a detective sergeant in Hackney. Then, poof. Nothing for three years. Zip. Nada. Then, suddenly Denis Childs reappears, as a DI, posted to Charing Cross nick.”
Kincaid sat back, staring at him. Finally, he said, “Shit. Denis was undercover. I’d never have thought . . .”
“No. But it might explain some things. Those connections Ivan Talbot hinted at—could they have been people in whatever groups he infiltrated? Or old mates from Special Branch?”
Kincaid recalled his earlier thought. “Is it possible,” he said to Doug, “that Denis knew Ryan Marsh? Or knew about Ryan Marsh? When he transferred me to Holborn, Ryan had already been in place with Matthew Quinn’s little group for months.”
“I’m beginning to think that anything is possible. And Denis was very good at gathering information.” Doug pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and reached for his satchel. “Did you bring that memory card? Let’s have a look. Maybe Ryan will tell us.”
With another glance round the room—he was beginning to feel like a bloody spy—Kincaid slipped the little rectangle from his wallet and handed it to Doug.