“I don’t think they can possibly have anything to do with Reagan’s murder,” said Gemma, tasting her gin. “I can’t come up with any believable scenario where Reagan would have gone into the garden alone with either of them.”
Frowning, Gemma thought a little more about dark and brooding Ben Su. The man exuded power as well as anger. And he was very good looking. “Well, maybe I’ll take that back . . .” She sipped some more, liking the herbal tang of the gin, then said, “What if Lisa was away at her sister’s? What if Reagan was feeling guilty about Henry’s death? What if she took Ben Su up on an invitation to meet in the garden, thinking she’d have a chance to apologize?”
“I can see that,” agreed Kerry.
“And when he wanted more of an apology than she was prepared to give, he smothered her,” said Gemma. “I suppose it’s possible, but would Reagan, who by all accounts wasn’t much of a drinker, really have drunk that much alcohol with him?” she asked.
Kerry, who’d been studying the dinner menu, set it down with an air of decision. “Try the chicken pie. It’s their specialty.”
“Oh, but I didn’t intend to—” Gemma stopped. The children were looked after, and Kincaid was off doing heaven knew what. She felt suddenly rebellious. “I’ll have the chicken pie,” she said as the waitress came back to the table with her pad at the ready. “And another G and T.”
Kerry raised an eyebrow.
“I’m fine,” said Gemma, although she realized her tongue felt a bit numb. “And I’m not driving.”
“Strong stuff, gin.” Boatman nodded at Gemma’s glass. “Can’t abide the taste of it, myself. According to your mate, Mr. Miller, what goes into that still is even stronger. What if he mixed a little of the high-proof stuff into what Reagan thought was a normal drink? Or a couple of drinks? She wouldn’t know what hit her.”
Gemma had texted Kate Ling, asking her to give them a more definite time of death, but she hadn’t heard back. “I suppose it’s possible. But I think you’re going to find that Edward Miller was well occupied until after Reagan was killed.”
“There is the damned text.” Kerry frowned into her beer. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like that the Three Musketeers lied about her arguing with Sidney at the bar.”
“Maybe Hugo and Thea didn’t know,” suggested Gemma. “But whatever happened between Reagan and Sidney, I do not believe she met him in the garden. Until we get all their alibis confirmed, we’re treading water. And we don’t have enough hish—” Her tongue was definitely not cooperating, but her mind felt clear as a bell. “History. On Reagan. Nita Cusick didn’t approve of Reagan’s friends, and seems to have had absolutely no interest in her personal life. But there’s someone we haven’t talked to.”
“Who?” asked Kerry, sounding a little owlish.
“The ex-husband. Jess’s dad.”
Kincaid led the way. Doug had insisted on walking with him as far as Holborn Police Station. “You don’t want to be seen with me,” Kincaid told him. “Especially with that memory card on you.”
“I’ll get the tube from Holborn. You don’t think someone’s going to jump me for my laptop?” Doug sounded amused. Then, when Kincaid nodded at the street sign and Doug realized where they were, he said, “Shit.”
They were walking along Clerkenwell Road, the way Denis must have walked on Saturday night, going to and from the pub in Roger Street. It was after six o’clock now and Clerkenwell was crowded with pedestrians, commuters heading home or to the pubs.
“This was Denis’s route,” said Doug. “But it was dark when he was attacked. And it wasn’t in an open street,” he added, but after that he looked around warily. “Do you suppose Denis was carrying something?”
“Nothing seemed to have been taken.”
“But what if it was something no one knew he had?”
Kincaid considered, shook his head. “I think whoever attacked Denis heard someone coming, probably the girls who called 999. Otherwise they’d have cleared out his pockets. And I think they’d have made sure he was dead.”
He was distracted, still thinking about the photos Ryan Marsh had hidden. Looking at the last one again, he’d recognized Edie Craig, wearing the same green scarf she’d worn the day he’d talked with her, outside the village church. And he’d caught, in the background, a glimpse of Edie’s little whippet, Barney, running off the lead. He would have sworn that the photos were taken just before the fire. Did that mean that Ryan had been there? Had he known the Craigs?
Could Ryan have worked for Angus Craig, either on or off the books?
There was another possibility that explained those photos, nagging at the edge of his brain, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not now.
“Duncan, are you okay?” Doug put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes. If I’m not going into the station with you, I’d better go on ahead.”
Kincaid realized that Clerkenwell had changed to Theobald’s Road, and the hulk of Holborn Police Station at the corner of Lamb’s Conduit Street was in sight. “Sorry,” he said. “Look, you’re going to talk to Melody, aren’t you?”
Doug looked uncertain. “Well . . . should I not?”
“You already have.” Kincaid attempted a grin. “So you may as well tell her the rest. I want to know what her father was hinting at. Ivan Talbot has ears in all sorts of places and sources we can’t touch. And I want to know anything that either of you can dig up on Kate Ling.”
“Right. I’ll ring you.”
As Doug started to turn away, Kincaid said, “Dougie.” This time he had no trouble summoning a smile at the expression on Doug’s face. Doug despised the nickname. “Thanks for coming.”
For once, Doug seemed at a loss for something to say. He gave a half-sketched salute and turned away, his satchel slung over his shoulder. Kincaid watched him until he disappeared in the crowd, and hoped he hadn’t just sent his friend into terrible danger.
The CID room at Holborn looked just as it had when Kincaid had walked out yesterday morning, on his way to Cheshire. A glance down at his jeans, now dried a little stiffly, assured him that time had indeed passed. He ran a hand across his chin. The stubble felt well past five o’clock, but there was nothing for it. His face felt warm, too, and he wondered if he was as sunburned as Doug. Then, Jasmine Sidana looked up from her desk and spotted him. He could have sworn he saw relief flash across her face.
Simon Gikas sat studying his computer monitors, as usual, and DC Sweeney had, apparently, gone home. Just as well, Kincaid thought. When Sidana said “Boss,” Simon looked up, too.
Rising, Simon said, “Guv. Are you sure you should be here? How’s your old dad?”
Kincaid realized to his dismay that he had not even checked in with his mum since he’d left Nantwich. “Fine. He’s doing well. They’ve sent him home.”
“Did you get in a little fishing on your way back, then?” asked Simon, eyeing his bedraggled clothes.
Closer than he might have guessed, Kincaid thought, but said, “So what’s going on?”