“But there’s no connection between Ryan and Denis,” Melody argued. “Other than the fact that we know—or think we know—that they both worked undercover.”
Doug, straddling his ottoman, waved his beer at her for emphasis. “They both thought they were being watched. And Ryan might have had some sort of connection with Angus Craig.”
“I don’t believe it,” Melody said hotly.
“He had photos of the Craigs’ house. Maybe he was working for someone who was watching Craig.”
“But who—”
“There’s something else. Duncan rang me while you were on your way here. Camden pulled a body from the canal at King’s Cross today. According to his fingerprints, a cop. But his ID was false and he’d no record of any posting in the Met for at least ten years. His address was false, too, no such number in that estate. But the estate was in Hackney, not far from Ryan Marsh’s cover flat.”
Melody’s curiosity started to take over. “You said ‘no posting in at least ten years.’ How old was this guy?”
“Fifty-two, according to the fake driving license. Duncan said his record showed ‘disciplinary issues,’ but when I looked at his files, there was more than that.” Doug got up and went into the kitchen, pulling another beer from the fridge. This time, when he held it out towards Melody, she nodded. He grabbed another for himself and brought one to her.
She didn’t drink, but held the cold bottle to her face while Doug returned to his perch on the ottoman. It was growing dark. Through the open slats of the shades, she could see the lights coming on in the street. With a sudden shiver, she got up and closed the shades with a snap. “What else?” she asked, turning back to Doug.
“This guy, Michael Stanton, disappeared more than once. He was a DC, with twelve years in the force and no further promotion. Then, in the summer of ’93, he just vanished. He doesn’t show up again until three years later. After that, he moved from department to department, with repeated cautions for excessive force, and complaints of sexual harassment from female colleagues. Until he disappeared again, this time for good.”
“Summer of ’93?” Melody frowned. “Wasn’t it ’94 when Denis dropped off the map for a couple of years? Could there be a connection?”
“Between Denis and this scumbag? I don’t see what.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence.” Melody started to pace. “I don’t believe in coincidence. What the hell was Denis Childs doing in 1994?”
“You know someone who might know,” Doug said a little hesitantly.
“What?” Melody frowned at him, beer bottle half lifted to her mouth. “What are you talking about?”
“You mean ‘whom,’ not what. Your father.”
The house was dark and quiet when Kincaid came in the front door. It was well after nine now—of course the younger children were in bed—but something about the stillness didn’t feel right. He told himself not to be silly, but he was relieved when he heard a woof and Geordie came running to greet him.
“Where’s Mum, boy?” he asked, stooping to ruffle the dog’s silky ears. Geordie, who certainly understood every word, led him straight to the kitchen. Gemma sat at the kitchen table, illuminated only by the small lamp on the work top, cradling what looked like a mug of tea.
“Gemma,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “What are you doing in here in the dark? Where are the kids?”
“Charlotte is asleep. Toby is supposed to be reading for”—she glanced at the clock—“five more minutes. And Kit is doing his homework.” She was enunciating with the sharp precision of anger. It did not bode well. “And I might ask where you’ve been,” she went on. “Your mum rang ages ago. She thought you might like to know how your father was doing.”
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” Kincaid said, alarmed.
“She says he’s doing fine. A bit fretful is all.”
“Oh. Good.” Relief washed over him. “I’ll just go check on the children, then.”
“Not until you’ve told me what’s going on.” Gemma leaned forward, pointing at the opposite chair. “Sit.” When the light caught her face, he saw that it was implacable.
“I’m not sure where to start.” He went to the high cupboard where he kept his good bottle of Scotch, taking the bottle down, then pouring an inch into a tumbler. He held the bottle out towards Gemma.
She shook her head. “I’ve had enough tonight, thank you.”
“Scotch?” he asked, confused.
“No. Long story. And I’m not telling it now.”
When he’d put away the bottle and taken the chair she’d indicated, Gemma went on, conversationally, “You know, if you were anyone else, I’d think you were having an affair.”
“An affair?” He stared at her, shocked. “But that’s daft.”
“Is it? You’ve been distant. You make excuses not to be home. When you’re gone, you can’t seem to explain what you’ve been doing. And today, after driving all the way to Cheshire to see your father yesterday, you couldn’t even be bothered ringing your mother. Or checking your messages. So you had better tell me.”
He took a swallow of the whisky, and when it had burned its way down all the way to his gut, he took a breath and began. He started, as he had with Doug, with the night Ryan Marsh had died. As he spoke, he watched her eyes grow wider. Her cheekbones looked sharp and her full lips were pressed tightly together. When he got to his conversation with Ronnie Babcock in Nantwich, she interrupted him.
“You told Rashid all this, and not me? And then you told Ronnie, and not me?”
“It wasn’t deliberate, Gem. I didn’t want to worry you and I thought maybe I’d just let things get to me—”
“Since when have you not trusted me to tell you if you were bat-shit crazy?” she interrupted.
“And would you have told me that?” he countered. “If I’d told you I saw Ryan dead that night? And that I didn’t believe he’d killed himself, but I had no proof?”
Gemma sat back. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know. I’d have thought you were understandably upset.”
“You could say that.” He heard the hard sarcasm and took another swallow of the whisky. “But I wasn’t off my nut.” He told her about his second meeting with Rashid, although he hesitated to tell her that the initial pathologist had been Kate Ling. He knew she liked Kate personally, as did he, and that she wouldn’t want to hear it.
“Shit,” Gemma whispered when he’d finished.
“Yeah.” Getting up, he retrieved the whisky bottle and poured a splash into her empty teacup. “There’s more,” he said.
He told her about going to the island, and about finding the memory card. And then what the memory card contained.
Gemma looked puzzled. “Wait. How did you—” Light dawned. “You didn’t have your laptop, and you’d never have used a computer at work. You asked Doug, didn’t you?”
He nodded, reluctantly. “I rang him this afternoon.”
“What about Melody? Does she know about all of this, too?”