Kincaid knew he was digging himself in deeper, but there was no help for it. “Doug was going to talk to her. We think her father knows something about Denis.” He explained about the hints Ivan had dropped.
Absently, Gemma sipped at the whisky, then made a face and pushed the cup aside. “Not everything that Ivan Talbot knows is necessarily the truth,” she said. “And none of this explains why Ryan had photos of the Craigs. Do you think he was spying on Angus Craig? Who would have authorized something like that? And who could arrange a dodgy postmortem report on Ryan Marsh?” For the first time, she looked a little frightened. “That would take someone with both knowledge and authority—”
“Gem, the pathologist was Kate Ling.”
“What?” She stared at him, her face blank with shock. “That’s bollocks. I don’t believe it.”
“She signed the damned thing.”
“But—Rashid must be wrong, then,” she said, shaking her head.
“Have you ever known Rashid to be less than thorough? Or accurate?”
“No. But . . . Kate must have made an honest mistake, then.” Gemma’s chin went stubbornly up.
“More than one mistake? The report was full of them.”
“It’s subjective, any postmortem. You know that. And she’s been—” Gemma stopped suddenly.
“She’s been what?”
Gemma shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “What are you going to do, then?” she asked.
He realized he hadn’t told her about the dead cop—or former cop—in the canal. But he was exhausted, and grubby, and he honestly didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about any of it. “Keep digging, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his hand across his chin. “There must be connections we’re not seeing.”
“Well, you’ll have all your coconspirators to help you. A good thing, since you obviously haven’t needed me.”
Gemma got up and dumped her undrunk Scotch in the sink. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “You can suit yourself.”
Chapter Twenty
September 1994
He’d demanded a meeting with Red Craig the day after the incident at Notting Hill Carnival. Not the café, he said. He didn’t intend to be discreet. Holland Park, by the Kensington gates, he told Craig. And then he waited, pacing, cradling his bandaged hand, which was throbbing.
Craig was late, and when he did arrive, he looked, as usual, perfectly groomed, supercilious, and slightly amused. Furious, Denis walked into the park, forcing Craig to follow him to a spot away from passing pedestrians, before he spat out, “What the hell happened yesterday? Mickey has gone completely mental. Do you realize that? He assaulted a bystander.”
“According to him,” Craig said, flicking an early falling leaf from his collar, “he and his friends were threatened, by you and by the black man. He felt a need to protect himself. And in doing so, he established credibility.”
Denis stared at him. “Credibility? Are you mad? That man could have been killed. Mickey’s actions could have started a riot.” He rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth. “A riot! And it would have been the Met’s responsibility.”
“You know we have no official connection with any officer in a deep-cover assignment.”
He couldn’t conceal his shock. “You mean you’d disavow him.”
“Or you, if it was necessary.” Craig smiled. “I suggest you make the most of your heroics yesterday with your group. We need some real information, something that will damage the Lawrence campaign. And if you can’t get it, we’ll find someone who will.”
He hadn’t gone to the weekly undercover officers’ gatherings for six weeks after that. He’d checked in with terse messages, and he’d stewed, angry at Craig, at Mickey, at the force, and at his own inadequacy. After a month, his wife told him he was not fit to live with and she was glad he only came home once a week.
The only positive thing he felt he’d accomplished was keeping his group from any more clashes with Whitewatch. But the next time he showed up at the Tabernacle, Annette was waiting for him in the garden. The weather was beginning to turn and the dark was coming on earlier. Lights began to blink on in Powis Square as she took his arm, saying, “Let’s take a little walk.” For the first time, he was tempted to put his arms round her for comfort, and perhaps for more than comfort. But then she gave his arm a squeeze and let it go, swinging her gloved hands briskly against the evening chill, and the moment passed.
She glanced at him, then away, before she spoke again. “Denny, I know you want to look after us. I can see it in everything you do. And you were marvelous that day at Carnival. But there’s not much point in us just meeting for coffee. The whole idea was that we should do something important.”
“You want to be martyrs?” he said, his anger suddenly spilling over to include her, too.
“No,” Annette answered, carefully. “I don’t think any of us do. But we want to be a voice for the sort of injustice that let Stephen’s killers go free. And we can only be that if we speak up.”
Slowly, he turned to face her. He was floundering. If he agreed to help them, he might be putting innocent people in danger. If he refused, he was out of a job, and quite probably a career. And he would be putting Annette, and Marvin, and all the others in the hands of someone who would assuredly betray them.
He knew where his duty lay, and he knew what was right.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Count me in.”
Kincaid spent a restless night in uneasy, exhausted sleep, dreaming of water and blood, and always aware of Gemma, huddled on the far side of the bed. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, she rolled against him, relaxed in deep sleep.
Fully awake, he lay still, not daring to disturb her. But he was comforted by the warmth of her body and the steadiness of her breathing, and, eventually, he drifted to sleep again. This time, he dreamed of Hambleden, a jumble of images like the ones he’d seen on the memory card. He saw the house, whole and unscathed by fire. He saw the church and the lych-gate. He saw Edie Craig, trailing her green scarf in the dusk, but her face was always turned away from him. Somewhere out of his sight, her little dog barked and barked, and then Angus Craig shouted at his wife to shut the damned dog up.
He woke with a gasp. Dogs were barking, but he realized they were his dogs, and it was play barking, not alarm. It was morning. The children were up, and Gemma was gone from the bed. From the bathroom, he heard the shower running. He lay still, trying to hang on to a fragment of the dream that was slipping from his grasp like tattered cloth. The dog barking . . . Edie Craig’s dog barking. Why had Edie Craig’s dog been out, and unharmed, the night the house burned? He sat up, blinking, and threw back the covers.
When he came down to breakfast, Gemma was still giving him the cold shoulder.
“I’m taking the children to school,” she said, although he’d offered.