Garden of Lamentations (Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James #17)

Kincaid had had enough. “Go get your backpacks,” he told the kids, in a tone that brooked no argument.

When the kids had gone, Kincaid stood in the doorway, blocking Gemma’s exit. “Gemma, stop it, okay? You were right. I was wrong. I should never have kept anything from you. I’m sorry.”

She faced him, hands on hips. “What if something had happened to you? And I’d have known nothing. Nothing. About any of this. Now you’ve gone and done just what Denis warned you not to do—stuck your nose into things. And look what happened to him.”

“What would you have me do? Stick my head in the sand and hope it will all go away?”

“No, but— Well, yes, maybe.”

“And let whoever murdered Ryan Marsh get away with it?” Their voices had escalated to what Toby called “shouting whispers.” He made an effort to tone his down. “You’d have me let whoever attacked Denis get away with it? I don’t believe you.”

Gemma stood, arms folded now across her chest, glaring at him. Then, after a moment, she sighed. “No. But don’t you ever keep things from me again.”

“No. I won’t. I promise.”

She let him put his hands on her shoulders and kiss her cheek.

From the doorway, Toby said, “Mummy, can we come in now?”

“In one minute,” she called back.

“I’m not going in to Holborn this morning,” Kincaid said, before she could ask. “Just so you know.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m going to Hambleden. To see a man about a dog.”



Gemma dropped the children at their respective schools, then drove to Kensington Police Station, mulling over things as she sat waiting at successive traffic lights. She was still angry with Kincaid. Not as angry, true, but not happy, either.

But what would she have done if he’d confided in her the night he’d found Ryan dead? Told him he was imagining things? She could work out, from what Rashid had told him yesterday, what had triggered his unease. The half-packed backpack, the body in the middle of the room. Perhaps there had been other tiny subliminal clues. And Duncan had known Ryan. He should have trusted his instincts.

He had trusted his instincts, she reminded herself. He had been afraid, and his instinct had told him to run. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d gone blundering in, asking inconvenient questions? Could he have ended up like Denis? Or like Ryan?

She shivered in spite of the warm morning. What was he getting into now? And what the hell had he meant by “see a man about a dog”?

Her mobile rang just as she was parking, and Kate Ling’s name popped up on the screen. “Shit,” Gemma said aloud. She should have told Kincaid she was working with Kate on this case. Taking a breath, she answered with forced cheeriness. “Hi, Kate. What’s up?”

Kate Ling sounded amused. “You asked me to call, remember? You’re getting forgetful in your old age, Gemma.”

“Oh, right, so I did.” Gemma laughed, and it sounded awkward to her ears. “The time of death on Reagan Keating. We wondered if you could make a determination on whether it was before or after midnight.”

Kate’s sigh came clearly down the phone. “You know I hate doing that, Gemma. But if you want my unofficial opinion, I’d say before. But not long before. Okay?”

“Great. Thanks, Kate.”

“Anything for you, Gemma,” Kate said with an affectionate chuckle. She rang off before Gemma could thank her again.

Gemma sat, staring at the phone, feeling ill. How could Kate have got the postmortem report on Ryan Marsh so wrong? She’d argued with Kincaid last night, but, like him, she had utter confidence in Rashid’s judgment.

A rap on her window made her jump nearly out of her skin. It was Kerry Boatman, peering in at her. Gemma switched off the Escort’s engine and opened the door.

“I’ve been talking to you for five minutes,” said Kerry. “You were completely in outer space. Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Gemma grabbed her bag and locked the door. Looking at Kerry, she groaned. “Don’t tell me we’re walking again.”

“It’s not far. Just past Earl’s Court tube. Nita Cusick’s ex is meeting us at a hotel in Barkston Gardens. But he’s just delayed our appointment by half an hour, so we might as well take our time. Besides, there won’t be any bloody place to park.”

In truth, Gemma was glad enough of the walk and a chance to think. She wished she could confide in Kerry. Even more, she wished for Melody’s comfortable presence.

Instead, she told Kerry about Kate Ling’s phone call.

“Before midnight?” said Kerry, thoughtful. “In which case, Reagan Keating did not send that text to Edward Miller. And”—she stopped before Gemma could protest—“Miller’s brother, Agatha Smith, and two other distillery employees all swear that not only was Edward at the place until at least one o’clock, he was too pissed from partaking of his own product to do much of anything but stagger to his flat down the road.”

Gemma was relieved. She hadn’t thought Edward Miller capable of murdering Reagan, but she’d been wrong before.

“Thea Osho’s boyfriend confirmed her alibi,” Kerry continued. “And Hugo’s and Sidney’s university friends confirmed that they both arrived at one of the friends’ college lodgings about eleven o’clock.”

“Damn,” said Gemma, and Kerry grinned.

“My sentiments exactly. So where does that leave us?” They’d stopped at the Cromwell Road crossing, and the traffic whizzing by made it difficult to hear.

When the light changed and they were once again walking down Earl’s Court Road, Gemma said, “Either of the Peacocks. Either of the Sus. The gardener. Some resident of the garden who hasn’t come across our radar. Or someone completely unknown.”

“Helpful.” Kerry shot her a glance. “But that someone was not unknown to Reagan. Maybe the ex-husband can tell us something useful.”

They passed the tube station and almost immediately turned into Barkston Gardens on the left. It was a pretty square with a gated garden in its center, a peaceful oasis after the roar of Earl’s Court Road. The surrounding buildings were the white-trimmed, redbrick terraces that Gemma associated particularly with Chelsea and South Kensington, and the hotel came up very quickly on their left.

“He’s not staying here, is he?” Gemma asked as they walked through the pleasant reception area.

Kerry shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is he asked us to meet him in the dining room here.”

The dining room, it turned out, was actually three connecting rooms, with a bar at the far end. Light poured in from the large windows facing on the street. Staff was clearing a huge breakfast buffet from the center table in the main area. There were a few diners lingering over their breakfasts, but more tables were occupied by patrons with laptops and files, and a few by groups obviously in business meetings.

A friendly red-haired man came to greet them. “We’ve just finished serving breakfast, I’m afraid,” he said with a smile, and a definite Scottish accent. “But can we do something else for you?”

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