“I’ll go with you to hospital, dear,” said Mrs. Armitage, sitting down beside Asia and patting her free hand.
Gemma took the opportunity to slip out onto the patio. The smell of the wisteria eddied round her as a breeze blew through the garden, and pale purple petals drifted down from the canopy like confetti. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light after the brightness of the kitchen.
She stood in the doorway, studying the scene, wishing they’d not tramped through the space like a herd of cattle. The only way she could visualize Asia having inflicted that injury on herself was if she had fallen backwards, catching her head a glancing blow on something as she fell. But Asia said she’d come to with her face on the bricks. She’d fallen forward.
Popping her head back in the kitchen, she asked, “Asia—Miss Ford—can you tell me exactly where you were when you fell? No, don’t get up,” she added, seeing Asia’s muscles tense. “Just tell us.”
“I was half in the greenhouse and half out. I must have looked a sight.” Asia’s color was returning, Gemma saw with relief.
“But it was your head in the greenhouse, and you’re quite certain you were facedown?”
“Yes, but—I don’t see how—I wish I could remember what happened. I feel so stupid.” Asia touched her cheek, and for the first time, Gemma noticed a small graze. “Did you find my phone?” Asia asked, a little fretfully.
“Not just yet. But I promise we will.”
Turning, Gemma walked carefully a few steps forward into the patio.
It was easy enough to spot, she thought, once you knew what you were looking for. It was a brick, a few feet from the stack Asia had been using to pave the greenhouse floor. Taking the little pocket torch from her bag, she took a step closer and squatted, playing the light over the brick. Bright flecks of blood winked back at her.
She stood and went back to the door. “Kerry,” she said softly, “we’re going to need the uniforms here as well.”
Kincaid climbed back into the car, still thinking about the end of his conversation with Doug. Angus and Edie Craig were dead, as were Ryan Marsh and Michael Stanton. But someone else had seen the Craigs—or at least Angus—that night. Denis Childs.
What time had Denis gone to the house? Had he seen anyone, or anything? What had he said to Angus Craig, and vice versa?
Denis had not contradicted the murder/suicide assumption the next morning, when they’d stood gazing at the ruins, but he had been quietly furious—and something more. Now, Kincaid wondered if he’d been frightened.
He needed more than ever to talk to Denis, damn him. As soon as he was back in London, he’d ring Diane Childs. At least he could check on Denis’s progress without going through channels.
Having made that small decision, he started the car. His mobile immediately pinged with a text message. Swearing, he took his mobile out of his pocket once more.
The text was from Simon Gikas, and read, “Found Stanton flat. Requesting warrant.” He had added an address in Hackney that was, Kincaid thought, in the same estate as the false address on Stanton’s driving license.
“Meet you there in an hour,” he texted back.
He’d actually managed to get the car in reverse when the damned mobile rang. “Bloody hell,” he said aloud. He was tempted not to answer, but then he saw that the caller was Ronnie Babcock.
“Duncan,” Ronnie said when he picked up. “Bad news, I’m afraid. You know that retired copper I told you about? Frank Fletcher? He’s dead. That’s why I hadn’t seen him in the pub.”
“Dead, how? Was it suicide?”
“Um, not exactly. Accident cleaning his gun. Blood alcohol sky high, which doesn’t surprise me, the way he drank in the pub. I had a look at the postmortem report. It seemed pretty straightforward.”
Bugger straightforward, Kincaid thought. “At the moment, I’m not inclined to trust a postmortem report as far as I could throw it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I could talk to the investigating officer,” suggested Ronnie.
“No, don’t,” Kincaid said sharply. He didn’t believe in gun cleaning accidents, and he didn’t want Ronnie going round asking questions of the wrong people. “Keep your nose clean, mate. But is there anything else you can tell me about Fletcher? Did he ever hint about working undercover, for instance?”
Kincaid heard the sound of a door closing, shutting off the muted voices he’d been hearing in the background. “Sorry,” said Ronnie. “Can’t think with all that racket. So you still think there might be some connection with your undercover cop? Small world.”
“Too small for comfort,” Kincaid said. “And I don’t know. I’m pulling at threads. Anything would help.”
“Well, I’ve been trying to remember. It’s too bad, really. I liked Frank. I’d hate to think— Well, neither option is pretty, is it?”
“Ronnie—”
“Hold your horses,” Ronnie said, in his strongest Cheshire drawl. “I’m thinking. I told you Frank did lots of muttering about people not believing the things the Met got up to. I thought it was conspiracy bunk. But maybe that’s what he was getting at.”
“And he never said exactly who he worked for?”
“No. I did ask one time, I remember, and that shut him up completely. He even left an unfinished drink.”
Kincaid was about to thank him when Ronnie added, “Oh, and I could never make any sense of it, but sometimes, when he was completely pissed, he’d mumble something like, ‘Follow the money. You always have to follow the money.’” Kincaid could almost see Ronnie shrug over the phone. “I thought he was going on about The Wizard of Oz. Bonkers, if you ask me.”
October 1994
He knew he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the group meetings in the Earl’s Court flat forever. So when he had a particularly nasty message from Red Craig telling him that he was failing to bond with his fellow officers, he pulled himself together and started for Earl’s Court. At least now he had a purpose.
It was a crisp autumn evening and he got off the bus at Kensington High Street.
But the closer he got to Earl’s Court station, the queasier he felt. Psychosomatic, he told himself. Get a grip, Den. He’d never seen the purpose of these little get-togethers, except to remind them of who they were and where their loyalties lay. And to make certain that they knew there was always somebody watching.
Reaching the flat, he fought a wave of dizziness as he climbed the stairs. It was the smell, he thought, stale smoke and stale alcohol, and urine where someone had pissed in the landing. He hated this shithole.
The queasiness grew worse as he entered the flat. They were all there, the usual suspects, except Lynn, whom he’d come to think of as his only ally among them.