“Better than ever,” Atias said. “I deliver lunches now to some of the buildings. And you?”
The smell of frying chicken and chips, and hot coffee, made Kincaid’s mouth water. He realized that he’d completely missed lunch.
“Can I get you something, Mr. Kincaid?” Atias asked.
Kincaid was tempted, but a look at the clock above the counter told him that he’d be late to his meeting with Doug. “Thanks, but I’d better not. Mr. Atias, is Matthew Quinn still in the flat upstairs?”
“Alas, no, they are all gone. And the students below them. I think the developers are now waiting for all the leases to finish. Mine will be up the end of the year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kincaid, genuinely.
Atias shrugged. “I’ll find another place. Near Brighton, my wife says.”
It occurred to Kincaid that, like Matthew Quinn, Medhi Atias would have no reason to know that Ryan was dead. The women in Matthew Quinn’s group had liked Ryan, but, Kincaid knew now, to Ryan they’d been a part of his job. Medhi Atias might have been the closest thing Ryan had to a friend.
“Mr. Atias, I thought you should know. Ryan Marsh is dead.”
“Ah.” To Kincaid’s surprise, Atias merely nodded, his dark eyes unreadable. “I assumed so,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you assumed it?”
“It is more than two months now and he has not collected his pack. He said it was very important and that I should look after it for him.” Atias shrugged. “He would have come if he had been able.”
Kincaid just stared at him. “His pack?”
Wiping his hands on his apron, Atias ducked into the shop’s back room, returning with a small day pack. “I would not have given this to any of them,” he said, nodding towards the now-vacant flat. “Or the police if they’d come asking. But you, I think, are also an honorable man.”
Kincaid took the pack. It was dark blue nylon, nondescript, about the size of a lady’s handbag. Whatever was inside felt hard and lumpy. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“His camera, of course,” said Atias. “Usually, he carried it with him everywhere. But on that day, the day the boy died, he did not.”
October 1994
He tried to touch Sheila, to find a pulse, hoping against hope that he was wrong, but Lynn pushed him aside. “Don’t touch her,” she snapped. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve rung Red from the call box on the corner.”
“But we’ve got to ring for an ambulance—”
“No. He said not to move, not to call. He’s coming.”
Denis sat down hard on the nearest chair. His teeth were chattering and his legs wouldn’t seem to hold him up. “But she was fine. A little drunk. She—”
“You have no idea how much shit Sheila took.” Lynn scrubbed the back of her hand across her face. “This time, she took too much and it killed her.”
“But—” He thought of Sheila’s little skirt, bunched up until Lynn smoothed it. And was that bruising on her throat? His vision was blurring. He tried to get up for a better look, but sank back helplessly into the chair.
“Mickey,” he croaked. “Mickey was touching her. Should never have left her alone with him. He must have—”
“There was nobody here, Denny, I’m telling you.” Lynn peered at him, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed very far away. “What’s the matter with you, Den? Are you ill?”
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Red burst into the room. “Jesus Christ,” he said, staring at Sheila. His sharp gaze swiveled to Denis. “Did he do this?” he barked at Lynn.
“God, no. I think she took an overdose.”
“We should call—” began Denis, but it came out a whisper.
“Shut up,” said Craig. “You, listen. Both of you. We are not calling anyone. There’s nothing we can do for her, and the force can’t afford to have any awkward questions right now. Do you understand?”
After a moment, Lynn said quietly, “Yes, sir.”
When Denis didn’t answer, Craig said to Lynn, “What’s the matter with him? Is he drunk?”
“No, I think he’s ill.”
“Jesus Christ,” Craig said again, this time in disgust rather than shock.
Denis watched him as he stood for a moment, thinking, but he couldn’t summon the strength to protest.
“We’ll get him into a taxi,” said Craig. “No ambulance. Come on. Help me get him down the stairs.”
Denis didn’t protest as they hoisted him from the chair, one on each side, and manhandled him down the stairs, Craig cursing under his breath the whole way. Craig held him up while Lynn walked to the corner and flagged a cab in Earl’s Court Road. When the cab pulled up, Craig opened the door and shoved him unceremoniously into the backseat.
“A bit too much to drink,” Denis heard Craig tell the driver, passing over a wad of notes. “Just dump him out on his doorstep and ring the bell. His wife won’t be best pleased, I can tell you.”
“Not drunk,” Denis tried to say, but no words came out. As the cab began to move, the last thing he heard was Red Craig calling out his own address in Sekforde Street.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was the odd hour of the afternoon—too late for lunch, too early for tea—and the café at the Tabernacle was empty except for the young woman working the service counter.
“Have you seen a boy about this high?” Gemma asked, raising her hand to shoulder level. “Blondish. Dances here on Saturdays.”
The young woman shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been in the back making hummus.”
Thanking her, Gemma wandered slowly through the dining area, then climbed the stairs. When she reached the first-floor landing, she checked the doors to the theater. Locked. She went into the vestibule of the dance studio, where she’d first seen Jess, but it was empty. The doors to the studio and the office were also locked.
She sagged a little with disappointment. She’d been so sure that she was right, that this was the place Jess felt safest, most at home. Now where? Did she go to the ballet school in Finsbury Park? Did Jess intend to show up for his regular class? And then what? Go home, hoping his mother wouldn’t know he’d been absent from school? She didn’t think so.
She was now seriously worried, and that carried over into anxiety about Duncan, too. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d left that morning, saying he was going to Hambleden to see a man about a dog. What the hell was he doing?
Giving her head a sharp shake, she went into the ladies’ loo to splash water on her face and check her messages. She had to find Jess before she tackled anything else.
God, how she hated her freckles, she thought as she gazed at her face in the mirror. The last few days of hot, sunny weather had brought them out in full force. It was quiet in the bathroom, and cool, and the water felt soothing to her hot cheeks. She dried her hands slowly, reluctant to go back out into the world.
Then it occurred to her.
As quietly as she could, she went back out into the vestibule and stood for a moment, listening. There was a tiny squeak, perhaps from a door hinge.