“He understood.” When Jess relaxed a little, she said, “Jess, what were you really doing in the garden this morning?”
Jess glanced at her, then away. “I couldn’t find it,” he whispered. “The inhaler. It was in my room, in my drawer. I wondered if . . . if Reagan had taken it . . . Maybe if she knew she was going to meet Mr. Su. And . . . So I had to look.”
“You didn’t find it.”
“No,” he said.
“Jess,” Gemma said slowly, “what do you think happened to Reagan on Friday night?”
He was quiet for a long time, rolling the paper wrapper into an ever-tighter ball. “I think—I think she must have talked to Mr. Su. He—he said he would hurt her.”
“Do you think Reagan would have talked to Mr. Su without your permission?”
Jess didn’t answer.
“Jess, do you know what happened to Reagan’s phone?”
He shook his head. “No. But I—I took her laptop. When my mum said she was dead, that she’d killed herself—I thought maybe it wasn’t true. Or maybe she’d left me a message . . .”
“And did she?”
“No,” he said, his face bleak. “There wasn’t anything for me.”
Gemma tried to marshal her whirling thoughts, tried to stay calm. Nothing mattered more now than this child’s safety. “Jess,” she said. “I think we need to call your dad.”
If carrying the Polaroid had made him anxious, carrying the bag containing Ryan’s camera had Kincaid looking over his shoulder every few minutes.
Kincaid guessed that Ryan had left his camera with Medhi Atias that day, perhaps as a last-minute thought on the way to St. Pancras. Although he hadn’t been in the group with the other demonstrators, Ryan couldn’t have guaranteed he wouldn’t be arrested if things went pear shaped.
So, what was on the camera that had prompted Ryan to take such precautions? Kincaid held the nylon bag more firmly under his jacket. There was nowhere he could look at the memory card until he got to the pub.
Finally, he saw the plant-bedecked building ahead. The vertical garden covering the walls was in full bloom, but he didn’t stop to admire it. He entered the bar and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The pub wasn’t yet crowded and he had no trouble picking out Doug at a table in the back corner—and with him, Melody. They both stood up to greet him, and he kissed Melody lightly on the cheek.
He saw she’d cut her hair, and the boyish style made her look, if anything, more feminine. She seemed fragile to him, taut with tension.
“I know you probably don’t want me here,” she said. “But I’ve been left out of enough things, and Ryan was important to me, too.”
Shaking his head, Kincaid took a seat across from them. “No, I do want you here. I should have asked. But I thought you were taking over for Gemma temporarily.”
“I’m sure I’ll get a right bollocking from the super for skiving off this afternoon, but I don’t care.”
After checking to see if either of them wanted another round—Doug was drinking a half-pint, and Melody what looked like club soda—Kincaid went to the bar and ordered a half-pint of bitter.
When he came back to the table, Doug said, “I told her about . . . Hambleden. About Ryan.”
“I don’t believe it.” Melody clutched her glass, her knuckles white. “I don’t believe he could have done those things—he wouldn’t—”
Kincaid leaned forward, keeping his voice down even with the buzz of the pub to cover it. “We don’t know that he did. All we know is that he had a connection with the village, and with the Craigs, because of his photos. And that he was in the village with Michael Stanton on the evening of the night of the fire. And, if Mr. Wilson is correct, he was arguing with Stanton. What I’d like to know is whether Ryan or Stanton was still working for the force.”
“But we’ve assumed they were both—at least at one time—working undercover for Special Branch,” Doug said. “Or in Ryan’s case, one of the newer groups keeping an eye on domestic extremists, under SO15.”
“You know that the ‘domestic extremism’ designation has always been bollocks,” Melody said hotly. “Basically, it means any protest group that might potentially do something to disrupt public order. And the definition of ‘public order’ is anything that might be inconvenient to the police or to the government. Anyone who’s ever shown up for a protest can be labeled a ‘domestic extremist.’”
“You’ve been reading your father’s newspaper again.” Doug grinned at her. She shot him a dagger look, but relaxed a little. “Not that I don’t agree that going round spying on protesters is out of line,” Doug went on after sipping his beer. “But we’re talking about spying on Angus Craig here. He had nothing to do with protest groups.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Kincaid slipped the Polaroid from his pocket and passed it across, careful to touch only the edges.
Doug stared at it, then took his glasses off and peered more closely. Frowning, Melody slid it away from him. “What is this?” she asked.
“I found it in Michael Stanton’s flat this afternoon.”
“Stanton?” said Doug. “What are you talking about? I thought you said his address was false.”
“It was. But Jasmine Sidana found the flat and got a warrant. It was Undercover Anonymous, I can tell you. But he had a cache, just like Ryan. Same sort of stuff—cash, passports, gun—with the addition of tactical clothes. The only really personal thing was an envelope with what looked like old family photos. This was stuck to the back of one of them.”
Melody looked horrified. “But that’s evi—”
“I didn’t enter it into evidence. I didn’t show Sidana or Sweeney, either. Look again.”
Doug moved the photo back. “That’s Stanton,” he said. “I get that. I recognize him from the ID photo, even with the skinhead look. Suits him, by the way. But— Bloody hell.” His eyes widened. “That’s bloody Denis. What’s he doing with the hair and beard getup? And they’re a good twenty years younger, both of them.”