Perhaps because he was irritated with himself, or because the beer had made him a bit reckless, instead of walking back the way he’d come, he kept going north. When he reached the Regent’s Canal, he took the steps down to the towpath and turned back towards King’s Cross, just opposite the way he’d meant to walk earlier in the evening.
Most of the canal was now in deep shadow. Lights blinked on in the occasional flat or building, and he passed a few joggers. Coming to the section where Stanton’s body had been brought out of the water, he found a fragment of police tape fluttering from the iron fence atop the stone wall on the north side of the towpath. The SOCOs wouldn’t have shut the towpath down for long. Just a bit farther along, a few metal-doored lockups fronted the towpath. A bit odd, he thought, wondering if they served as storage for the flats above, but the area would be unlit and not much overlooked at night.
He trusted Sidana to be thorough, but still he wanted to make absolutely certain that no one in the buildings on either side of the canal had seen a suspicious encounter.
When he came to York Way, he took the stairs up, then continued until he reached the rear of the great train shed at St. Pancras. He could see the dark iron silhouettes of the Gasholders buildings, the old gasworks, rising beyond the curving path of the canal.
There was no connection that he knew of between Michael Stanton, dead in the canal a few hundred yards back, and Nick Callery, other than the fact that they had both known Ryan Marsh—and that was basing Ryan’s acquaintance with Callery on the slim evidence of a few of Ryan’s photos.
But, Kincaid thought, what if Callery had shown up so quickly at the scene in St. Pancras, not because he was shadowing Ryan, but because he lived nearby, in the Gasholders flats.
They’d known no reason why Stanton, who’d lived in Hackney, should have been killed in King’s Cross. But what if it was Callery that connected Stanton to King’s Cross?
That was not only tenuous, but likely downright bonkers, he thought.
Shaking his head, he entered the terminal, glad of the warmth, and headed towards the front of the shed and the entrance to the tube station. As he passed the site of the grenade’s detonation, he couldn’t help thinking about Matthew Quinn’s protest group again. Well-meaning, most of them, but their silly stunt with what they’d thought was a smoke bomb had turned deadly. He remembered that Matthew’s father, the property developer, had admitted he told some acquaintances about Matthew’s little campaign to save historic London from the bulldozers. Lindsay Quinn hadn’t taken his son seriously, but someone—Kincaid now felt certain—had.
He’d spoken to Lindsay Quinn once before, but he hadn’t pressed the point. He needed to talk to Quinn again.
November 1994
He’d ended up in hospital. Severe gastroenteritis, they’d called it. They’d kept him for a few days, making certain he was rehydrated, then had sent him home with instructions for at least a week of bed rest. The doctor, looking at his chart, had frowned, but when Denis had asked what was wrong, the doctor had merely shaken his head and told him not to worry.
At home, he’d fidgeted, but he was too weak to do anything other than complain. Diane was more patient with him than he deserved—his illness had frightened her badly.
By the end of the week, he’d graduated from the bed to the sofa in the sitting room, and clothes instead of pajamas and dressing gown. He was glad of it when the bell rang and Diane ushered in Angus Craig.
“Sir,” Denis managed to croak, sitting up.
“I see you’re getting on,” Craig said heartily. “Good, good. I checked with the hospital. They said you were in a bad way.”
Diane was hovering, giving him anxious glances. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr.—” Craig had apparently not introduced himself.
“No. This won’t take long,” Craig told her. “If you could give us a few minutes, darling.” He smiled at her in a way that made Denis’s blood rise.
Pinching her lips together, Diane said merely, “Right. I’ve some shopping to do.”
She left the room and a moment later, Denis heard the front door slam.
Craig sat, uninvited, in the best armchair and pulled a letter from his breast pocket. “I thought you’d prefer this in person.” He handed the envelope to Denis.
Denis tried to stop his hand shaking as he took it. Slitting the envelope with his thumb, he unfolded the paper inside. It was an official letter of transfer, informing him that he would report in two weeks’ time to a major crimes team in Charing Cross. They were putting him back in CID.
“You’ll keep your rank, of course,” said Craig. “I should think you’d be glad to get back to some real policing.”
“But”—Denis stared at him—“what about my campaigners? What about my exit strategy? I can’t just disap—”
“All taken care of.” Craig waved a dismissive hand. “Your ‘cousin’ has been to visit your landlady. Your old dad was taken very ill and you’ve gone to Norwich to look after him. Indefinitely. I’m sure the word will get passed along. Some postcards will be sent, eventually, with the news that your father has died and you’ve decided to travel.”
“But what about Sheila?” Denis pushed himself to the edge of the sofa. His head spun from the effort. “What about Mickey? He killed her. I’m sure of it. You can’t just—”
“Sheila died from a combination of drugs and alcohol. I’ve had the postmortem report. Unfortunate, but there you are. Mickey Stanton had nothing to do with it. He was at the pub with the rest of the lads.”
“But he—”
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Craig broke in, standing and walking round the sitting room, examining the plasterwork. “Georgian, isn’t it, the house? And your wife—such a pretty woman. I’m quite sure she appreciates your prospects and your dedication to your career. It would be a shame to disappoint her, now, wouldn’t it?” Craig paused, his hands behind his back in parade-ground manner, and stared him straight in the eye. “Do we understand each other, Detective Inspector?”
Denis, the letter still clutched in his hand, could only nod.
December 1994
It was the week before Christmas before he managed to find Lynn. He’d known her cover job because she’d confided in him early on, a breach of rules. But between his new assignment and his still-precarious health, only a few times had he managed to watch the building when she was likely to be arriving or leaving. He’d begun to think she hadn’t told him the truth about the job—or that she, like him, had been pulled—when he saw her come through the doors of the office building amid the five o’clock exodus. The weather was cold and damp and she was tugging a bobble hat over her blond hair.
He fell in behind her for two blocks, checking frequently to see if she was being followed. When she stopped at the next intersection, waiting for the light to change, he moved up beside her. “Lynn,” he said softly.
She turned, frowning, and he could see that for a moment she didn’t recognize him. His hair was short, his face clean shaven, and he was so thin that his suit and overcoat hung like shrouds.