“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Kincaid said as he took the offered chair. He waited while Quinn filled his teacup, having learned in their previous interview that for all the fact that Quinn did business in this casual environment, he liked observing his courtesies. He added a little milk to the steaming, deep orange tea, smelling the distinctive malt in the brew.
Quinn rotated his cup, a little nervous movement that was the first thing to betray any tension in his manner. “I hope this visit isn’t about my son,” he said with a smile that didn’t make it to his eyes.
“Only in a roundabout way,” Kincaid reassured him. “How is Matthew doing?” He didn’t add that he knew Matthew had left the Caledonian Road flat.
“I’ve cut off his allowance. He’s no longer living in the flat, so I can’t consider it a caretaker’s fee. I’ve told him that if he returns to university to finish his degree, I’ll pay his expenses, but so far he hasn’t made that decision.”
“He’s living at home, then?”
Quinn made a face. “I’ve given him another month to choose university or find a job.”
Kincaid thought Quinn was entirely too generous, and that being forced to find a job by lack of funds and shelter might be Matthew Quinn’s saving grace. He also knew, however, that it was much easier to make such judgments about other people’s dealings with their children. And that unless Matthew broke the law, it was none of his business. “I wish him well, whatever he decides.”
“Very generous of you, considering he’s been a royal pain in the arse.” This time Quinn’s smile was genuine.
Kincaid sipped the tea. It was as rich and complex as fine wine on his tongue. There were benefits, he supposed, to having boatloads of money. “I have sons, too,” he volunteered, wanting to make a connection with Quinn. “The oldest is about to turn fifteen. Kids can be difficult.” He hoped to God Kit never did anything as harebrained as Matthew Quinn, but he knew there were no guarantees.
“Obviously,” Quinn said with a touch of irony. “Since you didn’t come about my son, how can I help you, Mr. Kincaid?”
“It does have to do with Matthew’s campaigners, in a way,” Kincaid said. “Do you remember, Mr. Quinn, telling me that you thought you mentioned Matthew’s group and their concerns to a few people? I was wondering if you could tell me exactly who those people were.”
Quinn went through the ritual of pouring more tea, his face unreadable. “Can you tell me why you need to know?” he asked at last.
“No, I’m afraid not. Except that it does not in any way concern your son.”
Quinn added infinitesimal amounts of milk and sugar to his cup, then met Kincaid’s gaze and shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It was an informal get-together to discuss the state of the King’s Cross revitalization initiative. As you probably are aware, many of the projects here took much longer to get off the ground than was initially expected, but things are now moving apace.”
Kincaid nodded, trying to contain his impatience, and Quinn frowned, as if searching his memory. “Do you mind if I make notes?” Kincaid asked, taking a small notebook from his pocket.
“I don’t see why not,” Quinn answered. “There was nothing secret about it.” He went on to give Kincaid a list of perhaps a dozen names. Some, Kincaid recognized as having been involved with high-profile redevelopment projects, others didn’t ring a bell. He wrote them down, figuring he would research them when he got back to Holborn. Slipping the notebook back into his pocket, he was about to thank Quinn when Quinn added, “Oh, and your Deputy Assistant Commissioner Trent. She likes to stay up with things, since we have an international terminus here.”
Kincaid stared at him. “DAC Trent?” Evelyn Trent had been one of the first people to visit Denis in hospital, expressing concern on behalf of the top brass to Diane Childs. Something niggled at him, something familiar about Trent. Neat, blond, well-groomed, always in command—all those things creating an impression that made it difficult to visualize her features . . .
Then, he had it.
Evelyn Trent had been one of the two women in the Polaroid.
“I’ve put my not-diminutive arse on the line for you,” Kerry said as she picked Gemma up in front of her house. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thank you.” Gemma nodded at the house, accustomed now to people wondering how two cops could afford this part of Notting Hill. “Long story,” she said. Glancing down, she saw the papers protruding from the briefcase that Kerry had tucked next to the console. “And thanks for that. I thought you’d tell me I was daft.”
“I think you are daft. But . . .” Kerry shook her head. “I can’t take the risk that you’re not. And I managed to convince a magistrate using your argument, so that’s a point in your favor.”
In another moment, she’d pulled up in Blenheim Crescent. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Kerry gave Gemma a searching look as she turned off the engine.
“No. It’s just . . . if I’m right, the consequences are dreadful.”
“Consequences are not our job, thank God.” Kerry glanced in her rearview mirror as a panda car pulled up behind them, then a crime scene van. “Let’s get the show on the road.”
By the time they reached the door, the uniformed officer had joined them, and the SOCOs were getting their gear from the van. Kerry punched the bell. When the door opened, she said, “Mrs. Cusick, may we come in? We have a warrant to search the premises.”
“What?” Nita Cusick stared at them. “What are you talking about? You said you needed to speak to me, and I’ve already delayed my business appointment . . .” She seemed to take in the uniformed constable, and then the two SOCOs carrying their evidence cases. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was shrill. “If my bloody husband has put you up to this—”
“Mrs. Cusick.” Kerry held up the warrant. “If you can just confirm that you’ve seen this document.”
Nita Cusick peered at the sheet of paper, then looked back at Kerry. “No. You can’t just come in my house. You can’t persecute my child.”
“Is your son here, Mrs. Cusick?” Kerry said with a glance at Gemma, as she knew very well that he wasn’t. “Because, if so, we can have a family liaison officer come sit with him.”
“No. No, he’s—he’s not here.”
“Then, I suggest we go inside.” When Kerry and Gemma and the constable, who was very large and very dark skinned, moved forward, Nita Cusick stepped back. The officers shifted direction to the right, into the sitting room, so that Nita had no choice but to step that way. “Why don’t we have a seat?” Kerry suggested.
The constable, who Gemma had learned was named Jacobs, took his place by the door, relaxed in parade-rest stance. They could see the two SOCOs come through with their kits, one going upstairs, one going down. They had instructions to look for specific items, as well as anything else they thought might be germane to Reagan Keating’s death or the attack on Asia Ford.