They watched her go. Doug said, with a mixture of irritation and pride, “Bloody stubborn woman.”
But Kincaid had gone back to worrying over Evelyn Trent. “Why Craig?” he asked. “The others make sense, I suppose, in a demented sort of way. But if she had Angus and Edie Craig killed, why take such an enormous risk?”
“They go way back, obviously.” Doug tapped the Polaroid, which still lay on the table. “Who knows how many pies she’s had her fingers in over the years? Maybe he had something on her, and he threatened to use it if she allowed charges to be brought against him.”
Kincaid stared at the Polaroid. “You can’t discount Denis. How much did he know? And what did he do when he came back from Singapore that made her set her dogs on him so quickly?” He picked up a crisp, put it down again. Like Melody, he’d lost his appetite.
“It’s too bad we can’t ask him,” Doug said. “Otherwise, I don’t know where we go—”
Kincaid waved a hand to cut him off. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “A blinking idiot. There is one person who would know what Denis did. I just never thought to ask.”
Diane Childs had told Kincaid she was just leaving the London, but would wait for him in the hospital café if he could come soon.
Kincaid felt more uncomfortable now than ever, visiting the hospital, but he didn’t want to put Diane off by asking her to meet somewhere else. He walked from Whitechapel tube towards the hospital complex, his jacket collar turned up against the wind, but the cold chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather. Twice, he looked back, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The second time, he thought he glimpsed a man in a silvery gray suit, slipping through the crowd. But when he looked again, there were only some Asian teenagers in tracksuits, and a group of sari-clad women carrying shopping baskets.
He found Diane Childs waiting as she’d promised, at a table in the corner of the hospital café. Her blouse, today a deep magenta, looked startlingly vivid against the room’s institutional colors. She stood, greeting him with a smile and an unexpected hug.
“Are you all right?” she asked when he’d sat across from her. “You sounded worried on the phone.”
“I’m so sorry to bother you with this,” Kincaid said. “You have enough on your plate as it is.” He was feeling his way into it, not sure how to put things. “But something has come up that I thought you might be able to help me with. It might have to do with the reason Denis was attacked.”
Diane’s fine, dark brows lifted in startled inquiry. “Go on.”
Taking a breath, Kincaid plunged on. “I don’t know how much Denis confided in you, but some years ago, I believe he worked with a man named Angus Craig.”
Diane looked more puzzled. “If you’re asking me if Denis was in Special Branch, yes, he was.”
“An undercover assignment?”
“Yes. Although I’m not sure I’m supposed to say that. And he did work with Craig. I only know because Craig came to the house once back when Denis fell ill.” She grimaced. “Horrible man.”
Kincaid couldn’t argue that point. “Denis was ill?” he asked.
“Yes. We didn’t know at first what it was. It ended his Special Branch assignment. The first time, they said it was a severe virus, but the same symptoms kept recurring. It was years before they diagnosed it as hep C. Still, it got him out of that job.” She shook her head. “But something happened at the end of that posting, just as he was taken ill. I don’t know what it was—he would never tell me. But it . . . I’m not sure I can explain. He was never quite the same after that.” Sighing, she added, “I’m being fanciful, aren’t I? I should be thankful that whatever happened, it kept him at a desk.”
“Did Denis ever mention having worked with DAC Trent in those days?”
“Evelyn?” Diane looked surprised. “No, he didn’t. I always assumed Special Branch was very much a boys’ club.” She frowned. “Honestly, I never got the impression he liked her much. I was surprised when she came to the hospital to see him. Policy, I suppose.” The look she gave him was sharp now, curious and wary. “But what does this have to do with some mugger hitting Denis over the head?”
“I’m not certain,” Kincaid temporized. “But can you tell me one more thing? When Denis came back to work after his liver transplant, did he do anything unusual?”
Diane considered a long moment, pushing her empty coffee cup an inch in either direction. Then she met his eyes. “I suppose it’s all right to tell you. It was Angus Craig and his wife. I met her once or twice at police functions. Lovely woman. I could never see—well, never mind that. They died, in the autumn. Craig shot her, Denis said, then set their house on fire and shot himself. At least that’s what the investigation ruled.”
“But Denis didn’t believe that.”
“No. He was quite ill at the time. He was so upset, I was afraid for him. We’d already made the arrangements to go to Singapore, thank God, and he agreed to go ahead with the surgery. Afterwards, I thought he’d dropped the matter. Then, when we came home, he told me he meant to pull the case files as soon as he was back at the Yard. Stubborn bastard.” She smiled at Kincaid. “But you can ask him yourself.”
Kincaid gaped at her. “What?”
“He’s been conscious for two days. I was just going to ring you when you called. He told me I could tell you and Tommy, but no one else.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
There was no way she was going to talk to her dad at the paper, or in a public place. Knowing that her mother had gone early to the country house for the weekend, she rang Ivan and asked if he would meet her at the town house.
“Lunch?” he’d asked.
“No, no, I’m all right,” Melody assured him. But when she arrived at the town house in Kensington Square, Ivan was already there and in the kitchen. He’d taken off his jacket and tie and thrown his old apron over his bespoke shirt and trousers. The door to the patio stood open, framing the shifting shadows thrown by fast-moving clouds.
Her father wrapped her in a hug, then held her at arm’s length, which as usual made her feel like a six-year-old. Ivan didn’t wear cologne, but he always smelled slightly of shaving soap, a clean scent that made her feel comforted. “No coffee,” he said, frowning as he released her. “You look peaky. And you’re even thinner than you were on Sunday. Here, I’ve made you a sandwich.” As he moved aside, she saw a plate holding a granary-bread sandwich and a sliced green apple. And, beside it, a glass of milk. Definitely, six years old.