Kincaid reached the lift corridor and hesitated. Diane had told him she’d already rung Faith. If Denis trusted the detective chief superintendent that much, was he a fool not to?
He paced, moving back so as not to block the lift, and keeping a watchful eye on the visitors going up or coming down. Then, his decision made, he found a secluded corner and called Tom Faith’s mobile number. He might be a fool, but not fool enough to go through the station’s phone system.
When Faith answered, he identified himself, then said, “Diane told me that Denis is awake. I’m at the London. Look, sir, you may think I’m daft, but I think he needs protection. I’ll explain, but in the meantime, could you—”
“I’m on my way now,” Faith told him. “I’ll have a couple of uniforms meet me there. Then you can tell me what the hell is going on.” The phone went dead in Kincaid’s ear.
Going up in the lift, Kincaid checked for messages from Doug or Melody, but there was nothing. Not that he’d have expected to hear from either of them this soon, but he felt even more alone. Switching his phone to Silent, according to hospital visiting regulations, he slipped it into his pocket.
What, he wondered as the lift doors opened, was he going to say to Denis? Where would he even start?
It was the quiet of the afternoon, the lull in hospital routine, and the corridor was empty. When he reached the room, the door was closed. He debated knocking, then decided that if Denis was napping, he wouldn’t wake him. Easing the door open, he stepped inside as quietly as he could manage.
He saw immediately that the privacy curtain between the door and the bed area had been pulled. When he heard the murmur of voices, his first thought was to back out and wait in the corridor until the nurse or aide had finished. But, then he heard Denis say, “Angus Craig, whatever else he may have done, did not murder his wife. And he did not commit suicide.”
Then, a woman’s voice murmured something Kincaid didn’t recognize, but he caught the words “case files.” His heart leapt into his throat as realization dawned.
Christ. It was Trent. It had to be. She hadn’t sent Nick Callery—she’d come herself. He stood for a moment, paralyzed.
The voices grew louder. He could make out what she was saying now and suddenly he knew what to do. Taking a careful step nearer the curtain, he slipped the mobile from his pocket and found the voice recorder app, hoping to God it would capture the conversation on the other side of the curtain. Then, he stood, hardly daring to breathe, holding the mobile up as he listened in growing horror. Trent’s heels clicked on the tile floor as if she’d stepped nearer the bed.
She said, clearly, “You do love your wife, you know, Denny. That’s always been your weakness.”
Kincaid couldn’t make out Denis’s muffled response. Panicked, he yanked the curtain aside and charged into the room.
“That’s enough,” he barked. “Don’t touch him.”
Evelyn Trent stood a foot from the head of Denis’s bed. She whirled round, her face contorted with surprise. It seemed to take her a moment to recognize Kincaid. Then, she spat, “You. What are you doing here? Get out.”
“Step away from the bed,” Kincaid said levelly.
She must have seen something in his face, because she backed away from Denis in a movement that seemed almost involuntary.
“I heard everything,” Kincaid told her. “You’re not touching him. Or Diane.”
But he saw her control returning, and with it, her contempt. “Really, Superintendent?” she said. “Or is it Inspector, now? I understand you’ve had a demotion recently. Something to do with your unprofessional conduct. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but I’ll have no trouble seeing you get a medical discharge.”
“Like Frank Fletcher?” Kincaid asked. When her mouth tightened, he knew he’d hit the target. “Oh, yes, we know about Fletcher. We know about a lot of things.” Kincaid pulled the mobile from his pocket and held it up. “And I got every word just now. Oh, and what do you know.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s still recording.”
Denis, who looked gray with exhaustion, managed a thumbs-up. “Good lad.”
Trent’s eyes went wide with shock. “You little shit.” She glanced from the phone to his face and back again, calculating. Then she launched herself at Kincaid just as Chief Superintendent Faith came bursting through the door.
Kincaid managed to catch Trent’s wrists as she scrabbled for his phone. Panting, he’d pinned her hands behind her back when Denis said, “You’d better give Mr. Kincaid a hand, Tom. I think the deputy assistant commissioner has done quite enough damage for one day.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“The only thing we haven’t worked out,” Kincaid told Gemma on Saturday morning as they nursed second cups of coffee at the kitchen table, “is why Kate Ling falsified Ryan Marsh’s postmortem.” It had taken him two days to catch Gemma up, and they were still talking over the details of the case.
“It’s the pathologist’s call on that type of injury,” Gemma objected. “You said so yourself.”
“Still, her judgment will come into question. You know that.”
The gentleness of his tone made her bristle. “Let me talk to her. Off the record. I can’t believe she was part of Trent’s network.”
“You don’t want to believe it.” Before she could argue, he added, “Neither do I. I suppose it can’t hurt for you to have a word. She’ll have read about Trent in the papers.”
That morning, the Chronicle had published a front-page spread on Trent’s arrest, promising a full investigation into the DAC’s two decades of allegedly corrupt and illegal activities.
So it was that just after lunch, Kincaid having promised to drop Toby off at ballet and take Charlotte to the park, that Gemma found a parking spot on the Fulham Road, not too far from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. She’d left a message for Kate, asking if she could see her for a few minutes.
She found Kate Ling in her office, in jeans and a T-shirt, packing things into cardboard boxes. Gemma realized she’d never seen Kate out of scrubs. The pathologist’s shoulders looked bird thin under the light fabric of the cotton T-shirt, and her jeans hung loosely on her hips.
“Gemma.” Turning, Kate gave Gemma a smile, then crossed the room and gave her a most unprofessional hug.
“Kate.” Gemma, taking in the open drawers and toppling stacks of books and papers, was shocked at the disarray. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Leaving.” Kate shrugged. “I’m retiring from the service.”