“What? Why?”
Kate pushed back the broomstick-straight hair Gemma had always envied from her forehead and blew out a sigh. “Maybe we’d better sit.” Looking round, she moved a filled box from a chair and gestured Gemma into it, then perched against the only uncluttered corner of her desk. “I think I told you my mother was ill?” She touched a few silver-framed photographs which were, unlike the rest of the room’s contents, stacked tidily, facedown on the desk. “She died on Thursday.”
“Oh,” said Gemma, feeling totally at a loss. “I’m so sorry.”
“She had cancer. It wasn’t unexpected. And she was very peaceful at the end.”
“But—” Gemma gestured at the desk, then tried to start again. “I mean, I understand you must be reeling, but why this?”
“I’m in charge of her affairs, which are quite . . . complicated. And I need a rest.”
It was true, Gemma saw. As soon as Kate relaxed, the exhaustion was clearly visible, her dark eyes smudged with weariness.
“What did you want to see me about?” Kate asked. “Is it the girl in the garden? I’m afraid I still don’t have the DNA results.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Gemma hesitated, then made herself go on, as much as she hated now to do it. “It’s about another postmortem you did. Back in February. A man called Ryan Marsh.”
“Oh, God,” Kate whispered. She seemed to sink into herself, her cheekbones suddenly sharp against her pale skin. She looked so faint that Gemma quickly urged her into her own chair, moving books from another so that she could sit beside her.
She patted Kate’s hand. “I’m sorry to upset you. But can you tell me about that postmortem?”
“The body came to me,” Kate said slowly. “It looked like a routine suicide, except I thought it odd that I hadn’t been called to the scene. And odd that I was getting a death from Hackney, but sometimes that happens when the other pathologists on the rota are overloaded. Then, a man showed up—he said he was a detective but he never showed me his identification. He was very charming at first and I didn’t think anything out of the ordinary. We chatted a bit. Then, he smiled at me and said he was sure I would find the case a suicide.
“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked him, puzzled. Then, he smiled again and said that if I didn’t find it a suicide, my mother would learn what my father had been up to—” Kate took a breath and pressed her fingertips hard into the hollow of her cheeks. “You have to understand,” she went on, after a moment, “that my mother came from China when she was eight years old. Hers was a very strict Chinese family. My father—my father is third generation. The old values don’t matter to him. But to my mother, there is nothing worse than dishonor to the family.”
Gemma nodded. “I understand, I think. And your father had done something that would tarnish the family?”
Kate nodded. “Gambling debts. And he’d made bad investments in property. This man, this detective, said that if I didn’t do as he asked, all of those debts would be called in. My father would be bankrupt. The family honor would be ruined.”
From what Kincaid had told her, Gemma thought, it was classic Evelyn Trent manipulation, using for another purpose information she must have garnered through her property dealings. And Trent had, as usual, used a surrogate. She said, “Kate, this detective. He never told you his name?”
Kate shook her head. “No. You understand that none of this was said so baldly. He was—at least I thought at first—so reasonable about it all. And he was so good looking that I—I thought he—.” She shook her head, coloring at the admission. “But when I realized what he was asking, I was mortified. And furious. I told him I’d make whatever determination I saw fit. He smiled and said he wished me the best.
“I meant to try to find out who he was. But then, when I’d done the postmortem, and I was sure it wasn’t suicide, I was . . . afraid. The more I thought about him, the detective, the more I believed he would do what he said. There was something so cold beneath the charm, and I just hadn’t the courage to risk my mother’s peace of mind.” She brushed at tears. “Who was he really, Gemma? The dead man? I’ve dreamed about him.”
Gemma hesitated, but decided that if anyone had a right to know, it was Kate. “He was a cop who refused to do what the same people asked of him. I can’t tell you if you made the wrong or the right decision, Kate. But I can be pretty certain they’d have carried out their threat if you hadn’t. And your refusal wouldn’t have helped their victim.”
“Thank you,” Kate said quietly. Then she sighed. “But it still doesn’t make what I did right. I destroyed my honor, too. I knew I couldn’t go on with the job after that, but I also knew if I quit, my mum would think I’d given up my job because of her illness. But now . . .”
“Can you describe the man who threatened you?” asked Gemma.
Kate grimaced. “I don’t like to think about it. But, yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if concentrating on the memory. “Forties. Well built.” Again, the flush of embarrassment. “Good looking, but the most striking thing was his hair. He was prematurely gray. And his eyes were gray, too. Gives me the creeps now, thinking about it.”
“Bloody hell,” said Gemma as it sunk in. “That was Nick Callery.” She’d heard him described often enough that she had no doubt. Kincaid had called him “the gray ghost.” Callery was the elusive piece in the puzzle. Other than the fact that he worked directly for Evelyn Trent, they had nothing concrete on him.
“You know him?” asked Kate.
“Not personally, no. But he works for DAC Trent.”
“Bloody hell,” Kate whispered as the implications sunk in.
“Kate, do you think you could identify him from a photo?”
She nodded, slowly. “I’m certain of it. He’s not someone you’d forget.”
Gemma took a breath. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you testify about what he asked you to do? If you’ve read today’s Chronicle, you’ll have an idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
Kate was silent for a long moment. Then, she stood and went back to the box she’d been packing when Gemma came in, and shoved in another stack of books. “I love my job,” she said at last, her voice rough. “And I’m bloody good at it. Whatever else that bastard did, he cost me my integrity. Yes, I bloody well will testify.”
The heavy sitting-room curtains came down in a billow of dust. Melody stood back, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction. The dark brocade hangings had come with the flat and she’d always hated them. She’d kept them for the practical reasons—of which her mother never failed to remind her—of keeping the morning sun from fading the furniture, and of blocking the noise from Portobello Road.