The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  If she’d had her wits about her, she’d have walked both children to their destinations, but now, pressed for time, she bundled them into her little Ford Escort. The car had been sitting in the sun and the seat was hot enough to sear the backs of her thighs.

  Their friend MacKenzie Williams lived just up the road, in a house with a deep blue door, tucked away behind a high garden wall. Roses bloomed all round it, and it looked more like a fairy-tale cottage than the typical Victorian Notting Hill villa. As Gemma pulled up, MacKenzie and Oliver came to the gate to meet them.

  “Stay in the car,” Gemma warned Toby as she unbuckled Charlotte from her child seat.

  “But I want to see Bouncer,” protested Toby. Bouncer was the gray tabby kitten they had given to the Williamses, one of the four Kit and Toby had rescued from the shed in their communal garden back in March.

  “Toby, do you want to dance or not?” Gemma asked as Charlotte climbed from her seat and jumped to the pavement with a resounding smack.

  “Ye-es,” Toby said after a moment’s silence, subsiding into his seat.

  Charlotte tugged on Gemma’s hand. “Mummy, can I go?”

  “Of course, lovey. You mind MacKenzie, now.” Gemma gave her daughter a kiss, then a farewell pat on the bottom as Charlotte ran to join Oliver at the gate.

  MacKenzie ruffled Charlotte’s cloud of caramel-colored hair. Then, nodding towards the car, she said softly, “Is that a changeling you have there? Where is the Boy of a Thousand Arguments?”

  Gemma grinned and rolled her eyes. “There are miracles, apparently. Thanks to you.”

  It was MacKenzie who was responsible for Toby’s newfound interest in ballet. Her son, Oliver, was Charlotte’s best friend at school. MacKenzie had taken Charlotte and Toby to visit Oliver’s tots’ ballet class. Charlotte had been unimpressed, although she’d fancied a tutu. Toby, however, had been absolutely smitten. A trip to the Royal Ballet with MacKenzie had cemented his determination to do what he’d seen on the stage. But when Gemma had begun to explore lessons, she’d been horrified both by the lack of nearby classes for boys and by the cost of the general classes that were available.

  “Take him to the Tabernacle,” MacKenzie had suggested when Gemma discussed it with her.

  “The Tabernacle has ballet?” Gemma asked, surprised. The round redbrick building on Powis Square had a long history in Notting Hill, first as a church, then as a counterculture mecca, and now as a community center and the headquarters of the Notting Hill Carnival. It had a garden, a full service café, an art gallery—and, apparently, dance classes.

  “There’s a ballet school during the week,” MacKenzie had told her. “And Portobello Dance on Saturdays. Portobello Dance is first-rate training, there are lots of boys in the classes, and it’s very reasonable.”

  MacKenzie had, as usual, been right. There were two other boys in his class, and the instructor was male, a celebrated professional dancer and choreographer.

  Now, as Gemma hunted for a place to park on Powis Square, Toby began to fidget. “I don’t want to be late. Mr. Charles will say something.”

  Toby, who had never minded being scolded, took any correction from the gentle-voiced teacher seriously.

  “All right,” said Gemma, pulling up in front of the center’s wrought-iron gates. “You go on in. Don’t forget your bag.” She watched until Toby had disappeared into the building, then went to find a spot for the car.

  Once parked, she walked back to Powis Square and into the Tabernacle’s bustling front garden. Outdoor tables were filled with people eating or just enjoying the sun. Children played, safe within the gated space, and several dogs tethered to tables watched the activity with interest.

  The round center part of the building reminded her of the oast houses she’d seen in Kent, but with a taller square tower tacked on either side. The building should have been awkward, but it somehow managed charm instead. The orangey-red brick glowed in the bright sun, the color a pleasing contrast to the leafy green of the garden’s trees.

  Gemma was tempted to find a spot to sit in the sun. Thirst won, however, and she went in, eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. After a moment’s deliberation, she bought a fresh-squeezed lemonade from the café counter at the back. Sipping her drink with a sigh of pleasure, she climbed slowly up the right-hand staircase, taking in the photos of Notting Hill celebrities that adorned the walls.

  The ballet studio was at the back on the first floor, behind the theater. Parents were not allowed inside during classes, but she thought she might peek through the glass insets in the doors that separated the studio from the upper vestibule. She hadn’t become accustomed to seeing Toby in his white T-shirt and black leggings, his small face set in concentration, and it made her heart contract a bit with wonder. How could her unruly child seem suddenly so serious and focused? Not that she was complaining, she thought, smiling as she pushed through the doors into the vestibule.

  When she’d come to previous classes she’d seen a few other parents waiting, but today the space was empty except for a boy. He was, she guessed, nine or ten. He wore the requisite white T-shirt and black leggings, but his calves were covered with ratty, unraveling leg warmers, and his white ballet shoes were dirty and scuffed. His ash brown hair brushed his collar and there was a dusting of freckles across his slightly snub nose.

  In the silence that followed the click of the closing door, Gemma heard him counting under his breath. He was practicing positions, steadying himself with outstretched fingertips touching the top of a wooden chair—an impromptu barre. She recognized some of the basic positions Toby was learning, but this boy did them with a grace and precision that spoke of years of practice.

  Stepping away from the chair, he muttered, “One, two, three, turn,” then pushed up with one foot and began a series of pirouettes that made Gemma’s eyes widen in admiration. He stopped, facing Gemma, but began to spin again without acknowledging her.

  He reached ten before he lost his balance, put his extended foot down, and said distinctly, “Shit.” Now he did look at her, warily.

  “Oh, too bad,” said Gemma, ignoring the swearing. “I must have distracted you. Have another go.”

  After a moment, he nodded, then lifted into another series of pirouettes. This time he reached twelve. His breathing, Gemma noticed, was even and relaxed.

  “Don’t you get dizzy?” she asked, as he moved effortlessly into a stretch.

  He shook his head, then pushed his light brown hair off his forehead. “Not since I was little. You find something to look at. I use the sticker on the door.”

  Gemma glanced at the blue oval fire door sticker behind her, then looked back at the boy. “You’ve been dancing a long time, then.”

  “Since I was three.”

  Toby was getting a late start, she thought. The muffled thump of piano music came from the studio, and through the glass door panel she caught a glimpse of Toby’s blond head bobbing. “My son’s just starting. He’s seven.”

  “He might still be okay,” said the boy, with the careless condescension of the professional for the amateur.

  “Are you waiting for a class?” Gemma asked.

  He nodded. “Not the next one, but the one after—the advanced class. But I do lessons during the week in Finsbury Park.”

  “You dance six days a week?” Gemma had slightly horrified visions of what it would mean for their family if Toby ever became that serious. “I should think you’d want your Saturdays to do things with your mates.”

  Shrugging, he said, “Mr. Charles is brilliant at choreography. And I can come by myself.”

  “You don’t go to Finsbury Park on your own?”

  His friendly expression disappeared in a scowl. “My mum doesn’t think I’m old enough.”

  “Well, mums can be like that,” Gemma suggested gingerly. “How old are you? Eleven?” she added, guessing at the upper end of the scale.

  “Almost.” His wide mouth relaxed again. “My mum wants m
e to try out for the Royal Ballet School when I’m eleven. That’s why I have to practice.” As if reminded, he stepped back to the chair. Touching it with one hand again for balance, he raised the opposite leg to his ear in a position Gemma would have thought anatomically impossible.

  Mr. Charles’s voice came clearly from the studio. “Good, good. Now, again.” The piano thumped a little more vigorously.

  “I should let you get on with it, then,” Gemma said. She suspected she’d exhausted the boy’s conversational patience, and it was too small a space for two people to ignore each other. “I’ll just go downstairs. Good luck with your audition. I’ll bet you’ll be terrific.”

  A quick smile lit his freckled face. “Thanks.”

  She gave him a small wave as she turned to the door and let herself out. Perhaps she’d sit in the garden, after all, and finish her lemonade while she waited for Toby’s class to finish.

  Gemma opened the doors leading to the garden and cannoned into someone coming the other way. In the instant of shocked apologies, she realized she’d just bumped into MacKenzie Williams. “MacKenzie, are you okay?” she asked, patting her friend’s arm.

  Then she felt a stab of alarm. “MacKenzie, what are you doing here?” she said sharply. “Where’s Charlotte? Is she all right?”

  “Gemma. I forgot you were here.” MacKenzie frowned at her. “No, no, the kids are fine. I’ve left them with Bill. But—” She shook her head, words deserting her.

  “What is it?” Gemma put an arm round MacKenzie’s shoulders and gently steered her out of the traffic path. Her friend was trembling. “Here. Sit,” she added, guiding MacKenzie to an empty table in the shade. Realizing she still held her half-drunk lemonade, she handed MacKenzie the cup. “Drink this.” When MacKenzie had taken a few obedient sips, Gemma sat beside her and said firmly, “Now. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “It’s— It’s the most dreadful thing. It’s Reagan,” MacKenzie said on a gulp. Her skin looked parchment pale against the mass of her dark curly hair. “You won’t have met her. She models for us,” she went on, “and minds Oliver sometimes.” MacKenzie and her husband, Bill, ran a very successful online and catalog clothing company called Ollie. “But she”—MacKenzie took a breath—“Reagan lives with a family in Cornwall Gardens. She’s nanny to their son.”

  “Okay.” Gemma nodded encouragingly.

  MacKenzie gripped the plastic lemonade cup with both hands. “Gemma, she’s dead. Reagan’s dead. They found her under a tree in Cornwall Gardens this morning. But Jess—the boy she looks after—doesn’t know. His mum sent me to look for him.”

  “Okay,” Gemma said again. “That’s terrible. But, MacKenzie, why are you here?”

  “Oh.” MacKenzie looked surprised that Gemma hadn’t understood. “Because he’s a dancer. Jess is a dancer. That’s how I knew this was a good place for boys. Jess has class here every Saturday.”

  Chapter Two

  Until a few months ago, New Scotland Yard had felt like home to Kincaid. Now, as he entered the great glass tower just off Victoria Street, he felt like an intruder. The faces of the ground-floor security officers were unfamiliar, and they checked his identification with no flicker of acknowledgment.

  Once buzzed through, he took the lift to the floor that housed Detective Chief Superintendent Childs’s office. He’d driven straight to the Yard from Holborn, hoping to catch Childs working on a Saturday. It was his former boss, after all, who had set him that example.

  As long as Kincaid had worked with Denis Childs, he couldn’t say he’d ever known him well. But up until the previous autumn Childs had had his respect, and his trust. Kincaid might even have called him a friend.

  They had been on good enough terms that Childs had recommended Kincaid and Gemma as long-term tenants for his sister’s Notting Hill house.

  Then, the previous autumn, Childs had personally assigned Kincaid to a high-profile case involving the death of a police officer in Henley-on-Thames. Kincaid had disagreed with his superior’s actions—he had, in fact, held Childs responsible for the unnecessary deaths of two people, one of them a senior Met officer, the other the officer’s entirely innocent wife.

  That had been his last case before taking family leave to care for their daughter, Charlotte. When he’d returned to the Yard in February, he’d found his office cleared out and a reassignment letter waiting on his desk. Kincaid was told his boss had taken an extended personal leave.

  Denis Childs had never struck Kincaid as vengeful. So why had Childs removed him from his command and cut off all communication? And where had he been for three months?

  The lift dinged as he reached Childs’s floor. As the doors opened, he took a breath and moved his shoulders, trying to ease the tension across his shoulder blades. The corridor was empty, although he felt the ever-present hum of activity in the building. Voices came from behind half-closed doors, phones rang, but no one emerged.

  Although he’d avoided his own former office, the sight of the chief superintendent’s office brought an ache of familiarity. As did the sight of Childs’s personal assistant, Marjorie, working at her desk in the anteroom.

  Her pleasant face lit in a smile as she looked up and saw him. “Detective Superintendent, whatever are you doing here?” Marjorie had always made him feel he was one of her favorites—but then he suspected she gave all the officers the same impression.

  “How are the family?” he asked, eyeing the proliferation of photos on Marjorie’s desktop.

  “My daughter’s expecting her first.” Marjorie beamed. “I’m just finishing up some things here as she’s due any day and I expect to take a few days off.”

  “So you should. Congratulations,” he said, and meant it. Then he nodded towards the closed door to Childs’s inner sanctum. “I thought I might catch his highness in on a Saturday, as well.” The reference was a joke that Kincaid and Marjorie had shared, but now her face fell.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid, he’s not.”

  Kincaid was not entirely certain that he believed her. Her eyes had flicked towards the closed door. Marjorie was cheerful, friendly, and very efficient, but guile was not her strong suit. “No overtime?” he asked. “Old habits, you know,” he added with a smile, hoping to put Marjorie at her ease again.

  “Oh, no, he’s been good as gold,” she said, as if eager to be back on safe territory. “I told him he’d answer to me, otherwise.”

  Kincaid propped a hip on the corner of Marjorie’s large desk. “I’ve just heard he was back. How is he?”

  “Oh, brilliant, Mr. Kincaid. You won’t believe how well he’s—” She stopped suddenly and flushed. After an awkward moment, she said, “I’ll leave him a note saying you popped by, shall I? That way he’ll be sure to see it if he does come in over the weekend.”

  Kincaid knew when he had been dismissed, and he could hardly storm the door. “Thanks,” he said, standing and forcing a smile. “Best wishes to your daughter. And give the chief superintendent my best.”

  With a cheery wave to Marjorie, he turned and walked towards the lift.

  When the lift doors had hissed shut behind him, he said, very loudly, “The bastard.”

  Kincaid felt eyes on the back of his neck all the way across the main lobby. He told himself that it was daft, that no one had any interest in him, but he couldn’t shake it. The uneasiness that had begun with the Henley case and his subsequent reassignment had turned into something more the night Ryan Marsh died.

  Of course, he’d always known there was corruption within the ranks of the Met. Kincaid had seen enough of human nature—and of officers seduced into minor and major transgressions—to know it was inevitable. But, until Henley, he’d never imagined it would affect him personally.

  Just how deep did it go, the rot? And was Denis Childs part of it?

  He was waiting in the queue to exit the Yard car park when his mobile beeped with a text. Gemma, he thought as he fished the phone out of his jacket pocket, and he’d bette
r have an apology at the ready. He felt a renewed stab of guilt over the missed expedition to the park.

  But a glance at the phone screen showed an unfamiliar number. And the text said simply, “The Duke. Roger St. 8 p.m.”

  The afternoon found Gemma unexpectedly on her own in the house. Duncan had taken the two younger children and the dogs, not to Hyde Park as originally promised, but just down Ladbroke Road to Holland Park. Now, Gemma wondered if Duncan’s efficient marshaling of the children had less to do with pleasing them and more with not wanting to talk to her. He’d come in, kissed her, and apologized for snapping at her that morning, but he hadn’t met her eyes. At least the commotion of getting the children ready for their outing had kept her from worrying over MacKenzie and the boy she’d met at the ballet class.

  The pair had left the Tabernacle a few minutes after Gemma had spoken to MacKenzie, Jess looking mulishly furious, MacKenzie distressed. Gemma hadn’t intruded, but now she wondered how the girl had died, and how ten-year-old Jess would take the news. And she was a little surprised at how much she’d hated seeing MacKenzie so shocked and upset.

  Searching for a distraction, she sat down at her dusty piano and tried a tentative chord. The sound seemed unexpectedly loud in the quiet house, but she felt herself relaxing as the reverberation died away. Encouraged, she began to play, haltingly, working the stiffness from her fingers. After a while she thought only of the progression of notes, and without the dogs to bark, it took her a moment to recognize the chime of the doorbell.

  Pushing back the piano bench, she hurried to the door and opened it. MacKenzie stood on the porch, looking unusually disheveled. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I thought I’d stop in before I went home.”

  “Of course,” Gemma said, giving her friend a quick hug as she ushered her in. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. No.” MacKenzie’s voice shook. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t go home and face having to explain about Reagan to Oliver.”