The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  Gemma felt a rush of dismay. She’d meant to call Lamb, but in the chaos of Monday morning with an upset child it had slipped her mind.

  “Sir,” she answered a little breathlessly. “James here.”

  “Gemma. Have you got a moment?”

  Leaning against her car, she said, “Of course, sir. I was just going to ri—”

  Lamb didn’t give her a chance to finish. “I had a call yesterday from Bill Williams,” he said. “You know him, I believe.” Lamb’s tone made it clear it was not a question.

  “Yes, sir. But I didn’t realize you did.”

  “Williams is very involved with community safety initiatives. Ours paths cross,” he said drily. And money talks, he might have added. “I understand you had some contact with the family and the employer of the girl who was found in Cornwall Gardens on Saturday,” Lamb continued.

  “Yes, sir.” Gemma felt sure she was about to get a bollocking for interfering in an active case. “Sir, I was only there to offer MacKenzie Williams a bit of moral support.”

  “Yes, quite,” said Lamb. “Mr. Williams is very concerned that the police are using every resource to investigate the girl’s death. I’ve just rung the officer in charge at Kensington. The postmortem results should be in this morning, but in the meantime, she’d like you to stop in and have a word.”

  “Me? But, sir, I have to get to Brix—”

  “DI Boatman asked for you specifically when I told her you had a connection.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “As did Bill Williams,” Lamb said with finality, but Gemma hardly heard him.

  “Kerry Boatman?” she said, frowning. “I know her.”

  “So she said. She’s expecting you.”

  Kincaid needed some time to think without the distraction of driving in Monday-morning traffic. The clamor and bustle of Whitechapel Road did nothing to clear his mind, and when he neared his destination he was no closer to being sure he was doing the right thing. But as he came into the hospital precinct, he saw the helicopter on its pad, a blaze of red against the city’s morning haze. The sight of it once again gave him an odd sort of comfort. At least it wasn’t out on a crash mission at the moment. Maybe that was a good omen.

  Except for the angle of the light, everything looked just as it had the previous afternoon. But this morning he was going nowhere near Denis Childs’s critical care ward. He’d asked Diane to ring him if there was any change, but he didn’t want to be seen visiting again. The less visible the connection between him and Denis, the better.

  Today, rather than going up to the care wards, his route took him down to the lowest regions of the hospital, and as the lift dinged open at the mortuary level he wondered if he was too early.

  He should have known better. Rashid Kaleem was one of the Home Office forensic pathologists serving central London, and had to fit in postmortems and reports between calls to the scenes of suspicious deaths. This morning Kincaid was in luck. The doctor was in.

  When Kincaid rapped on the open office door, Rashid looked up from tapping on his keyboard, his eyes widening in surprise. “Duncan. You’re a sight for sore eyes, mate. What are you doing here?”

  “Hoping to see you.”

  Rashid stood and came round his desk to shake Kincaid’s hand. “You’re always welcome in my dungeon,” he said with a grin, his teeth white against his light brown skin.

  Clearing a stack of papers from the spare chair, Rashid gestured for Kincaid to sit. It had become a joke between them, the state of Rashid’s office. “One of these days, they’ll find your shriveled body buried beneath mountains of books and paper,” Kincaid said. “I thought we were in the digital age, anyway,” he added with a wave at Rashid’s workstation, which was—at least what Kincaid could see of it—certainly state of the art.

  “It’s my security blanket, this stuff.” Rashid gave a moldy-looking stack of books a fond pat as he returned to his chair. “I like things that can’t vanish without a trace. And not everything is on the Internet, believe it or not. Sometimes the old anatomy books are the best.”

  Kincaid thought he might prefer things that did vanish without a trace—like any record of this visit. He pulled the lapels of his jacket a little closer as he took his seat, having refused Rashid’s offer of coffee. It was always cold in here, and Rashid never wore anything other than a T-shirt, usually with a gruesome pathologist cartoon on the front.

  “So, not a social call, I take it, as nice as it is to see you bright and early on a Monday morning,” Rashid said. “Is this about the Camden shooting? I thought that was pretty cut and dried.”

  “Not about that one, no. And not a social call, exactly, but not on the record, either.” Kincaid took a breath, wondering if he was jumping off a cliff, then went on. “There was another shooting, one that looked similar. In March, in Hackney. I think it went down as a suicide. The victim’s name was Ryan Marsh. Was it yours?”

  Rashid frowned for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’d remember.”

  “Good,” Kincaid said, feeling a surge of relief. “I think,” he added.

  Rashid’s frown deepened. “It wasn’t your case, or you’d know who the pathologist was. But why haven’t you just looked it up?”

  “Because I didn’t want to leave bread crumbs.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Rashid nodded, once. “And you thought I might look up this case?”

  “In the normal course of things. Yes. Perhaps comparing a similar shooting.”

  “Like the one in Camden? That wasn’t a suicide.” Rashid raised an eyebrow almost to his gelled black hair. “But then you said ‘went down as a suicide,’ didn’t you? So, you don’t want to be seen looking into it, but you think the determination was a wrong call. Why?”

  Kincaid laced his fingers together to keep them still. “I knew Ryan Marsh. He was an undercover cop who’d gone off the grid because he thought he was in danger. I convinced him he was safe.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Rashid, when the import had sunk in. “You don’t think he would have killed himself?”

  “He was working on an exit strategy, taking his family abroad. He had two little girls. He went back to his cover flat to pick up a few things. He never walked out.”

  “Do you have any supporting evidence?” Rashid was all business.

  Kincaid shifted in his chair, his throat suddenly dry. “I was going to see him that night. I walked in on the scene.” He shook his head. “Something wasn’t right, but I can’t tell you what it was. The uniforms were already there, but not the detectives. I didn’t hang about.”

  Picking up a pen, Rashid began to doodle, drawing interconnecting circles on a scrap of paper. “You didn’t want to be associated with the victim? I’m beginning to get that.”

  “No,” Kincaid agreed with feeling, “I did not.”

  “And you think someone on the force might have been”— Rashid paused, as if choosing his words—“involved?”

  “I don’t know anything for certain. Maybe Marsh was depressed, more desperate than we realized. Maybe he did shoot himself.” Kincaid grimaced at the memory. “Maybe the determination was totally clean. But I can’t look at the file. Because if I’m right—”

  “You’re buggered,” Rashid confirmed with a nod, then gave him a sharp look. “You said ‘we.’ Who else knew about this?”

  Kincaid hesitated. Perhaps he’d already endangered himself by confiding in Rashid—did he dare bring the others into it? But Rashid would guess, and if he were going to trust him, he’d better go the full Monty. “Doug and Melody. And Gemma.”

  “Do they know you’re talking to me?”

  “No. And I don’t want them to. I never told them I’d seen him.”

  He’d driven around London for hours that night, sickened and shocked, struggling to come up with a way to explain to the others how he knew Ryan was dead. At last he’d said that Ryan’s wife, Christie, had called him with the news, and no one had questione
d it.

  “You should tell them.” Rashid waggled a finger at him. “Playing the hero could get you into big trouble.”

  “I’m not—I don’t want them—the more they know the more danger they could be in.”

  “Well, thanks for that,” Rashid said, with a return of his grin.

  Kincaid wasn’t amused. “I don’t want to put you in danger, either, Rashid. I can walk out of here right now and you can pretend you never saw me.”

  “Right.” Rashid turned the scrap of paper towards him and Kincaid saw that one of the doodled faces had morphed into a cat with a huge, toothy smile. “Pathologists are insatiably curious. That’s why we do it, most of us. Although maybe there are some who just like really bad smells and have no people skills.”

  This time Kincaid couldn’t stop a smile. “True. But, seriously, Rashid—”

  “You said Marsh thought he was in danger. Who—or what—was he afraid of?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the thing. He’d infiltrated the protest group involved in the St. Pancras grenade blast.” Rashid had been the pathologist on call and it had been a nasty death. “Ryan thought that grenade was meant for him, but he would never say why.”

  Rashid drew a few more interconnected circles, frowning. “It seems to me you don’t know very much. Why get involved?”

  Kincaid swallowed, then said as evenly as he could, “Because he said he was in danger and I didn’t take him seriously.”

  “What could you have done if you had?”

  Shrugging, Kincaid shifted again. “I don’t know. But that doesn’t make it all right.”

  “No. Of course not. But why dig this up now, after two months?”

  “Because night before last, someone attacked Denis Childs and left him for dead.”

  “What?” Rashid looked up, startled, his pen still. “Chief Superintendent Childs? Is he okay?”

  “No. He’s in a coma. Blunt-force injury to the brain.”

  Rashid grimaced. “You’re right. Not good. But what does he have to do with your dead copper?”

  “I don’t know,” Kincaid admitted. “But Denis was afraid, just like Ryan. He said there were people in the force who wished him ill.” Kincaid wasn’t going to say Denis had been on the way home from meeting him, even to Rashid.

  Rashid studied him for a long moment, his handsome face creased in a frown. “I’ve never known you to be fanciful,” he said at last. “And I would hate for anything to happen to you. I’ll look up your case. But you should tell Gemma what you told me. And”—he cut off Kincaid’s protest with a wave of his pen—“you should talk to someone outside the Met. Surely there’s someone you can trust.”

  Chapter Eight

  It had taken half an hour in the shower with the water as hot as he could stand to get Doug Cullen moving without groaning. Even with his sore muscles eased a bit, his ankle was so tender he was tempted to put on the hated boot cast.

  Examining himself critically in the mirror as he shaved, he realized that he was sunburned, too. The splash of aftershave stung his cheeks and his neck was red as beetroot. He’d spent all his Sunday afternoon digging in the garden, working with a sort of manic intensity, not stopping until the sun was easing towards the top of the garden wall and his shoulder muscles simply refused to lift the spade one more time.

  He now had a back garden ringed by perfectly turned beds, and no idea what to plant in them.

  When he’d at last cleaned himself up enough to pop out for a takeaway, he’d almost stumbled over the offering outside his front door. The cups of tea had long gone cold and scummy, and Melody’s note, he guessed, had been tugged by the breeze until it was anchored only by a corner. He read it, frowning, then pulled his mobile from the pocket of his jeans.

  It was switched off. He’d forgotten to turn it on when he’d come in from the river. Bugger.

  Carefully, he’d unfolded the tattered garden plan that had been tucked beneath Melody’s note.

  She must have thought him an absolute prat, refusing to answer her knock. And he had been, to tell the truth. He’d eased the kink in his shoulder, hesitating with his finger poised over the phone keypad.

  In the end, too exhausted to think of a decent apology, he’d pocketed his phone again and left the call for the morrow, but now, as he rode the tube into work, he was no further forward. He didn’t look forward to Monday mornings at the Yard these days, but today it was a relief to have a distraction from worrying about Melody.

  As soon as he entered the CID floor, however, he felt something slightly off. There seemed a suppressed air of tension, and when one of the department secretaries hurried by with an armful of files, she glanced up and then away, not meeting his eyes.

  “Um, excuse me?” Doug said, struggling to think of her name.

  She paused and turned back to him, a reluctant expression on her dark, round face.

  It wasn’t until he tried on a smile that he remembered the sunburn. Maybe that’s why she was staring at him with what looked like dismay. “Where’s the fire?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” She looked at him blankly.

  “I mean, you seemed in a bit of a rush.”

  “Oh. No, it’s just the AC wants these and he’s in a mood. Everyone is, with the news about Detective Chief Superintendent Childs.”

  “What? What news?”

  “I thought you’d know. It was in this morning’s Chronicle.” She lowered her voice and gave a conspiratorial glance round. “Someone attacked him on Saturday night. He’s in hospital. Dying, the rumor is.” Tightening her grip on her files, she added, “I’ve got to go or the AC will kill me.”

  Doug watched as she hurried off down the corridor. The chief? Dying? He couldn’t believe it. Slowly, he made his way to Chief Superintendent Slater’s office. Slater was his nominal boss, since Kincaid had been transferred to Holborn, and Doug disliked him intensely.

  “Sir,” he said, tapping on Slater’s door just as Slater was hanging up his phone. “I just heard—is it true about Chief Super Childs?”

  “If you mean that some bugger jumped him in the bloody churchyard, yes.”

  “But I heard that he was—”

  “Dying?” Slater shook his head. “Induced coma. According to the AC.” An unfamiliar expression crossed Slater’s heavy face. “In any case, he won’t be coming back to the Yard anytime soon, which means more work for the rest of us. So I suggest we get on with it.”

  Doug took the dismissal with a nod. When he was out of sight of Slater’s office, he took out his mobile. Did Kincaid know? He dialed Kincaid’s number but it went to voice mail, as had all his calls the last few weeks. Damn the man. What was wrong with him?

  He rang off without leaving a message. Then he punched Melody’s number without a thought for his apology.

  The last time Gemma had seen Kerry Boatman, Boatman had been a detective inspector at Lucan Place Police Station in Chelsea. But Lucan Place was gone, sold off for its real estate value by the Met. Boatman was now at Kensington, the divisional station, and she had advanced to DCI. The station, a solid, utilitarian, redbrick block near the top of Earl’s Court Road, had none of the charm of Victorian Lucan Place.

  Gemma entered through the front doors. It had been some time since she’d seen the public side of a police station, and she was always a little amused by how innocuous police stations seemed. Like most modern London stations, from the lobby Kensington Police Station could have been mistaken for any ordinary business or government office—at least until you noticed the blue uniform blouses of the two female officers behind the glassed-in reception area. And assuming you didn’t know that the glass was bulletproof.

  When Gemma had introduced herself at reception, one of the officers made a call, then buzzed her in and escorted her up to DCI Boatman’s office.

  Boatman stood to greet her, coming round her desk to shake Gemma’s hand. She looked much as she had when Gemma had last seen her, a small, slightly stocky woman with a friendly smile. Her
dark hair was a bit longer, and there were a few threads of gray at the temples, but Gemma would have sworn she was wearing the exact same navy suit.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Boatman with a smile. “Would you like something? Tea? A coffee?”

  The office was spacious, and there was a blur of green treetops visible beyond the window. Kerry Boatman had done well for herself. “Coffee would be great,” Gemma answered. “Thanks.”

  As Gemma took the proffered chair, Boatman stepped out the door and murmured a request to a uniformed officer. Then she returned to her desk and leaned against its front edge, arms casually folded. “How are you?” she asked. “Family doing well? You have boys, if I remember.”

  Gemma nodded. “That’s right. Two. And a daughter now as well. She’s three.”

  “Oh, congratulations.” Boatman smiled but looked a bit puzzled, and Gemma guessed she was wondering how Gemma had managed to acquire a three-year-old since they’d worked together last year.

  “Foster daughter,” Gemma explained. “You’ll know about girls, I expect,” she added, remembering the two grinning girls in the photos on Boatman’s desk at Lucan Place.

  “For my sins, yes. They’re ten and twelve now. Frightening how fast they grow up.” Boatman appeared very practiced at putting people at ease, but her deliberate manner had the opposite effect on Gemma. She sensed she was being played and she didn’t like it.

  There was a tap on the door and the uniformed PC brought in a coffee tray with all the accoutrements. When Boatman had done the honors, Gemma took a sip and raised an eyebrow in appreciation. “Proper coffee. That’s lovely.”

  “I’d never get through the day, otherwise.” Boatman took her cup and returned to her chair, an obvious signal that it was time to get down to business. “About this nanny in the garden,” she said. “Chief Superintendent Lamb rang up first thing this morning, wanting a progress report.” The slight narrowing of Boatman’s eyes made Gemma think she didn’t appreciate being manipulated any more than Gemma.

  “It seems that the girl had some very well-connected friends,” Boatman went on. “And that you knew her. When I heard your name I thought you might have some insight on events.”