The failure of the Metropolitan Police to properly investigate the crime, or to provide substantial evidence against the perpetrators, who had been identified by witnesses, had caused a huge public outcry. By April of 1994, Stephen Lawrence’s family had initiated a private prosecution against the two initial suspects and three others, and the Met was in turmoil.
Special Branch had been tasked with discovering what evidence the Lawrence family had uncovered. It was feared that more unwelcome revelations about the force’s failure to solve the Lawrence case could lead to widespread civil unrest.
And it was rumored that some of his small group of campaigners had connections with the Lawrence family and might be privy to inside information on the Lawrences’ plans to discredit the police.
The trouble was, the more he listened and learned, the more he liked his group, and the more he agreed with their agenda. And the more he helped out, the more he found himself actually suggesting ideas for leaflets and plans for actions.
Both of which were strictly off the rule book.
Chapter Eleven
Following Clive Glenn’s directions, Gemma and Kerry easily found Mrs. Armitage’s house. They let themselves in through the wood-slatted gate and looked round curiously. The small patio was even more manicured than the communal area and Gemma wondered if she had someone—Glenn perhaps—to help with it, or if she did all the work herself. She knew enough to tell that most of the roses were antique varieties rather than hybrid teas. The roses lined all but the front of the small plot, and in the sun the scent was dizzying. Although there were two teak chairs and a small table on a patch of carefully laid flagstones, it was not a space where Gemma could imagine anyone sitting out with a drink or having a barbecue.
They knocked on what Gemma guessed was the door to a mudroom, but there was no answer. There was no sound of a radio or television, and the room overlooking the garden was shuttered. After a few moments, Kerry shrugged and turned away. “We can go out to the street and round the front, but I don’t think she’s at home.”
“What about giving this Roland bloke a try?” Gemma asked. Marian Gracis had told them that Roland’s last name was Peacock and that he lived in the house just to the north of the gate. “He might have seen something, if someone did try to get in through the gate or over the wall.” Gracis had also told them that Roland Peacock worked from home, so Gemma thought he might be a useful source of information about all of the residents, not just Reagan Keating and the boy who had died.
Kerry gave an irritated glance at her watch. The SOCOs still hadn’t arrived. “We might as well.”
As they walked back towards the gate, they had no trouble recognizing the Sus’ house. The unfinished steel-and-glass extension protruded from the ground floor, completely covering what must once have been the private garden, patio, and toolshed. The thing was a blight on the landscape, and Gemma was certain it was in violation of council building regulations. She could only imagine the horror with which such a thing would be met on their own garden. Why had no one other than Mrs. Armitage complained?
“Good God.” Kerry stopped, gaping. “I’m surprised no one’s murdered them. And how have they managed to get away with it?”
“Bribing someone on the council?” Gemma suggested, only half joking. “I’ll ask MacKenz—” Too late, she remembered that the Williamses were not on Kerry’s list of favorite people at the moment. She was rescued by the ringing of Kerry’s mobile.
Kerry listened, then said to the unfortunate caller, “Another hour? You’re taking the piss. What the hell are they doing, having a ladies’ lunch?” She stomped a few feet up the path, her back to Gemma. “You’ll have to get another constable to relieve the poor sod I’ve had twiddling his thumbs at the scene for half the morning—”
Half the morning was an exaggeration, but still it startled Gemma into looking at her watch. It had gone twelve. She realized she’d never checked in with Brixton, which she should have done no matter Kerry’s assurances that her absence had been cleared. And then she realized that she’d never switched on her mobile’s ringer since she’d muted it at the mortuary. What if Charlotte’s school had tried to reach her, or the boys had needed her?
She pulled her mobile from her bag and checked it. She’d missed a text from Melody, and two calls from Kincaid, but he hadn’t left a message. Her heart skipped. Was there bad news about Denis?
Catching up with Kerry, she tapped her on the shoulder, then mimed making a call. When Kerry nodded, Gemma turned and walked back towards Mrs. Armitage’s house as she dialed Kincaid’s number.
It rang half a dozen times before he picked up, his voice a barely intelligible mumble.
“Where are you?” she said. The road noise from the old Astra was unmistakable. “Are you in the car? I thought you took the tube this morning.”
“I’m on the M6.”
“What? Why?”
“My dad—” His voice faded. Clearing his throat, he went on with a heartiness that sounded forced. “It’s my dad. He’s had a heart problem. I’m on my way to Cheshire.”
Gemma stopped, swayed. It was only the fact that her feet seemed rooted in the gravel that kept her from toppling.
She thought she’d coped with Denis Childs’s injury, with knowing that he might not survive. She’d coped with Gwen Keating’s grief, and with an unexpected sense of familiarity with the murdered girl.
But she suddenly felt that a support had gone from her world, that this was one more thing than she could bear. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not Hugh.”
“Are you okay?” Kerry had finished her call and walked back to Gemma, who stood, her phone still clasped in her hand.
“It’s my father-in-law,” said Gemma. “He’s had some chest pains.”
Kerry looked concerned. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. My husband’s on his way there. They—my in-laws—live in Cheshire, in Nantwich.”
“Do you need to go? Of course, I’ll understand if you do,” Kerry added, but without a great deal of conviction.
“No. Not now, at least. Duncan said he’d ring when he got there and knew more.”
“Well, I think we should take a break. Let’s get some lunch—it’ll do you good.” Kerry gave Gemma a slightly awkward pat on the shoulder. “What’s good around here?”
Kitchen and Pantry was close enough.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Boatman asked, wincing at the sound of a crying baby as they squeezed by the parked push chairs and the frosty ice-cream case in the café’s entrance.
“We might have to—oh, wait,” Gemma said, spying a free space by the window. “There’s a spot. If you’ll choose what you want from the board, you can stake it out while I order for us.”
A few minutes later, they were settled on sofas just inside the open window overlooking Kensington Park Road, plates of jacket potatoes on their knees and coffees balanced rather precariously on a small, wobbly table. The baby had mercifully stopped crying.
Gemma had chosen roasted vegetables on her potato, and Kerry, mushrooms in a cream sauce. Watching the plume of steam rise from her lifted fork, Gemma thought better of trying her first bite of potato.
Kerry, having been less cautious, was waving a hand in front of her mouth as if that would help cool her scorched tongue. “Bloody hell,” she said when she could speak. “Maybe we should have gone for the ice creams.”
“Good thing the coffee’s cold, then,” said Gemma, attempting a levity she didn’t feel.
They both pushed bites of potato about on their plates in an attempt to cool it, then took tentative nibbles. Kerry soon polished hers off, but Gemma found she’d lost her appetite and the cheese drizzled over the veggies was congealing unappetizingly.
After watching her for a moment, Kerry said, “I’m going to get us some more coffee, and see if this time they can make it hot.”
With Kerry gone to the counter, Gemma gave up on her lunch and stared idly out the window. Then a passing figure c
aught her eye. It was Nita Cusick, looking very businesslike in a skirt and heels, scowling and talking intently on her mobile as she walked by. Even though the window was open and she passed within a few feet of Gemma, she didn’t look up. Gemma thought that if they’d meant to talk to Nita again that afternoon they might not find her at home, as she’d been walking away from Cornwall Gardens, towards Notting Hill Gate.
Kerry returned with two fresh cups of coffee, but before Gemma could mention Cusick, Kerry eyed her barely touched plate disapprovingly. “So tell me about your father-in-law. Are you close? I didn’t think you’d been married for that long.”
“Not that long, no, but Hugh—” Gemma stopped, unsure of how to begin to describe Hugh Kincaid. She remembered when she’d met him, that first Christmas in Nantwich. She’d met Rosemary before, but she’d been nervous—terrified, really—about meeting the rest of Kincaid’s family, afraid she wouldn’t live up to their expectations. Or to their memories of Kit’s mother. But Hugh had taken her under his wing. He’d done everything to make her comfortable, showing her the town and asking her questions about herself. And he’d listened to her with interest and with respect, something she’d never experienced with her own father. She shook her head as her eyes threatened to fill. “Hugh is . . . just Hugh.” And then she realized she’d have to tell the children.
The crime scene officers had arrived when Gemma and Kerry returned to Cornwall Gardens. The constable who had been guarding the scene had moved to the gate, and Clive Glenn was packing up his tools. Kerry stopped him before he could leave.
“I need that key,” she told him.
“I can’t give you my key. I thought Mrs. Armitage—”
“Mrs. Armitage isn’t in, and the police must have access to this garden.” They’d tried Mrs. Armitage again, this time from the front door, on their way back from lunch. “I’ve got crime scene technicians in here, for heaven’s sake,” Kerry went on. “Who do you think is going to lock up after them? Don’t be a wanker.”
Gemma almost laughed at the expression on Glenn’s face. He took a deep breath and she could see the red flush under his stubble and his suntan.
“But—”
“Key.” Kerry held out her hand. “Or I’ll take it in as evidence and then you’ll likely never see it again.”
The two stared at each other, but Gemma had no doubt by this time who was going to win this pissing contest.
Glenn shrugged, then pulled the key from his pocket. He rubbed his large, calloused fingers along the barrel, then dropped the key into Boatman’s outstretched palm. “On your head be it, then, Detective Chief Inspector. If anything happens to this”—he shook head—“well, I’d not want to be on the wrong side of Mrs. A.”
With that, he climbed into his truck and roared off.
Kerry tucked the key into a pocket. “Now, let’s have a word with this Mr. Peacock.”
It was the house on the left-hand side of the gate, built of dark brown brick that, unlike most of the houses on the garden, had not been covered with stucco. The brown brick continued into the wall that met the gate itself, so that the whole impression was fortresslike. The house sat close to the street, with only a low hedge to separate it from the pavement. The door was painted a glossy black.
“The place is downright funereal,” Kerry muttered as she rang the single bell. The house was not divided into flats, then. They could hear it, loud as a klaxon, echoing through the house. After a moment, they heard footsteps and a man’s voice muttering something unintelligible.
“Whatever you’re selling, you can bugger off,” he said as he opened the door. “I don’t want—” He broke off in midsentence, staring at them. “Who the hell are you?”
Gemma would have introduced herself first, but Kerry was ever ready with the warrant card. “Police,” she said smartly, holding it up. “Can we have a word, Mr. Peacock?”
Roland Peacock was tall and thin and obviously farsighted. He peered at the card, then shook his head. “I need my glasses. I’ll take your word for it. The two of you don’t look like insurance salesmen.” Smiling at his own humor, he motioned them in. “But if this is about that parking complaint, I’m impressed they’ve sent detectives. You are detectives?” he asked, glancing back at them. Kerry, in her navy suit, certainly looked the part, but Gemma was more casually dressed in tan trousers and a lightweight, yellow poplin jacket.
She held out her hand. “Detective Inspector Gemma James. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Boatman.”
Peacock’s eyes went wide. “Definitely not about the parking, then. You’d better come in.” He turned and led them in. They passed a formal living room and a dining room on either side of the hall, as well as a wide staircase sweeping upwards. The front rooms were done in a dark chocolate with cream molding, but the room they entered at the back of the house was a deep terra-cotta. The ceilings were very high, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled much of the space not taken by the windows overlooking the garden. At one end, there was an open-plan kitchen and a comfortable-looking family dining area. There were books and newspapers scattered about on tables and sofas, and a reassuring smattering of the debris left in the wake of boys.
In the living area, a scuffed leather armchair was positioned with a view into the garden. Beside it was a shaded lamp. Papers, an open laptop, and a pair of wire-framed glasses were thrown casually over the ottoman. “We’ve obviously caught you working, Mr. Peacock,” said Gemma, determined to take the lead. After all, if Kerry Boatman wanted her on the case, she was bloody well going to do more than take notes. “You’re neighbor Mrs. Gracis—Marian—gave us your name. We’re looking into the death of Reagan Keating.”
“Oh. That. Of course. I heard about it, but I thought she’d overdosed or something. Why are the police investigating?” Peacock had put on his glasses. His eyes were sharp and very blue.
“For the moment, we’re treating it as a suspicious death,” said Kerry. “Mrs. Gracis told us you worked from home. We thought that if there had been anything odd going on, you might have noticed.”
“But she died during the night, poor girl. Or so I was told.”
“It’s our job to look into things thoroughly when something like this happens.” Kerry was more conciliatory than Gemma had heard her before. “Which means we’d like to speak to as many of the residents as possible. Could we—”
“Oh, of course. Sorry.” Peacock gestured towards a slightly worn pair of velvet sofas. He shifted the ottoman aside and folded his length into the armchair. “But I don’t know how I can help you.”
Gemma perched on the edge of the sofa nearest him. “What is it that you do, Mr. Peacock?”
“I’m a journalist. Freelance. I write on economics. I have a proper office upstairs, but I like working down here, especially on fine days.” The windows were open, but the heavy plantings at the west end of the garden made the house seem very private.
“And your wife?”
“She’s an architect. Her office has subsidiaries in the States and Germany, so she travels a good bit.”
So Roland Peacock was home alone during the day—at least while his sons were at school—and sometimes at night, if his wife traveled. He was, she realized, a very handsome man. Not in a film-star way—his face was too long, his hairline receding—but there was something extraordinarily attractive in the way his features fit together. And his blue eyes, now slightly shielded by the spectacles—were mesmerizing. She could certainly imagine a younger woman being smitten. “Did you know Reagan Keating, Mr. Peacock?” she asked. “I understand one of your sons is the same age as Jess Cusick.”
“Yes, my Arthur is the same age as Jess. They were friends.”
“Were friends?” Gemma asked, wondering if something had happened to the boy.
“I suppose they still are,” Peacock clarified. “But Arthur’s away at school now, so they don’t see each other much. And after the—there was a tragedy here, last year. I can understand if it put the bo
ys off doing ordinary things.”
“You’re talking about the boy who died?” asked Gemma, glad he had brought it up.
“Henry, yes. Henry Su.”
“The three boys were friends?”
“No, they weren’t friends.” Peacock was surprisingly adamant. “They were the same age, and Arthur and Jess always got along well. But . . . Henry was . . . different.”
“Different, how?” Kerry spoke sharply enough to make Peacock give her a startled glance. He might have forgotten she was there. When he hesitated, she added, “Don’t say you don’t want to speak ill of the dead. The dead are dead and it won’t hurt them.”
“But I can’t see—”
“Nor do you know how any information you have might help us.”
Roland Peacock looked at her. After a moment he took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Henry Su was a bully and a troublemaker. Hard to say if that was due to being horribly overindulged by his parents, or just his natural inclination. He teased the other kids mercilessly. To be honest, that was one of the reasons we decided to send our Arthur away to school. Henry was in the same year at the local school and was making his life a misery there and at home.”
“What exactly happened to Henry Su?” Gemma asked, wanting to confirm what Marian Gracis had told them.
Peacock grimaced, then put his glasses on again so that Gemma couldn’t quite read his expression. “Henry liked to hide. I suppose it was a way of getting attention. Usually, the kids would ignore him, glad to be shut of him for a bit. If they’d looked, that day . . .” He shook his head. “Things might have been different.
“Henry was asthmatic, you see. He managed to lock himself in the little shed where his father kept tools and gardening things. I suppose when he couldn’t get out, it triggered his asthma. He didn’t have his rescue inhaler. He—he wouldn’t have been able to get his breath.”
“He suffocated?”
“He was unresponsive when we found him—by this time it had got dark and his parents were frantic. Everyone was out searching. They kept him on life support for a week before the doctors convinced his parents to let him go. But they didn’t donate any of his organs.” Roland shook his head again, his mouth set in a grim line. “I suppose I can understand that. It was tragic. But perhaps his death wouldn’t have been so pointless if it had allowed someone else to live.”
The Garden of Lamentations Page 14