“I’ll get someone checking their alibis for Friday night,” Kerry said. “Although I suspect that Sidney would happily cover for Hugo.”
“And I suspect Sidney is happy to have Hugo to himself,” Gemma mused.
Kerry’s eyes lit up with the spark of possibility. “Could Sidney have killed her, do you think?”
“Out of jealousy? Maybe. But how?”
“He strikes me as a sneaky bastard,” Kerry said. “Maybe he figured a way to get in through the house. Or over the wall—although we haven’t found any evidence of a climber.” Then she sighed and shook her head. “But I can’t see Reagan Keating sitting down for a tête-à-tête with him in a secluded spot.”
Gemma nodded agreement. “And nothing we’ve heard explains her high blood alcohol. If she wasn’t a drinker, and she only had a drink, or possibly two, at the club, how did she end up practically comatose?” she asked.
“Maybe Hugo talked her into a meeting. I can see that. Then they started arguing about the new boyfriend. He got angry. They struggled. He suffocated her, then cleaned up any evidence.”
Gemma could tell from Kerry’s dreamy expression that she liked this scenario, but she had to burst the bubble. “That still doesn’t explain the alcohol. Especially not if she was already cross with him and didn’t feel well. And that’s assuming Hugo was familiar enough—and comfortable enough—with the house to have removed any evidence, and possibly her computer, then let himself out without anyone noticing.”
“So maybe the girl was a secret drinker.” Kerry sounded peeved. “You can’t take everything people say about someone who’s died at face value. Maybe she didn’t have a headache. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to leave the bar. Maybe she was meeting the new boyfriend.”
She was right, Gemma knew, although she was loath to give up the impression she’d formed of Reagan Keating. “We need to talk to this Edward Miller,” she said. “And that means a visit to Nita Cusick first.”
“And before that”—Kerry gulped the last of her coffee, then walked round her desk and picked up a heavy old-fashioned key—“we need to return the gardener’s key to Mrs. Armitage. The crime scene techs are finished, so we don’t need access. And I’d quite like to talk to the lady.”
This time they parked on the north side of Cornwall Gardens. Gemma blinked as she got out of the car. The sun was already fierce, and the shade cast by the terraced houses was welcome. As she looked up, she thought how secret the enclosure seemed, completely hidden behind its formidable terraces and high gates.
The frontage of Mrs. Armitage’s house was a pale rose pink, and having seen her patio, Gemma couldn’t imagine her having chosen anything else. The front door gleamed with new black paint, and the brass had been polished to within an inch of its life. The house had the same large front windows as Nita Cusick’s, but unlike Nita’s, which allowed a view from the street straight through the sitting room, Mrs. Armitage’s windows were discreetly covered with net panels.
When they reached the door, they could hear a radio through the partially open casement downstairs. It seemed that this time they were in luck. Mrs. Armitage was at home.
Kerry lifted the knocker, and a moment later they heard a woman’s voice saying, “I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Then the door swung open and Jean Armitage surveyed them without surprise.
“Mrs. Armitage?” said Kerry. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Boatman and this is Detective Inspector Gemma—”
“I know who you are,” said Mrs. Armitage. “I’ve been wondering when you would manage to get to me. You’d better come in.”
“We did try yesterday, Mrs. Armitage.”
“So I heard. It was my bridge afternoon—you couldn’t expect me to wait around twiddling my thumbs while you talked to half my neighbors.”
As Gemma’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light in the hall, she took in the old but sparkling-clean lino and the gleam of the stairway banister. She smelled beeswax and lavender, and something delicious baking.
In layout, the house was a mirror image of the Cusicks’, but there the resemblance ended. Glancing into the sitting room, she saw furniture covered with a floral chintz that did not match the floral wallpaper, a worn Persian rug that looked nonetheless of fine quality, and a surprisingly large and modern flat-screen television. The windows overlooking the rear were covered with the same net panels as those overlooking the street, but Gemma found she could see out quite well. It was a comfortable and lived-in space.
As for Mrs. Armitage herself, she was not at all what Gemma had expected. She might be either side of seventy, Gemma thought, but well-preserved in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or cosmetic surgery. Her graying hair was thick and simply cut. She wore tan twill trousers, belted at a neat waist, and a lightweight white cotton blouse. Her skin was only faintly lined and her eyes were a bright, sharp blue. All in all, an attractive woman, Mrs. Armitage, and Gemma had a better idea of why Clive Glenn, the gardener, had spoken of her with both respect and admiration.
“We’d better go down to the kitchen,” Mrs. Armitage said. “I’ve been baking some tarts for Nita Cusick. Such a shock for her, poor thing.”
Kerry said, “Yes, of course,” not making it clear whether she was agreeing with the invitation to the kitchen or the shock to Nita Cusick, but following Mrs. Armitage obediently down the stairs with Gemma trailing behind.
The kitchen was of the same vintage as the sitting room, comfortable and obviously well-used. A pan of tarts sat cooling on the work top, and on the table lay reading glasses, a pen, and the Times crossword, half-finished in ink.
“Keeps the brain fit,” said Mrs. Armitage, following Gemma’s gaze. Gemma remembered Melody telling her that her dad did the Times crossword in ink every day and she suspected his brain, too, was plenty fit. “Now, I was just about to have my elevenses,” Mrs. Armitage went on. “Will you have tea and a tart?”
“Yes, please, that would be lovely,” Gemma said quickly, not giving Kerry a chance to demur. “Can I help?”
“Plates and cups in that cupboard.” Mrs. Armitage nodded to the right of the sink. “I’ll just put the kettle on.”
Doing as she was told, Gemma glanced out the windows over the basin. They had the same net panels as the windows upstairs, but here afforded a softened view of the patio and, through a gap in the roses, the vista beyond. It was lovely, but it was unfortunately at the opposite end of the garden from where Reagan Keating’s body had been found. A door to the patio stood open, letting in a welcome drift of cooler air. The kitchen was warm from the baking and the heat of the day, even in the basement.
Kerry had taken a seat at the table and was checking her mobile, earning her a disapproving glance from their hostess. Gemma hoped fervently that she’d left her own phone on Silent.
“Use the good stuff, mind,” said Mrs. Armitage, when she saw Gemma reaching for some ordinary pottery mugs.
The good stuff, Gemma saw, was white bone china bordered in gold. Proper teacups and saucers, and small plates, all simple and elegant. “How pretty,” she exclaimed, setting the cups carefully on the table.
“We entertained a good deal when my husband was alive. I don’t get much opportunity now, except when it’s my turn to host the bridge group.” For the first time, Mrs. Armitage sounded less forceful.
“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma. “How long since you lost your husband?”
“Two years. Just after our fiftieth. Heart attack.”
Gemma pushed away thoughts of Hugh. “It must have been difficult for you, all on your own like that and finding Reagan Keating’s body,” she told Mrs. Armitage.
“Oh, well, I take things in my stride, Harold always said.” Mrs. Armitage gave a little shake of her head, but she looked pleased by the sympathy. “Sit, sit,” she added, putting a filled teapot and a plate of tarts on the table.
“Did you know Reagan well, Mrs. Armitage?” Gemma asked as she accepted a filled cup and a tart. Kerry, she gathered from
her face, was not a tea drinker, although she took the offered cup without comment, then spooned heaps of sugar into it.
“Not well, no. But she was kind to me when Harold passed. She’d only worked for Nita a few months, but she brought me a card and homemade biscuits. Very well brought up, I’d say, was Reagan. And such a pretty girl, too.”
Although she might not have cared for the tea, Kerry had accepted a tart with alacrity. With a tart halfway to her mouth, she asked, “Did you see anything unusual on Friday night, Mrs. Armitage? I’m sure you’re very observant.”
Gemma had managed a nibble while Mrs. A—as she couldn’t help thinking of her, Clive Glenn’s nickname having stuck in her head—was speaking. The tarts were mincemeat, tangy with citrus and rich with spices. The pastry was flaky and delicate, made with lard, Gemma guessed, baker’s daughter that she was. She could not imagine Nita Cusick succumbing to such temptation, and hoped Jess liked mincemeat.
Mrs. Armitage smiled at the compliment, then shook her head with apparent regret. “I do like to keep an eye on things, but no, I’m afraid in this case I can’t help. I watched the news at ten and went to bed. I like to keep to my routine, and I’m a sound sleeper.” She looked at them over her cup. “She was murdered, wasn’t she? Reagan?”
“We believe so, yes,” said Gemma. She knew Kerry had spoken to Gwen Keating, but they hadn’t yet had a chance to inform Nita of the postmortem results. “Did someone tell you that, Mrs. Armitage?”
“Nita. I saw her this morning. She’d been on the telephone with the poor girl’s mother and she was that upset.” Mrs. Armitage looked a little shaken herself. “Are we to think that someone came into our garden and did this . . . this terrible thing?”
“We’ve examined the gate, and we’ve spoken to Clive Glenn,” said Kerry, finishing off her tart. “We haven’t found evidence of forced entry through either end of the garden, so it seems more likely Reagan Keating was killed either by someone who lives on, or has access to, one of the houses—”
Mrs. Armitage was already shaking her head. “I can’t believe that. No one in Cornwall Gardens would do such a thing.”
“Do you know all your neighbors, then, Mrs. Armitage?” Kerry asked, sounding skeptical.
“Well, no. Some of the houses are divided into flats. And some are only occupied part of the year. But we’ve never had anything like that here,” Mrs. Armitage insisted.
“But I understand you have had some unpleasantness lately,” Gemma said. “Over your neighbors’ extension.”
“Oh, them.” Mrs. Armitage drew her mouth into a tight line. “I didn’t consider them.”
“I understand they’re Asian?”
“Chinese. Or he is. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s the fact that they don’t have any consideration for their neighbors. Or for rules.”
“You mean because of the extension?”
Mrs. Armitage nodded. “It’s an abomination. I know they’ve had their difficulties—quite tragic—but that’s no excuse.”
“I understand their little boy died,” said Gemma. It occurred to her that the Sus’ child had also suffocated. “Did Reagan have any dealings with the Sus?”
Mrs. Armitage frowned. “Not that I know of. Although I did see her reprimand the child a few times, when the two boys were outside. And rightly so. He was as inconsiderate as his parents, and a bully.” She looked a little abashed. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true.”
Could the Sus, Gemma wondered, have held Reagan responsible in some way for their son’s death, and avenged him by suffocating her? They had access, certainly, but it was hard to make the rest of the scenario work.
“If you’re thinking of talking to them, you’ll have to come back. They’re both out at work the entire day. I don’t know when they think they’d use that monstrosity.”
Gemma thought about the little boy who by more than Mrs. Armitage’s account had been unpleasant and disliked—and whose parents were never home. She felt her usual pang of guilt over what she feared was her neglect of her own children, and shrugged it off with an effort. “You’re observant, Mrs. Armitage. What other neighbors did Reagan know?”
Mrs. Armitage thought for a moment, then said, “She was quite chummy with Asia. Asia Ford, on the Blenheim Crescent side.”
“Yes, we met her,” said Kerry. “Seems an odd friend for a young woman.”
Mrs. Armitage bristled. “Asia is an interesting woman. Well read, well traveled. I don’t think it odd at all.”
Gemma took a different tack. “Reagan was an attractive young woman. Do you know if she was particularly friendly with any of the men?”
After pursing her lips for so long that Gemma had decided she wasn’t going to answer, Mrs. Armitage sighed and said, “I don’t like to talk out of turn.” In spite of Mrs. Armitage’s hesitation, Gemma heard little reluctance in her voice. She waited in expectant silence.
“I did see something,” Mrs. Armitage admitted at last. “It was Roland Peacock. Such a nice man. He was paying rather a lot of attention to the girl at the garden party. I don’t think he meant anything by it—there was a good deal of champagne punch going round as well as Asia Ford’s limoncello, and people were jolly—but it was obvious that his wife wasn’t pleased.” She shook her head. “Pamela Peacock. Makes you think of one of those old Beatles’ songs, doesn’t it?”
Gemma nodded. “Quite. What’s she like, Mrs. Peacock?”
“A right bloody cow,” said Mrs. Armitage with startling vehemence. “He’s a nice man, Roland Peacock, as I said. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife drove him to look for a little comfort elsewhere.”
The river looked different in spring.
Rather to Kincaid’s surprise, he’d found the little marina easily enough. He’d hired a canoe, smiling to himself when he thought of Doug Cullen’s earnest insistence on rowing the skiff they’d hired on their previous visit, notwithstanding his injured ankle. He hadn’t had the heart to remind Doug that he’d grown up on Shropshire canals and rivers and had handled boats of all sorts since he was a lad.
Paddling in the direction he remembered from their previous excursion, he scanned the curves of the river for the little island, separated from the shore by a wide channel that had not been visible until they were almost upon it.
Everything was softened now, the sinuous curves of the river seeming unfamiliar in their cloaks of lush spring growth. Yet when he came round a long bend and saw the brushy jut of land, he knew it immediately. He paddled in, beaching the canoe in the same little notch he and Doug had used that day, soaking his trainers in the process. Then he stood, orienting himself to the landscape. In February, it had been eerily silent except for the occasional birdcall. Today the air was filled with raucous birdsong, but there was no sense of human presence. Kincaid remembered Ryan saying that there was no mobile phone reception here, and he felt suddenly very alone.
Closing his eyes, he forced himself to concentrate on his recollections, then opened his eyes again. There, he thought, there had been the campsite, through that little break in the trees. Carefully, he made his way through the undergrowth to the area he remembered, marveling at how quickly nature took back its own. The site of Ryan’s fire pit was a mere indentation among the weeds and nettles. Surely, he thought, Ryan had left more behind than this?
It was hard to believe this had been a man’s hideaway, complete with tent and cooking fire and makeshift benches. He knew Ryan hadn’t taken the tent that day. Had someone come along and, finding it, considered it abandoned and fair game? Suddenly, he had a horrible feeling that he’d wasted his time coming here. It had been a whim, born of need and regret, and indulged when he should have been back in London trying to find out who had attacked Denis Childs.
He stood for a moment, gazing absently at the remains of the camp, imagining the echo of voices and the smell of wood smoke. Then he remembered the rifle. Ryan had greeted them that day armed with a rifle. When he’d come with
them, he’d left it behind, but there was no sign of it now. Had it gone the same way as the tent?
Still, he began to look more carefully, starting in the center of the camp and widening his perimeter in careful traverses. There was no sign of the gun, rusting in the undergrowth. But as children, he and Juliet had pretended to be archaeologists, searching for “artifacts” their father had buried for them. That early recognition of disturbed earth had served him well as a policeman on cases he mostly didn’t care to remember. Seedlings liked the softened earth, and in those places the growth was sometimes a paler green. His pulse quickened when he found one spot, some yards from the main campsite. It was oblong, perhaps a yard long and half as wide. Progressing more carefully, he soon found another. When another circuit turned up nothing further, he looked around for a digging tool, cursing himself for having come so unprepared. In the end, the best he could do was a sharp stick.
It was well past noon now, and as he began to dig in the first spot, he could feel the midday sun scorching the back of his neck. He kept on, but when he reached the depth of about a foot in the area he’d selected, he stopped, leaning on the stick and wiping the sweat from his eyes. He couldn’t believe Ryan would have stashed something any deeper.
Wishing he’d bought a water bottle at the marina, he moved to the second spot and began working at the earth with his stick, more scraping than digging. He’d dug a few more inches when he struck something solid. And smooth. Clearing another few inches at the same level, he began to glimpse the obstruction. White, smooth, slightly rounded. PVC pipe, he decided, when he’d cleared a little more, and it certainly wasn’t plumbing.
He scraped and cleared with more enthusiasm, down on his knees at the end and using his already sore hands. Tossing the stick aside when the entire pipe had been freed, he lifted the tube out and examined it. It was about two feet long and six inches in diameter, sealed at one end with a glued cap, and at the other with a screw-on cap.
The Garden of Lamentations Page 20