The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  Screeching to a halt again as they came up to the Shepherd’s Bush station, Boatman nodded at the car clock. It was just past four. “We should be able to catch someone at the piano bar by the time we reach Kensington.” She accelerated smoothly away from the light into Holland Park Road. In spite of her little burst of temper, she was a good driver.

  Gemma was intrigued by the temper. What was it about Edward Miller that had ticked Kerry off?

  They ducked under the half-rolled-up door of the piano bar and started up the narrow stairs, Kerry already cursing. Gemma wondered if she were subject to claustrophobia. When they pushed through the door to the first floor, Kerry gasped like a swimmer coming up for air.

  The space was long and narrow, with a big window overlooking the street and framing the grand piano. Bistro-style tables and chairs and a few banquettes lined the wall, leaving a free center aisle. The place smelled faintly but not unpleasantly of booze and sweat. Gemma did not miss the days when a bar like this would have reeked of morning-after ashtrays.

  At the back was the bar itself, presided over for the moment by a barman wiping glasses with a cloth.

  “Oy,” he said, looking up. “We’re closed until five. Didn’t you read the sign?”

  Kerry flashed her ID at him, her attitude still in evidence. “Police.”

  The barman raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Weights and measures?”

  “CID,” Kerry snapped. The barman’s eyes widened a fraction.

  Putting down his cloth, he said, “No need to get your knickers in a twist. What can I do for you ladies?” His receding hair was pulled into a ponytail and his tight black T-shirt was strained by the beginnings of a paunch. Still, there was charm in his grin, and Gemma guessed he was accustomed to using it.

  Before Kerry could threaten him with cuffs, Gemma gave him her biggest smile. “Tell us your name, for starters.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Darrell. Darrell Byrd. Like the band. With a y.”

  “Were you working this last Friday night?”

  “I’m always working Fridays and Saturdays, darlin’. Me and one or two others. It’s a madhouse in here. What’s this in aid of?”

  “Just a few questions relating to an investigation we’re pursuing.” Gemma suspected he wasn’t averse to a little drama, and she didn’t want the weight of “murdered girl” to color his account. She held up her phone with Reagan’s photo on the screen. “Do you remember seeing this girl on Friday night?”

  Darrell wiped his hand again with the bar cloth, then took the phone from her and studied the photo. “Yeah, I remember her, though I couldn’t have told you whether it was Friday or Saturday.”

  “Why do you remember her? Was she a regular?”

  He shook his head. “No. But she was pretty, you know, in a girl-next-door sort of way.”

  “Did you serve her alcohol?” Kerry asked.

  “Of course I served her alcohol. It’s what I do.” Darrell gave her an unfriendly look. “And she was not underage, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, not at all,” Gemma assured him. “So, she did have a few drinks?”

  “One. A specialty cocktail. I made it myself. She made a face when she tasted it, so I don’t think she cared for it.” Darrell looked a little hurt.

  “And that was it?”

  “Unless someone else served her, but I don’t think they did. She left not long after that. She was having a bit of a row with a bloke. I noticed because they were standing back by the loo”—he nodded towards a narrow corridor that led back from one side of the bar—“and I had to go to the storeroom to get another case of vodka.”

  “Could you tell what the row was about?”

  “Not really.” Darrell thought a moment. “She said something to him about ‘cheating.’”

  “She said he was cheating? Not the other way round?” Gemma asked, thinking Hugo might have found out about Edward Miller.

  “That’s what I remember. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in the guy, anyway.” Darrell rolled his eyes. “Little wanker, if you’ll excuse my language.”

  Gemma frowned and saw Kerry wearing a perplexed expression. “A blond bloke, with hair like this?” She held her hand parallel to her jawline. “Very good looking, like a model?”

  Darrell looked as confused as Kerry. “No. A weedy little guy. Needed to eat his spinach. Mousy hair. And spots.”

  Kincaid left his car at the hospital and took the tube from Whitechapel to Farringdon. From there, he walked the short distance down Greville Street to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, tucked above the Bleeding Heart Tavern.

  For some time, he’d used the club as a retreat. When he’d transferred to Holborn, and the club had become within walking distance, he’d come more often, but he’d never taken anyone there from his team at Holborn nick.

  Now, he was glad to have a place where he could feel—at least temporarily—safe, and where he could think. It was nearing five by the time he reached the Bleeding Heart and there were already crowds spilling out of some of the Hatton Garden pubs. Ducking down the little alleyway beside the Bleeding Heart, he pushed the buzzer at the whisky society’s door. When it released, he climbed the open-tread stairs to the first floor.

  The society rooms were directly above the pub. The large main room held the bar as well as seating at comfortable tables and sofas. Bright, modern paintings adorned the white walls. There was a fireplace in the room’s center, cozy in winter but unused now, and large windows on two of the room’s sides, open to catch any hint of breeze. To one side of the bar was a much smaller room, the Snug, with a single long table and walls lined with racks of the society’s special bottles.

  Kincaid signed in at the bar, then ordered a sandwich to be sent up from the pub. “Choose something for me,” he said to the barman. “Something bracing.”

  “Bad day?” asked the young man.

  “You could say that.”

  “Hmmm.” The barman thought for a moment, then poured a measure from a numbered bottle. “This should do it,” he said, handing Kincaid the small snifter. “Cheers.”

  Kincaid thanked him and, drink in hand, headed for the low table in the very back corner. He wanted the spot where he would be least likely to be overheard. He’d texted Doug as he walked from Farringdon and had received a terse reply saying that Doug had been hung up at the Yard but was on his way.

  After some thought, he texted Gemma, saying merely that he was back in London and would be home soon. He wasn’t ready to talk—he didn’t know where he would begin, or how he’d explain where he’d been that day. He missed her and the children with an almost physical ache, but he couldn’t let himself think about that now. He had to concentrate on making sense of what he’d learned.

  Raising his glass, he took a swallow of the whisky, neat. What tasted like liquid smoked peat seared his throat and he blinked away tears. Bracing didn’t begin to describe the stuff. He lifted the glass again and inspected it. The liquid was pale gold with a slight green tint. Adding a drop of water from the jug provided on the table, he sipped again, gingerly. This time he got sweetness beneath the smoke, and butter, and medicinal herbs, with a last lingering hint of dark chocolate. Sipping again, he sat back, feeling some of the tension drain from his body. When he glanced up, the barman grinned at him and Kincaid gave him a thumbs-up.

  His sandwich came, and by the time Doug walked through the door, he’d finished his meal and his drink and had ordered coffee for them both. He had an instant to examine Doug while Doug searched the room for him. It had been almost two months since he’d seen his friend, and he was shocked at how drawn Doug’s face looked beneath the familiar round glasses. Drawn, and sunburned. What the hell, Kincaid wondered, had Dougie Cullen been doing? He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and with his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and a satchel over his shoulder, he looked more like a schoolboy than ever.

  Then Doug saw him and crossed the room without a smile. Kincaid stood
and held out his hand. Doug hesitated, then gave it a brief shake. It felt awkward, and Kincaid’s hands were sore from digging.

  “Thanks for coming,” Kincaid said, when Doug had taken the offered chair. “I’ve ordered coffee for us both. I thought we’d need clear heads. But have something else as well, if you like.”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  “What have you done to yourself?” Kincaid asked, gesturing at Doug’s pink face. “Costa del Sol?”

  “Gardening.” Doug’s scowl made it clear that small talk was out.

  The barman brought the coffee. Thanking him, Kincaid poured, then watched as Doug added generous doses of sugar and cream. He waited, and when he had Doug’s full attention, he began as he’d known he’d have to begin, with the night of Ryan Marsh’s death and what he’d seen.

  “You were there?” said Doug. “You saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because . . .” Kincaid looked round, making certain that the people at nearby tables were deeply engaged in their own conversations. “Because I was bloody terrified. I knew Ryan was afraid for his life. He thought the grenade in St. Pancras had been meant for him. And I knew that night that something about the scene was wrong.”

  “But—”

  “I thought I had to make sure that no one knew any of us had any connection with Ryan. I thought you would be safer if you thought it was suicide. And, then, after a few weeks, I thought maybe I was crazy. But I couldn’t”—he paused, staring at his hands and scrubbing one thumb hard against the other—“I couldn’t make myself talk about it.” He looked up at Doug, and after a moment got a slow nod of understanding.

  “It was bad?”

  Kincaid nodded. “Yeah. It was bad.”

  “So why are you telling me now?”

  “Because I found out I wasn’t crazy.” Kincaid explained what Rashid had learned.

  Doug was shaking his head before he’d finished. “Why now? Why ask Rashid now? Why tell me, after months of keeping me in the dark?”

  “Because of Denis.”

  Doug stared at him. “What does any of that have to do with Denis?”

  Kincaid looked round again, then lowered voice. “I met Denis. Saturday night. I think I was the last person to see him before he was attacked. He asked me to meet him at a pub in Holborn. He thought he was being watched, and followed, just like Ryan. He hinted there was something rotten going on in the force, and he warned me off asking any sort of questions, for my safety, and my family’s. And then someone tried to kill him as he walked home.”

  “Christ,” whispered Doug. “Does anyone else know you met him?”

  “I told a friend in Cheshire. A cop. He’s a good guy, and I needed to talk to someone with no connection to the Met.”

  “Cheshire?” Doug looked a bit whiplashed.

  “My dad had a little health scare. I had to make a quick visit.”

  Frowning, Doug said, “That still doesn’t explain why you’re telling me all this now.”

  Kincaid took a breath. “Because I realized it’s not my right to try to protect you without your knowledge. That I might actually be putting you in more danger by keeping you in the dark. And because . . .” Kincaid drank the rest of his cold coffee, fortification for the last hurdle. “And because I need your help.”

  “So were they lying about Reagan arguing with Hugo? Or did she have rows with Hugo and with Sidney?” asked Kerry. “And why would she accuse Sidney of cheating?” They were standing a few doors from the piano bar in Kensington High Street. Gemma wished she could have a sit-down and a coffee in the shade at Carluccio’s, but Kerry was obviously not in the mood for chatting over a cup of espresso.

  “I’m going to give Thea Osho a ring.” Gemma pulled out her mobile. “I’m sure she knows more about what was going on that night than she’s told us.” But there was no answer at the number Thea had given them. She texted, asking Thea to ring her back as soon as possible, then noticed she’d missed a text from Kincaid while they were in the bar.

  “Bugger,” she said aloud when she’d read it.

  “Something wrong?” asked Kerry.

  Forcing a smile, Gemma said, “Husband’s gone walkabout. Are you ready to call it a day? If not, I’ll need to make arrangements for my kids.”

  Kerry gave a sympathetic tsk, but shook her head. “I can’t believe that this girl was completely without faults. No one is, in my experience. We know from the postmortem that she’d had sex recently with someone, but until we get the DNA profile from the semen, we can only assume it was Hugo. I can’t imagine that it was that weedy Sidney, although I suppose stranger things have happened. And if Mr. Poncey Distiller is telling the truth that it wasn’t him, we need to look at our other options. We haven’t ruled out the gardener, who has no alibi. Or Roland Peacock.” She glanced at her watch. “I wonder if we could catch his wife at home now?”

  The woman who answered the Peacocks’ door was thin and blond and had the sort of elegance that made Gemma feel horribly wilted after a day spent doing interviews in the heat.

  “Mrs. Peacock?” asked Kerry, and introduced them. Looking more irritated than concerned, Pamela Peacock led them into the house they’d seen yesterday.

  “Roland said you’d been round about that girl,” she said over her shoulder.

  If Edward Miller had irritated Kerry, this woman, with her middle-class drawl, set Gemma’s teeth on edge. “You mean Reagan Keating, ma’am,” Gemma corrected. “She was twenty-four. Hardly a girl.”

  “She was a nanny.” Mrs. Peacock gave Gemma an amused glance. “And anyone under thirty is a girl to me— Sergeant, is it?”

  “Detective Inspector,” Gemma responded, as pleasantly as she could manage. She put Pamela Peacock in her early forties, and as well-preserved for her age as Nita Cusick. It was amazing what money could do. Her own mother at forty had looked every inch of it.

  They’d reached the kitchen. Something delicious smelling was cooking in a Le Creuset casserole on the hob. Gemma found herself hoping that it was Roland Peacock’s doing, and that this woman hadn’t managed to put together a gourmet meal without marring her perfect linen outfit or her flawless makeup. The chair where Roland had sat yesterday was empty and his work had been tidied away.

  “Is Mr. Peacock at home?” asked Kerry.

  “No. Our son had a rugby practice. Sit, do.” She gestured at the dining area, but didn’t offer them tea or coffee.

  “Well, that’s fine,” said Kerry as she and Gemma sat on dining chairs, “as it was you we wished to speak to.”

  Pamela Peacock raised a plucked eyebrow. “How can I help you, then?”

  “We’re trying to learn a little more about Reagan. That helps us put together a bigger pic—”

  “I’ve heard she was murdered. Jean Armitage told Roland. Frankly, I think that’s preposterous. Surely, you’ve made a mistake. The girl probably overdosed on drugs.”

  “Why would you think that, Mrs. Peacock?” asked Gemma.

  “Well, those things happen.” Pamela Peacock shrugged. “We all know it.”

  “Is this based on your personal knowledge of Reagan’s habits?”

  “No. I hardly knew her.”

  “But your husband was quite friendly with her, I understand. They were chatting quite recently, at the garden party, Sunday before last.”

  Pamela had been leaning casually against the kitchen island. At that, she straightened and crossed her arms. “You’ve been talking to Jean Armitage. Roland was nothing but polite. Parties are parties. He’s a man of considerable charm, and I can see how a young woman would be flattered by his attention. And I’d warn you not to pay too much attention to Jean Armitage. She enjoys her little dramas.”

  Finding she trusted Jean Armitage’s account considerably more than Pamela Peacock’s, Gemma translated this as, Everyone was smashed on punch and limoncello. Roland was flirting outrageously with Reagan Keating, who didn’t slap him, and Jean Armitage is a meddlesome bitch.

 
; “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Peacock,” said Kerry with an understanding smile, pouring oil on the waters. “But what can you tell us about last Friday evening? I understand your son was ill?”

  “Stomach flu.” Pamela looked as if even the thought made her want to vomit. “Roland sat up with him. I’d just come back from a grueling business trip. Besides, I don’t do sick. That’s always been Roland’s forte.”

  Thinking of nights spent sitting up with one child or another, Gemma almost envied her easy delegation. “Um, can you confirm that?” she asked.

  “Of course I can. We had to call the damned GP out.”

  Gemma wondered where they had managed to find a GP who made house calls, not to mention in the middle of the night. “How’s your son?” she asked.

  “Just allowed back at school today.” Pamela’s voice softened a bit. “Poor Georgie. That’s why Roland wanted to keep an eye on him at rugger practice.”

  “Your husband told us that your other son—is he the elder?—is away at school this term.”

  “No, George is the elder. It’s Arthur, our younger son, who’s away at school.” Pamela shook her head. “It seems a bit pointless now. We think we’ll bring him home next term.

  “To be honest, it has been a bit hard for him. I suppose that if your child has been bullied, boarding school is perhaps not the best option.” Pamela’s smile was weary. “But we couldn’t see what else to do.” When they didn’t immediately respond, she added, impatiently, “Surely Jean Armitage has told you about Henry. Henry Su.”

  “I believe your husband mentioned him,” said Gemma. “This was the boy who died?”

  Pamela made a face. “It was horrible. But he’d made life such a misery for Arthur that we’d already decided to send him away next term.”

  “I understand he was difficult. Didn’t he tease Jess Cusick, too?”

  “You’d think that with his dancing, Jess would have been an easier target than Arthur. Arthur is only a swot, and a bit delicate at games. Jess, however, seems to be made of sterner stuff. Perhaps his dancing has made him tough.” There was no malice in her voice, only an unexpectedly revealed fondness for her son.