The Garden of Lamentations

by Deborah Crombie

  Kerry, who’d been studying the dinner menu, set it down with an air of decision. “Try the chicken pie. It’s their specialty.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t intend to—” Gemma stopped. The children were looked after, and Kincaid was off doing heaven knew what. She felt suddenly rebellious. “I’ll have the chicken pie,” she said as the waitress came back to the table with her pad at the ready. “And another G and T.”

  Kerry raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m fine,” said Gemma, although she realized her tongue felt a bit numb. “And I’m not driving.”

  “Strong stuff, gin.” Boatman nodded at Gemma’s glass. “Can’t abide the taste of it, myself. According to your mate, Mr. Miller, what goes into that still is even stronger. What if he mixed a little of the high-proof stuff into what Reagan thought was a normal drink? Or a couple of drinks? She wouldn’t know what hit her.”

  Gemma had texted Kate Ling, asking her to give them a more definite time of death, but she hadn’t heard back. “I suppose it’s possible. But I think you’re going to find that Edward Miller was well occupied until after Reagan was killed.”

  “There is the damned text.” Kerry frowned into her beer. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like that the Three Musketeers lied about her arguing with Sidney at the bar.”

  “Maybe Hugo and Thea didn’t know,” suggested Gemma. “But whatever happened between Reagan and Sidney, I do not believe she met him in the garden. Until we get all their alibis confirmed, we’re treading water. And we don’t have enough hish—” Her tongue was definitely not cooperating, but her mind felt clear as a bell. “History. On Reagan. Nita Cusick didn’t approve of Reagan’s friends, and seems to have had absolutely no interest in her personal life. But there’s someone we haven’t talked to.”

  “Who?” asked Kerry, sounding a little owlish.

  “The ex-husband. Jess’s dad.”

  Kincaid led the way. Doug had insisted on walking with him as far as Holborn Police Station. “You don’t want to be seen with me,” Kincaid told him. “Especially with that memory card on you.”

  “I’ll get the tube from Holborn. You don’t think someone’s going to jump me for my laptop?” Doug sounded amused. Then, when Kincaid nodded at the street sign and Doug realized where they were, he said, “Shit.”

  They were walking along Clerkenwell Road, the way Denis must have walked on Saturday night, going to and from the pub in Roger Street. It was after six o’clock now and Clerkenwell was crowded with pedestrians, commuters heading home or to the pubs.

  “This was Denis’s route,” said Doug. “But it was dark when he was attacked. And it wasn’t in an open street,” he added, but after that he looked around warily. “Do you suppose Denis was carrying something?”

  “Nothing seemed to have been taken.”

  “But what if it was something no one knew he had?”

  Kincaid considered, shook his head. “I think whoever attacked Denis heard someone coming, probably the girls who called 999. Otherwise they’d have cleared out his pockets. And I think they’d have made sure he was dead.”

  He was distracted, still thinking about the photos Ryan Marsh had hidden. Looking at the last one again, he’d recognized Edie Craig, wearing the same green scarf she’d worn the day he’d talked with her, outside the village church. And he’d caught, in the background, a glimpse of Edie’s little whippet, Barney, running off the lead. He would have sworn that the photos were taken just before the fire. Did that mean that Ryan had been there? Had he known the Craigs?

  Could Ryan have worked for Angus Craig, either on or off the books?

  There was another possibility that explained those photos, nagging at the edge of his brain, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

  “Duncan, are you okay?” Doug put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes. If I’m not going into the station with you, I’d better go on ahead.”

  Kincaid realized that Clerkenwell had changed to Theobald’s Road, and the hulk of Holborn Police Station at the corner of Lamb’s Conduit Street was in sight. “Sorry,” he said. “Look, you’re going to talk to Melody, aren’t you?”

  Doug looked uncertain. “Well . . . should I not?”

  “You already have.” Kincaid attempted a grin. “So you may as well tell her the rest. I want to know what her father was hinting at. Ivan Talbot has ears in all sorts of places and sources we can’t touch. And I want to know anything that either of you can dig up on Kate Ling.”

  “Right. I’ll ring you.”

  As Doug started to turn away, Kincaid said, “Dougie.” This time he had no trouble summoning a smile at the expression on Doug’s face. Doug despised the nickname. “Thanks for coming.”

  For once, Doug seemed at a loss for something to say. He gave a half-sketched salute and turned away, his satchel slung over his shoulder. Kincaid watched him until he disappeared in the crowd, and hoped he hadn’t just sent his friend into terrible danger.

  The CID room at Holborn looked just as it had when Kincaid had walked out yesterday morning, on his way to Cheshire. A glance down at his jeans, now dried a little stiffly, assured him that time had indeed passed. He ran a hand across his chin. The stubble felt well past five o’clock, but there was nothing for it. His face felt warm, too, and he wondered if he was as sunburned as Doug. Then, Jasmine Sidana looked up from her desk and spotted him. He could have sworn he saw relief flash across her face.

  Simon Gikas sat studying his computer monitors, as usual, and DC Sweeney had, apparently, gone home. Just as well, Kincaid thought. When Sidana said “Boss,” Simon looked up, too.

  Rising, Simon said, “Guv. Are you sure you should be here? How’s your old dad?”

  Kincaid realized to his dismay that he had not even checked in with his mum since he’d left Nantwich. “Fine. He’s doing well. They’ve sent him home.”

  “Did you get in a little fishing on your way back, then?” asked Simon, eyeing his bedraggled clothes.

  Closer than he might have guessed, Kincaid thought, but said, “So what’s going on?”

  Sidana stood, glancing round the room at the few other detectives who were working late. “Maybe we’d better go in your office, boss.”

  Kincaid led them into his office and closed the door. No one sat. He couldn’t imagine what necessitated such secrecy but his stomach knotted with tension. “What the hell is it?”

  Simon Gikas looked at Sidana, who gave him a nod. “We pulled a floater out of the Regent’s Canal at King’s Cross today, near the Guardian. Nasty bit of business. Been in for a couple of days, from his condition. It wasn’t until they got him to the mortuary that they saw it was more than a drowning. He’d been stabbed.”

  “And?” Kincaid asked.

  Sidana took it up. “His wallet and phone were in his pockets. Driving license identifies him as one Michael Stanley, age fifty-two, white male. His license covers commercial vehicles, so maybe a lorry driver. But when the mortuary ran his prints, they came back as Michael Stanton. They were in the Met database. He’s a cop.”

  “What?” Kincaid stared at them. This suddenly sounded all too familiar.

  “Yeah,” said Simon. “Or he was. Not showing as retired, but hasn’t been posted anywhere in ten years. And his record, what I could find of it, shows some disciplinary issues.”

  “What about his phone?”

  “Toast, probably, after extended time in the canal. And I’d guess it’s a burner anyway. Cheapest model.”

  “Home address on the license?”

  “An estate in Hackney, but there’s no such flat number in that location.”

  Kincaid liked this less and less, and Hackney rang big alarm bells. Ryan Marsh’s cover flat had been in Hackney. “Where in Hackney, exactly?” He said it so sharply that Simon and Sidana both started.

  Frowning, Simon told him the name of the estate. It was not the one where Ryan had lived, but it was not dissimilar.

  “Who�
��s the pathologist?” Kincaid asked.

  “The body went to the London,” Sidana told him. “I don’t know if anyone’s been assigned to do the postmortem yet.”

  “I want Rashid Kaleem on this one. And, Simon, find a real address. He’s got to have left a trail somewhere.”

  “Sir,” said Sidana, sounding unusually hesitant. “We were wondering. We haven’t yet informed Chief Superintendent Faith that the victim’s prints were in the Met personnel database. He seems to have a lot on his plate at the moment.”

  “Yes, I know.” Was he just being paranoid, thinking they had another undercover cop on their hands? But it fit the pattern. And if there was even a possibility that it was true, the fewer people who knew, the better. He trusted these two. And Tom Faith. But once Faith was told, the information would be passed up the chain of command, and that thought made him uneasy. “Let’s see what we can find before we bother the chief super,” he said, and both Sidana and Simon looked satisfied.

  “Have you got photos?” he asked.

  Sidana passed him a folder she’d carried in with her. Opening it, he found copies of the crime scene shots. He recognized the section of the canal where the body had been pulled out. The canal path was busy in the daytime, he guessed, but probably deserted at night except for the occasional jogger. Of course, the bloke hadn’t necessarily gone in where he’d surfaced . . .

  Had the victim been stabbed from the front or the back? Kincaid wondered. In a fight, or in an unguarded attack from behind?

  He flipped to the close-up photos of the corpse. The entry wound was beneath the left rib cage. It would take the postmortem to show whether the knife had been angled upwards, a deliberate blow. Next, he studied the man’s face, but he couldn’t tell much because of the bloating. There was a small mark on the neck, but from the photo he couldn’t determine whether it was a bruise or a birthmark, or perhaps a tattoo.

  The next page showed him an enlarged copy of the driving license with its photo. An unremarkable man looked back at him. Thinning fairish hair. A rather old-fashioned-looking mustache, which he had not sported when he’d gone in the canal. Eyes, brown; height, five feet, ten inches. And, yet, there was something in that unremarkable face that made Kincaid think he’d not have turned his back on this man.

  “Can I keep these?” he asked Sidana.

  “Your copies, boss.”

  “Then see how soon Rashid can do the postmortem.”

  “You look all in, boss,” said Sidana. From her, it was the height of personal concern. “You should go home.”

  Yes, he thought. He should. But he had a lot of talking to do when he got there, and he was not looking forward to it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  August 1994

  He had prayed for rain. The day of Carnival, however, dawned bright and clear. It promised to be hot, and heat always escalated the potential for violence. Notting Hill Carnival was a policing nightmare, with close to a million people jammed into a few streets, and most of the crowd partaking liberally of alcohol.

  It was the first day, Sunday, so he didn’t expect the crowds to be quite as dense, or as rowdy. But he still had to push his way through people just to get to the Tabernacle, where the group had agreed to meet.

  He’d talked them out of carrying placards, thank God. “Carnival’s always been about cultural harmony,” he’d told them. “It’s not the place you have to make that point.”

  “Tell that to Stephen Lawrence,” Marvin had said and the rest had nodded in agreement.

  It was Annette who’d come up with the idea for badges. She’d had them made, half with just Stephen Lawrence’s first name, half with his photo. They agreed they’d wear them on their clothes, and on ribbons and sashes, and that they would hand them out to festivalgoers.

  When he arrived at the Tabernacle he found them decked out like human Christmas trees, buttons clanking and jingling. Annette, who ordinarily straightened her hair, had put it in tiny braids festooned with beads and ribbons. She handed him a large sash, covered in the big badges. “I made this for you,” she said.

  He held it up. “But . . . it’s pink,” he said, and grinned. Their excitement was contagious, as was the steel band music already pulsing from the giant speakers set up along the carnival route. Dutifully, he put on the sash, and they checked each other’s makeshift costumes, giggling like kids getting ready for a party.

  “Remember to stay together,” he said, when they were ready. “And stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “You’re such a mother hen, Denny.” Annette laughed up at him. “Are you sure you’re not a schoolteacher? We’ll be good, we promise. And you remember to have some fun.” He thought she’d come closer than she realized, and he’d better at least look like he was in the spirit.

  By that afternoon, he’d discovered it wasn’t hard. Notting Hill was a kaleidoscope of sound and color and movement. DJs spun reggae from the great stages, steel bands marched, the costumes were an outrageous blaze of color, and everyone danced. In between, they ate jerk chicken, and corn, and Jamaican peas and rice from the stalls. They’d long ago given away all their badges. There were more black faces than white in the crowd, and everyone seemed moved by a spirit of bonhomie. Strangers danced together in the sun, the women with the morning’s cardigans tied round their waists like Caribbean skirts. On Elgin Crescent, three uniformed constables broke into a dance routine. They’d obviously practiced their choreography, and the bystanders cheered with approval when they finished.

  The police presence had been friendly and conciliatory, and if there had been any scuffles, he hadn’t seen them.

  At last, tired and thirsty, they’d decided to head back to the Tabernacle. The smells were getting to them—not just the street-stall foods, but sweat, and spilled rum and beer, and most of all the eye-watering stench of urine. The Carnival provided temporary toilets, but there were never enough, especially for the beer drinkers. The pavements were littered with cigarette ends, spilled food, and crushed cans of Red Stripe.

  The group had turned into Westbourne Park Road when he felt something slippery under his shoe. Looking down, he saw a crushed ice cream cornet and a puddle of melted ice cream. He was wiping his sticky shoe against a clean spot on the pavement when a prickle at the back of his neck made him look up.

  They wore white T-shirts emblazoned with scarlet interlocking Ws, the symbol for Whitewatch. Five abreast, walking westward down Westbourne Park Road, swinging beer bottles held loosely in their fingers. Five, he thought, like the five men who had attacked Stephen Lawrence. Five white men. They wore chains in their belt loops.

  He stood, slowly, instinctively reaching out to thrust back the people nearest him. Annette. And Marvin. The constant thump from the steel bands seemed to fade until he heard the thud of his own heart. Then, he focused on the man in the middle. His brain froze, stuttered, refusing to match the face to the situation.

  It was Mickey. And Mickey was looking straight at him, grinning.

  “Nice pink sash you’ve got there, girlie,” Mickey called, and the others hooted and laughed. They were drunk, or high. Or both. He could see it in their unsteady swaggers, and in their glazed eyes. For a wild moment, he wondered if he’d been targeted. He’d known Mickey had been put in a right-wing group, but he’d never dreamed it was this one. He’d told Red Craig his protesters meant to march at Carnival. Was this the response?

  And, then, he wondered if Mickey meant to out him.

  “A pansy, playing with coloreds and half-breeds,” said the man on the right. They all laughed, and there was an ugliness to it that made his hair stand on end. Mickey, he thought, what the hell are you doing?

  He felt Annette step forward, heard her draw breath to speak. He shoved her back.

  “Bugger off, you lot,” he said to the men, but he looked straight at Mickey. He kept his posture nonconfrontational, his voice even.

  “You gonna make us?” jeered the man on the right.

  A black man step
ped out of the now-silent group of onlookers, right in front of the gang. He was young and thin, his face ashy with anger. “You bastards,” he shouted at them. “You don’t belong here. This is our Carnival. Get out.”

  Mickey’s eyes went cold. Denis had an instant to think, Jesus, he’s lost it.

  There was a flash in the corner of his eye. He turned his head, glimpsing a professional camera held by a large fair-haired man, his face half obscured by the camera body.

  He threw an arm up, half in fury, half in protest. Then, just as the halo cleared from his vision, he saw the bottle fly from Mickey’s hand. It struck the young black man in the head. The man fell to the curb, writhing and moaning, blood pouring from his scalp.

  There was a great collective sound from the crowd, a gasp of outrage, and people surged forward. Denis shouted at them to get back, the command voice instinctive. In the distance, police whistles began to blow. Mickey rocked on the balls of his feet, still looking triumphant, ready to take on a fight, but the others were shifting uneasily. As the whistles grew louder, they began to back away. Mickey gave him a last look and turned on his heel.

  Denis knelt by the fallen man. He looked for something, anything, to staunch the bleeding from the head wound. His hands were already bright with blood from trying to assess the extent of the injury. Something white landed beside him and he saw that it was Annette’s cardigan. Groping for it, he felt a jab to his hand. When he looked down, he saw that he’d sliced it open on a shard of the broken bottle.

  Ignoring the cut, he did his best to wrap the man’s head, shouting, “Someone call 999.” Then a pretty black woman knelt beside him, holding a toddler by the hand. “Wes,” she said, “let’s give the man your T-shirt, love.”

  He started to caution her to get the child back, away from trouble. But when he looked up, Mickey and his gang had melted into the crowd.