The small man was quiet. Kincaid couldn’t see his eyes behind the reflection in the gold-framed glasses. Wilson picked a petal from a drooping Graham Thomas bloom. “I don’t like to think about it,” he said at last, shredding the petal with his well-manicured fingers. “If I had known . . . If I had done something . . . But if I had gone over, and he . . . Craig . . .” A visible shudder went through Wilson’s body. Kincaid didn’t need him to elaborate.
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Kincaid said. “But that night—had Barney ever been loose at night before?”
“No. Never. That’s why I— It was all very strange. I don’t know why I didn’t clip him on a lead and walk him back.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was just going to take Lola out for her little bedtime ramble round the garden. My television programs had finished—I’m a bit of a night owl,” he added, with a little glancing smile at Kincaid, as if staying up late was a slightly naughty admission. “I heard barking. I couldn’t think what was happening.”
“What time would this have been?”
“Oh, I don’t know, exactly.” Wilson pushed at his glasses in a gesture that reminded Kincaid of Doug. “My program finished at a quarter to twelve, if I remember. I’d gone, you know, to the loo. And made myself a little nightcap.” Another little smile with the guilty admission.
Kincaid waited.
“I thought if it was someone out walking a dog, they would go on, so I waited a bit longer. But the barking didn’t stop. I shut Lola in the house and went out with my torch. There was Barney, just standing in the meadow outside my fence, barking. He came when I called out to him.”
“Was the dog his usual self?”
“He was shivering, I remember. But it was a chilly night, and he hasn’t much coat,” Wilson added, affection in his voice. “There was no sign of Edie, so I took him in the house, and I—” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t think what to do. I had the Craigs’ phone number, but one didn’t like to . . . I did think of taking him over and putting him in their garden, but . . .”
“So, in the end, you rang the house?” Kincaid asked, encouraging.
Wilson nodded. “Yes. I left a message. When no one rang back within half an hour, I put Barney in the kitchen with some water and a towel for a bed. I thought I’d get up at first light and walk him home. But—” He stopped and removed his glasses, twisting the wire earpiece back and forth in his fingers. “But— The sirens woke me, and the smell of smoke. At first I thought it was my own little house and I panicked. And, then, I looked out the window and . . . I could . . . see it burning . . .”
“That must have been terrible,” Kincaid said after a silence. “What did you do?”
“I dressed and walked down the road, to see if there was anything I could do. But I was turned away, as if I were a mere onlooker.” Grievance still echoed in Wilson’s voice.
“But you did go back?” Kincaid asked.
“When it was light. They stopped me well away from the house again, but I told that detective to let Edie know I had Barney with me. It wasn’t until I went to the pub later in the morning that I heard they were dead.” Wilson put his glasses back on and sat with his hands folded in his lap, his gaze unfocused. “They said what had happened, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t imagine how someone could do such a thing.”
Kincaid sat quietly, watching the dogs, which had come to lie in a patch of shade. Barney looked back at him, his bright-eyed little face alert and trusting. “No,” he said. “Nor can I. Mr. Wilson, was there anything else at all unusual that night?”
“No. Not that I can remember. Other than the men in the car, of course. But that was earlier. And I did tell that constable.”
Kincaid, who’d been preparing to rise, dropped back onto the bench and stared at Wilson. “What men?”
“The ones in the four-by-four. A Range Rover. New. It was odd, though, because the car was clean but the plates were mud spattered.”
“Where,” Kincaid said slowly, “was this, exactly?”
“Just before the pub. Lola and I—and Barney now, of course—go most evenings for a little visit, around half past five. I thought the car would stop to let us cross, but it didn’t. Quite rude, I thought. The rear windows were dark tinted, but I could see the two men in the front seats quite clearly as they went past. They were going towards the Craigs’, so I thought perhaps it was police business, but they didn’t look at all like policemen. And the one nearest me, the passenger, gave me a look that could kill. I was going to call out to them, you know, to say they should mind their manners, but after that . . . I didn’t quite like to.”
“No,” Kincaid said. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Mr. Wilson, could you describe these men?”
“I told that constable,” Wilson answered, aggrieved again.
“Yes, but would you mind telling me?”
Wilson sighed. “The passenger was older. Not a nice face, that one. And he had a mark on his neck, just here.” He touched the side of his neck. “A birthmark. Or perhaps an old tattoo.”
Kincaid couldn’t shake a growing dread. “And the driver?”
“Oh, he was younger. And much better looking. Short brown hair, with that bit of stubbly beard that’s fashionable nowadays.”
For a moment, Kincaid thought he might thank the man, shake his hand, and walk away. He sat, staring into space, until Barney trotted over to him and rested his long, pointed muzzle on Kincaid’s knee.
“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “you’ve been very helpful. Is there anything else you can remember?”
Wilson frowned, his face scrunched in concentration. “I can’t say why, but I had the sense they’d been arguing. The driver looked startled, not as if he’d meant to almost run me over. And he was quite the dashing sort, really, with that bandanna round his neck.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Kincaid had almost reached the car when he remembered what he had on his mobile. Turning back, he met Mr. Wilson, who’d collected the dogs, at the garden gate. “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “would you mind having a look at something?” He held out his phone. The photo on the screen was the one of Michael Stanton he’d sent to Doug the evening before, taken from Stanton’s driving license. “Do you recognize this man?”
Wilson peered at the photo, frowning, then glanced up at Kincaid. “That looks like the man in the car. The passenger, not the driver. Who is he? I’d not like to think he’d come back here.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson.” Kincaid slipped the mobile back into his pocket and forced a smile. “I can assure you that this man won’t be bothering you again.”
Back in the car, he gave Wilson a wave and made a U-turn in the lane. He didn’t want to drive by the remains of the Craigs’ house, and he wanted to get out of the village.
He drove back the way he’d come. As he slowed through Henley, he realized his hands were shaking. Turning off the main road, in a moment he found himself in view of the river. Having stayed in Henley for several days during the autumn investigation into the death of the rower, Rebecca Meredith, he knew immediately where he was—on New Street, by the Hotel du Vin. He pulled into a lucky parking space and got out, throwing his jacket and tie back into the car. A few yards farther on, New Street curved round at the river to meet Hart Street at the bridge. But between the road and the water, there was parking space and access to small boat docks. He walked down to the edge of the quay and stopped, staring across the river at the Leander Club, watching a few sculling crews out for a late-morning practice.
After a bit, he noticed the sun beating down on the top of his head and his face, but he couldn’t seem to move. He saw, not the river, but the interior of the Craigs’ house just before the fire took hold, as he’d visualized it so often in his imagination.
Edie lay dead in the kitchen. Her face was a blur—he couldn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it.
Angus was on the floor in his study, the room
where Kincaid had interviewed him shortly before. He lay, like Ryan Marsh, in the middle of the room. In front of his massive, intimidating desk. Not collapsed in the leather chair behind the desk, nor on the floor beside the desk, where he might have toppled if he’d shot himself while sitting in the chair. His hand, like Ryan’s, held the gun that had killed him, and had killed Edie.
But, what if, Kincaid thought, like Ryan, Angus Craig had not shot himself? Or his wife? What if it had been set up to look like a murder/suicide, just as Ryan’s death had been set up to look like a suicide?
What if someone had come into the Craigs’ house that night and shot Edie as she stood, unsuspecting, in the kitchen, then walked into Angus’s study and shot him? If a silencer had been used, Angus wouldn’t have been alerted by the first gunshot.
If either of them had struggled in a last moment of shock and terror, both the scene and the bodies had been too damaged by the fire for it to be obvious to the investigators.
Whoever had done this thing, it must have been someone familiar with the house—someone, perhaps, who had been watching it, and taking photographs.
The thought made Kincaid feel ill.
After a bit, he walked back to the car. Leaning against it, he rang Doug.
“I’ve put both Ryan and Stanton in Hambleden the evening of the night the Craigs died,” he said when Doug answered.
“What? What are you talking about?” Doug sounded utterly baffled.
Kincaid told him.
After a long silence, Doug said, “I can’t really talk. Let me ring you back.” Five minutes later, Kincaid’s mobile buzzed. He could hear street noise in the background and he guessed Doug had left the building. “Why didn’t this Wilson bloke tell someone?” Doug asked without preamble.
“He did. Imogen Bell. But she had no reason to pass it on. Wilson is something of a fusspot. She probably thought he was manufacturing a bit of drama for the attention. And there was never any suggestion that Angus Craig hadn’t killed himself and his wife.”
Doug was quiet again. Then, he said, “You’re not seriously suggesting that Ryan and this Stanton bloke killed them? And set the fire? I can’t believe that Ryan Marsh was a murderer.” He sounded as distressed as Kincaid felt.
“No.” Kincaid thought about Melody’s account of Ryan’s actions when the white phosphorous grenade had gone off in St. Pancras station. Ryan had run towards the fire, not away. He’d been desperate to get people to safety, to do something to help.
But Ryan had then fled the scene, afraid he had been the grenade’s target. Was it because of what had happened the night the Craigs died? Because of what he knew? Or because of what he’d done?
Kincaid thought of the time he and Doug and Melody had called on Ryan’s wife. Ryan’s old Labrador had come to him and put her head on his knee, just as Barney had done this morning. And when they’d brought Ryan to Kincaid’s house, Ryan had immediately and affectionately greeted the dogs.
“Wilson said the two men were arguing,” Kincaid told Doug. “What if Ryan knew—or guessed—what was planned? Maybe he knew what Stanton was capable of doing.”
“Stanton had an obvious history of violence. Surely Ryan knew that.”
“If I’m right about what happened to the Craigs, he was guilty of more than a short temper and harassing women,” Kincaid said, working it out. “Craig’s death must have been calculated, planned, at least from the time Craig became a serious suspect in Rebecca Meredith’s murder.”
“Damage control,” said Doug. “In case he was guilty of killing Meredith?”
“Or in case other things came to light.” Kincaid thought, watching the gulls wheel lazily over the river. “We found out that Craig had committed another murder. What if he was involved in things that we didn’t uncover? Things that might have implicated other people.”
“Things he might have used to bargain with, if the assaults or the murder had gone to trial?” Doug suggested, after a pause.
“It’s possible. But Stanton—and Ryan, to whatever extent he was involved—were pawns. So who did Angus Craig’s death protect?”
“Whoever it was, they must have killed Ryan. And Michael Stanton,” said Doug.
Kincaid nodded, even though Doug couldn’t see him. All their assumptions made sense, but his mind kept going back to Barney. “Edie Craig’s dog was out at least two hours before the fire started. Why? Could it have been Ryan who let the dog out? Ryan would never have let the dog burn.”
“Assuming the Craigs were already dead, hours before the fire was started. Maybe the fire smoldered.”
Kincaid thought back to that morning. “The fire investigator told me that from the pattern of the blaze and the amount of accelerant used, the fire took hold very quickly. Petrol was splashed all over the damned place, then it was torched. So what happened in those intervening hours?” Kincaid made an effort to lower his voice. He was getting some odd looks from passersby.
“Maybe they were looking for something,” suggested Doug. “Maybe the fire was set to cover up the evidence of a search. Or to cover up evidence, full stop.”
“I think,” Kincaid said slowly, running his hand through his hair in frustration, “that we may never know the truth. Everyone who could tell us exactly what happened that night is dead.”
When Gemma and Kerry walked out of the hotel after saying goodbye to Chris Cusick, Gemma felt her mobile vibrate. Checking it, she saw that she’d just missed a call. She put a hand over her other ear, trying to shut out some of the traffic noise as she listened to a garbled voice message.
“That was Asia Ford,” she said to Kerry when it finished. “Something about the high-proof alcohol she uses for her limoncello having gone missing. She sounded quite upset.” Gemma tapped Redial on the number, but it rang half a dozen times before switching over to what sounded like an answering machine. She disconnected without leaving a message. “No answer. But in her message she said she’d be waiting to hear back from us.”
“High-proof alcohol?” Kerry looked dismayed. “Christ. Don’t tell me it was right under our noses the whole time. We’d better go have a word with her.”
Now, Gemma regretted the walk back up the incline of Earl’s Court Road, which had seemed gentle enough going down. Her legs were aching by the time they reached the police station, and even Kerry was puffing a bit. When they reached Gemma’s car, she tried Asia Ford’s number again. Still no answer. Her unease grew. “Let’s take mine,” she said, unlocking the Escort, and Kerry agreed.
“High-proof alcohol,” Kerry repeated as Gemma drove. “Easily accessible to anyone who knew she used it. Not Edward Miller’s raw spirits at all.”
“You can’t think Asia Ford gave it to Reagan?”
“I doubt she’d be calling us if she had.” Taking out her phone, Boatman typed something in. “Listen. Here’s a recipe: ‘151 proof grain alcohol. Lemon zest. Sugar. Water.’ It says not to use vodka because even the strongest vodka has flavor.”
“Everyone on the garden knew Asia made limoncello,” said Gemma. “Or if they didn’t, they knew after the garden party.” She tried to push her speed up a bit, but it was pointless in the congestion of Kensington High Street at near lunchtime. Handing her mobile to Kerry, she added, “Try again, why don’t you?”
Kerry complied, then shook her head when there was no answer. “Maybe she forgot.”
“Asia Ford may be a little eccentric, but she didn’t strike me as the least bit dotty.”
“Maybe when you didn’t ring back right away, she decided it wasn’t urgent.”
“Maybe,” said Gemma.
They rang Asia Ford’s bell but there was no reply. They rang again and waited. Kerry was starting to look annoyed. “Really,” she said, “if it was that impor—”
“Let’s try Nita’s,” Gemma interrupted. “Maybe we can go through the garden.”
They walked two doors up, but there was no answer at the Cusicks’, either.
“How about Mrs. Armitage,
then,” suggested Gemma. “She’s most likely to be home this time of day.” It meant going round the Kensington Park Road end of the garden. As they walked, Gemma tried to see through the thick rose hedge that covered the garden’s only area of iron fencing, along the street, but it was impenetrable. Sleeping Beauty’s hedge, indeed, she thought.
Mrs. Armitage answered on the first ring, to Gemma’s relief. “Detectives. What can I do for you?” she asked with a smile, ushering them in. “Have you come back for tea and tarts?”
“Could you let us into the garden?” Gemma asked. “I had a call from Asia Ford, saying she wanted to see us urgently, but now she’s not answering her phone or her door. We thought perhaps she might be outside.”
“Of course. Do come through. That’s not like Asia,” Mrs. Armitage added, frowning, as she led them down to the kitchen and out the back door. “Did she say why she wanted to see you?”
“Something about her limoncello,” Gemma said, not wanting to elaborate until she had a better idea what this was about.
To Gemma’s surprise, Mrs. Armitage led them, not by the path, but straight across the grass. “I don’t think Clive will mind if we walk on the grass for once,” she said. The garden seemed different today, Gemma thought, feeling the soft turf give beneath her feet. It took her a moment to realize that in the last half hour, clouds had come scudding in from the west. The light had gone soft and gray, making the colors of the grass and flowers seem more intense, and she caught the faintest scent of rain in the air.
There was no sign of Asia Ford in the communal garden. But as they drew nearer to her house, they saw that the little gate into Asia’s covered patio stood open. “That’s odd,” murmured Mrs. Armitage. “Asia never leaves her gate open.”
Gemma’s uneasiness plummeted to dread. Hurrying, she was first through the gate, calling out, “Asia? Miss Ford?”
The kitchen door stood open as well. There was a faint sound from inside and Gemma hurried into the kitchen. Asia Ford sat on one of the wicker kitchen chairs, holding a tea towel to the back of her head. Her face was white as chalk and the look she gave Gemma was puzzled.
The Garden of Lamentations Page 28