“How did you know I was awake?” he asked with a slight frown, conveying—he hoped—only a mild curiosity. He saw that she’d pulled the privacy curtain separating the bed and the main part of the room from the door.
“A little bird in your friend Tommy’s office.” She shook her head, made a tsk of disapproval. “Den, did you think I wouldn’t notice you’d pulled the Craig files? I thought you had more sense. Why, after all this time, would you care what happened to Angus Craig? I’d say he got his just desserts.”
“No one deserves to be murdered, not even Angus. And what about Edie, Lynn?” The photos in the case file were still sharp in his mind. A surge of rage made him clench his fists in the flimsy blanket, but he kept his voice calm. “Was she just collateral damage?”
“Angus Craig had every reason to commit suicide. And it’s unfortunate that angry, desperate people often take those closest to them.” Evelyn Trent shrugged, and he could have sworn he heard the silk of her very expensive suit rustle against itself. “We both know that, Denis.” She might have been correcting a slow child.
He looked at this woman, wondering how he could ever have thought her a friend. When he first began to suspect her hand in the seeping corruption within the force, he’d told himself she hadn’t been bad in the beginning. But now he knew that the rot had been there from the first, and that the failure to see it had been his.
“I know,” he said, “that Angus Craig, whatever else he may have done, did not murder his wife. And he did not commit suicide.”
Lynn looked amused. “Not even you could tell that from the investigation file.”
“He told me himself.”
“What?” For the first time, she looked startled. And irritated. “Don’t be daft. He couldn’t have.”
“But he did. I went to see him that night. I wanted him to admit what he’d done to Sheila. I wanted to know if she was the first. He laughed at me and told me I was a fool.
“It was you who killed Sheila, he said. When you paged him that night, he’d just left Mickey and the others in the pub. He knew it wasn’t Mickey who’d throttled her. He knew it wasn’t me. I could barely stand, much less strangle someone.”
“Denis.” She shook her head, as if exasperated, but she moved a step closer, her hand resting lightly on the foot of the bed. “You really are ill. What utter nonsense. Are you going to suggest I raped her, too?”
“She wasn’t raped. There were no signs of sexual assault. All that business of straightening her skirt, that was for my benefit. Window dressing.”
“Really?” Lynn said, frowning, cocking her head a little as she looked at him. It was a mannerism he remembered. He’d once found it fetching. “Assuming for a moment that the blow on your head didn’t knock you completely senseless,” she went on, “why on earth would I do such a thing?”
“Because she was a spy.” He licked his lips. “A spy among the spies, a cat among the pigeons. Ironic, don’t you think? And put there by Angus Craig himself—irony of ironies—because he didn’t trust us not to go native. If you were feeling too much sympathy for your antidiscrimination protesters or your animal rights activists, who would you confide in but party girl Sheila?
“But Sheila found something completely unexpected. You were playing both sides of the coin, taking payoffs from your protest group in return for information on police activities. You were always seen together, you and Sheila. Someone approached her, thinking she was in on the deal. Sheila must have tried to talk to you about it, because you were friends.
“What you didn’t know when you decided to shut her up was that she’d already told Angus.” His throat was going dry. Very deliberately, he reached for his water cup and took a sip from the straw, wondering if he could throw the water in her face. And what good it would do if he did. His hand shook.
“Assuming any of this rubbish was true,” Lynn said slowly “why didn’t he stop me?” Her voice was still controlled, but he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“And blow open his whole Special Branch operation, the operation he’d spent years putting together?” He managed a croak of laughter. “But he had an even better reason than that. Leverage over you. It served him well for more than twenty years as you rose in the ranks. Complaints against him were ignored or dismissed. But he asked too much the last time, didn’t he, Lynn? He was blown, facing assault allegations and a manslaughter charge at the least. He wanted you to make it all go away. Threatened you, in fact, if it didn’t. Angus Craig had been as useful to you as you were to him, but you’d had enough, and you couldn’t be certain he didn’t have something that could hurt you.
“He was cocky that night,” he continued. “Certain you’d come through for him and all his troubles would vanish in a puff of smoke. Which they did, just not in the way he expected.” Denis looked at her with revulsion. “Who did you get to do such a job, Lynn?”
“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, and it was instantly clear that she’d dropped all pretense. “I’m Evelyn. I was always Evelyn. As for Angus, your old friend Mickey came in very handy. He never liked Angus much, especially after Angus deemed him unfit to continue in the job.
“Mickey didn’t succeed as well with you, unfortunately for both of you. But he, at least, is no longer a problem.”
“Dead?”
“Mmm. He thought he could take out his handler. Stupid of him. But when you kept breathing, he was afraid—rightfully so—that his usefulness had come to an end, so he tried to extricate himself. It’s too bad he didn’t hit you harder.” She quirked an eyebrow. “I’m surprised, because he liked you even less than Angus.” Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry you woke up, Denis, really I am. It was very inconvenient of you.”
Forcing a smile, he said, “What are you going to do, Lynn? Smother me with a pillow?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Denis,” she said, but her voice was hard, the malice palpable. She stepped closer, leaning towards him. “You know I don’t need to do that. You do love your wife, you know. That’s always been your weakness. I don’t think you could live with yourself if anything happened to her.”
He shook his head. A mistake. The room rocked and it was a moment before he could gather himself for a denial. “That won’t work with me twice, Lynn.” But even as he said it, his dream came back to him, the fire and the terrible fear, and he wasn’t sure he could hold firm.
Kincaid reached the lift corridor and hesitated. Diane had told him she’d already rung Faith. If Denis trusted the detective chief superintendent that much, was he a fool not to?
He paced, moving back so as not to block the lift, and keeping a watchful eye on the visitors going up or coming down. Then, his decision made, he found a secluded corner and called Tom Faith’s mobile number. He might be a fool, but not fool enough to go through the station’s phone system.
When Faith answered, he identified himself, then said, “Diane told me that Denis is awake. I’m at the London. Look, sir, you may think I’m daft, but I think he needs protection. I’ll explain, but in the meantime, could you—”
“I’m on my way now,” Faith told him. “I’ll have a couple of uniforms meet me there. Then you can tell me what the hell is going on.” The phone went dead in Kincaid’s ear.
Going up in the lift, Kincaid checked for messages from Doug or Melody, but there was nothing. Not that he’d have expected to hear from either of them this soon, but he felt even more alone. Switching his phone to Silent, according to hospital visiting regulations, he slipped it into his pocket.
What, he wondered as the lift doors opened, was he going to say to Denis? Where would he even start?
It was the quiet of the afternoon, the lull in hospital routine, and the corridor was empty. When he reached the room, the door was closed. He debated knocking, then decided that if Denis was napping, he wouldn’t wake him. Easing the door open, he stepped inside as quietly as he could manage.
He saw immediately that the privacy curtai
n between the door and the bed area had been pulled. When he heard the murmur of voices, his first thought was to back out and wait in the corridor until the nurse or aide had finished. But, then he heard Denis say, “Angus Craig, whatever else he may have done, did not murder his wife. And he did not commit suicide.”
Then, a woman’s voice murmured something Kincaid didn’t recognize, but he caught the words “case files.” His heart leapt into his throat as realization dawned.
Christ. It was Trent. It had to be. She hadn’t sent Nick Callery—she’d come herself. He stood for a moment, paralyzed.
The voices grew louder. He could make out what she was saying now and suddenly he knew what to do. Taking a careful step nearer the curtain, he slipped the mobile from his pocket and found the voice recorder app, hoping to God it would capture the conversation on the other side of the curtain. Then, he stood, hardly daring to breathe, holding the mobile up as he listened in growing horror. Trent’s heels clicked on the tile floor as if she’d stepped nearer the bed.
She said, clearly, “You do love your wife, you know, Denny. That’s always been your weakness.”
Kincaid couldn’t make out Denis’s muffled response. Panicked, he yanked the curtain aside and charged into the room.
“That’s enough,” he barked. “Don’t touch him.”
Evelyn Trent stood a foot from the head of Denis’s bed. She whirled round, her face contorted with surprise. It seemed to take her a moment to recognize Kincaid. Then, she spat, “You. What are you doing here? Get out.”
“Step away from the bed,” Kincaid said levelly.
She must have seen something in his face, because she backed away from Denis in a movement that seemed almost involuntary.
“I heard everything,” Kincaid told her. “You’re not touching him. Or Diane.”
But he saw her control returning, and with it, her contempt. “Really, Superintendent?” she said. “Or is it Inspector, now? I understand you’ve had a demotion recently. Something to do with your unprofessional conduct. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but I’ll have no trouble seeing you get a medical discharge.”
“Like Frank Fletcher?” Kincaid asked. When her mouth tightened, he knew he’d hit the target. “Oh, yes, we know about Fletcher. We know about a lot of things.” Kincaid pulled the mobile from his pocket and held it up. “And I got every word just now. Oh, and what do you know.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s still recording.”
Denis, who looked gray with exhaustion, managed a thumbs-up. “Good lad.”
Trent’s eyes went wide with shock. “You little shit.” She glanced from the phone to his face and back again, calculating. Then she launched herself at Kincaid just as Chief Superintendent Faith came bursting through the door.
Kincaid managed to catch Trent’s wrists as she scrabbled for his phone. Panting, he’d pinned her hands behind her back when Denis said, “You’d better give Mr. Kincaid a hand, Tom. I think the deputy assistant commissioner has done quite enough damage for one day.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“The only thing we haven’t worked out,” Kincaid told Gemma on Saturday morning as they nursed second cups of coffee at the kitchen table, “is why Kate Ling falsified Ryan Marsh’s postmortem.” It had taken him two days to catch Gemma up, and they were still talking over the details of the case.
“It’s the pathologist’s call on that type of injury,” Gemma objected. “You said so yourself.”
“Still, her judgment will come into question. You know that.”
The gentleness of his tone made her bristle. “Let me talk to her. Off the record. I can’t believe she was part of Trent’s network.”
“You don’t want to believe it.” Before she could argue, he added, “Neither do I. I suppose it can’t hurt for you to have a word. She’ll have read about Trent in the papers.”
That morning, the Chronicle had published a front-page spread on Trent’s arrest, promising a full investigation into the DAC’s two decades of allegedly corrupt and illegal activities.
So it was that just after lunch, Kincaid having promised to drop Toby off at ballet and take Charlotte to the park, that Gemma found a parking spot on the Fulham Road, not too far from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. She’d left a message for Kate, asking if she could see her for a few minutes.
She found Kate Ling in her office, in jeans and a T-shirt, packing things into cardboard boxes. Gemma realized she’d never seen Kate out of scrubs. The pathologist’s shoulders looked bird thin under the light fabric of the cotton T-shirt, and her jeans hung loosely on her hips.
“Gemma.” Turning, Kate gave Gemma a smile, then crossed the room and gave her a most unprofessional hug.
“Kate.” Gemma, taking in the open drawers and toppling stacks of books and papers, was shocked at the disarray. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Leaving.” Kate shrugged. “I’m retiring from the service.”
“What? Why?”
Kate pushed back the broomstick-straight hair Gemma had always envied from her forehead and blew out a sigh. “Maybe we’d better sit.” Looking round, she moved a filled box from a chair and gestured Gemma into it, then perched against the only uncluttered corner of her desk. “I think I told you my mother was ill?” She touched a few silver-framed photographs which were, unlike the rest of the room’s contents, stacked tidily, facedown on the desk. “She died on Thursday.”
“Oh,” said Gemma, feeling totally at a loss. “I’m so sorry.”
“She had cancer. It wasn’t unexpected. And she was very peaceful at the end.”
“But—” Gemma gestured at the desk, then tried to start again. “I mean, I understand you must be reeling, but why this?”
“I’m in charge of her affairs, which are quite . . . complicated. And I need a rest.”
It was true, Gemma saw. As soon as Kate relaxed, the exhaustion was clearly visible, her dark eyes smudged with weariness.
“What did you want to see me about?” Kate asked. “Is it the girl in the garden? I’m afraid I still don’t have the DNA results.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Gemma hesitated, then made herself go on, as much as she hated now to do it. “It’s about another postmortem you did. Back in February. A man called Ryan Marsh.”
“Oh, God,” Kate whispered. She seemed to sink into herself, her cheekbones suddenly sharp against her pale skin. She looked so faint that Gemma quickly urged her into her own chair, moving books from another so that she could sit beside her.
She patted Kate’s hand. “I’m sorry to upset you. But can you tell me about that postmortem?”
“The body came to me,” Kate said slowly. “It looked like a routine suicide, except I thought it odd that I hadn’t been called to the scene. And odd that I was getting a death from Hackney, but sometimes that happens when the other pathologists on the rota are overloaded. Then, a man showed up—he said he was a detective but he never showed me his identification. He was very charming at first and I didn’t think anything out of the ordinary. We chatted a bit. Then, he smiled at me and said he was sure I would find the case a suicide.
“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked him, puzzled. Then, he smiled again and said that if I didn’t find it a suicide, my mother would learn what my father had been up to—” Kate took a breath and pressed her fingertips hard into the hollow of her cheeks. “You have to understand,” she went on, after a moment, “that my mother came from China when she was eight years old. Hers was a very strict Chinese family. My father—my father is third generation. The old values don’t matter to him. But to my mother, there is nothing worse than dishonor to the family.”
Gemma nodded. “I understand, I think. And your father had done something that would tarnish the family?”
Kate nodded. “Gambling debts. And he’d made bad investments in property. This man, this detective, said that if I didn’t do as he asked, all of those debts would be called in. My father would be ban
krupt. The family honor would be ruined.”
From what Kincaid had told her, Gemma thought, it was classic Evelyn Trent manipulation, using for another purpose information she must have garnered through her property dealings. And Trent had, as usual, used a surrogate. She said, “Kate, this detective. He never told you his name?”
Kate shook her head. “No. You understand that none of this was said so baldly. He was—at least I thought at first—so reasonable about it all. And he was so good looking that I—I thought he—.” She shook her head, coloring at the admission. “But when I realized what he was asking, I was mortified. And furious. I told him I’d make whatever determination I saw fit. He smiled and said he wished me the best.
“I meant to try to find out who he was. But then, when I’d done the postmortem, and I was sure it wasn’t suicide, I was . . . afraid. The more I thought about him, the detective, the more I believed he would do what he said. There was something so cold beneath the charm, and I just hadn’t the courage to risk my mother’s peace of mind.” She brushed at tears. “Who was he really, Gemma? The dead man? I’ve dreamed about him.”
Gemma hesitated, but decided that if anyone had a right to know, it was Kate. “He was a cop who refused to do what the same people asked of him. I can’t tell you if you made the wrong or the right decision, Kate. But I can be pretty certain they’d have carried out their threat if you hadn’t. And your refusal wouldn’t have helped their victim.”
“Thank you,” Kate said quietly. Then she sighed. “But it still doesn’t make what I did right. I destroyed my honor, too. I knew I couldn’t go on with the job after that, but I also knew if I quit, my mum would think I’d given up my job because of her illness. But now . . .”
“Can you describe the man who threatened you?” asked Gemma.
Kate grimaced. “I don’t like to think about it. But, yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if concentrating on the memory. “Forties. Well built.” Again, the flush of embarrassment. “Good looking, but the most striking thing was his hair. He was prematurely gray. And his eyes were gray, too. Gives me the creeps now, thinking about it.”
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