The barmaid brought their entrees, and Kincaid felt a bit deflated when it was Doug she smiled at, not him.
The small casseroles of fish pie were topped with golden mashed potatoes and smelled delicious. When Kincaid dug in with his fork, steam escaped in a cloud.
Doug lifted a bite and blew on it, something Kincaid felt sure his mother had taught him not to do. “But if he knew who Freddie was,” Doug said, “why approach him now?”
“Maybe Becca stirred the pot. We need to know when she found out that Craig had been retired with honors, and that Gaskill—and whoever Gaskill reported to—had not kept their promise to her. And we need to know something else.”
Setting down his knife and fork without tasting the dish, Kincaid pulled out his phone and dialed back the number in his caller ID.
“DC Bell? Kincaid here. You’re still in the flat?”
“Yes, sir. Making some progress here. The kitchen and Mr. Atterton are both tidied up.” She sounded quite pleased with herself. “I’m about to help Fre—Mr. Atterton—make some of the necessary phone calls.”
“SOCOs gone?”
“Yes, sir. I think they got everything they needed, and the lads said to tell you that they’ll go over the car as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, detective. Good work.” Kincaid paused, realizing he needed to be circumspect. “DC Bell, could you ask Mr. Atterton which evening last week he met the gentleman in the bar?”
“Um, right, sir.” There was a muffled murmur of conversation, then Bell came back clearly on the line. “He says he thinks it was Thursday.” He could hear curiosity in her voice, but he thanked her without further comment and rang off.
“Thursday,” Kincaid repeated in answer to Doug’s querying look.
Wincing as he nibbled on a piece of smoked haddock, Doug whistled through his teeth, then said, “Hotter than blazes.” He took a sip of water. Thoughtfully, he added, “It could have been coincidence, I suppose, Craig running into Freddie.”
“Could have been, yes,” Kincaid agreed. “And maybe it was just coincidence that Becca Meredith’s behavior altered the next day. But I’d like you to go back to West London Station. Have a word with Becca’s colleagues. See if you can find out what was different about Friday.”
“And what are you going to be doing?” Doug asked, giving him a suspicious glance.
“Something I don’t want you involved with.” Kincaid contemplated his untouched lunch. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. “I’m going to have a talk with Angus Craig.”
Doug’s eyes widened. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. “The guv’nor is not going to like that.”
That was an understatement, Kincaid thought.
He had pushed the envelope often enough in his career, or flown under the radar, knowing that Childs would give him considerable leeway if he solved a case. But he didn’t remember ever having gone against the express wishes of his commanding officer.
He’d told Chief Superintendent Childs that he didn’t approve of the way Becca Meredith’s allegations against Craig had been handled. He’d said he thought Craig was a viable suspect.
And he had been warned off.
He drank more of his tea, not caring that it had gone stone cold. It served to wet his suddenly dry mouth.
If he had any sense, he would walk away from this case now. Let someone else take it over. Let Freddie Atterton, a man he believed to be innocent, be made a convenient scapegoat. And let the whole dirty business of Angus Craig using his authority to prey on women—women like Gemma and Becca Meredith and God knew how many others—be swept under the rug.
“Well, no, I suspect he’s not going to like it,” he said slowly to Doug. “But I don’t intend to tell him just yet.”
Chapter Sixteen
I steel myself to launch the twenty biggest strokes of my life and from the first stroke I can feel the surge of power as all of us commit our full strength. [James Livingston]
—David and James Livingston
Blood Over Water
By the time Doug Cullen made his connection in Twyford and took the train from there into Paddington, it was getting on towards mid-afternoon.
He took the tube to Shepherd’s Bush. From there, it was a good walk to West London Station, but Doug didn’t mind it. The day was still fine, and after seeing the rowers at Leander that morning, Doug had come to the uncomfortable realization that he had a lot of shaping up to do if he was going to be fit enough to get back in a single scull.
Both the train journey and the walk had given him time to think as well, and he’d worked out a strategy. He certainly wasn’t going to attempt to chat up Superintendent Peter Gaskill—in fact, he wanted to avoid Gaskill if at all possible.
Their initial conversation with Sergeant Kelly Patterson had made him think she was not likely to be more forthcoming, so that left the DC, Bryan Bisik.
When he reached the station, he asked the desk sergeant to ring up for Bisik, and a few minutes later the detective constable came down. Bisik looked worried, and a little the worse for wear. His pale face was pasty, the skin beneath his eyes slightly reddened and puffy, and his gelled dark hair bore flakes of dandruff.
“Sergeant Cullen,” he said. “Have there been any—any developments?”
“You could say that,” Cullen replied. “Some of them quite interesting.”
“I’m sorry, but the super’s not in.”
“It’s you I wanted to talk to, actually. Is there somewhere we could have a chat?”
Bisik gave a wary glance towards the desk sergeant. “I don’t know what I could tell you that we didn’t go over the other day.”
Turning so that his back was to the desk sergeant, Doug lowered his voice. “If your super is out, how about I buy you a pint?”
“Well . . .” Bisik glanced at the reception desk again. The sergeant was now on the phone. He lowered his voice. “Okay. Look, there’s a pub down at Brook Green. Just go back towards the tube station and you’ll see it. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Wait for me outside. Pint of Foster’s.”
Doug remembered the pub, a nice-looking establishment. When he reached the place, it was still early enough that the few sidewalk tables were unoccupied. He went in and bought two pints, and by the time he’d carried them outside and picked a table, Bisik appeared, walking fast.
“Thanks, mate,” Bisik said, sitting heavily in one of the metal chairs and raising his glass to Doug. After one long draught, he put the beer down and pulled a packet of Silk Cuts from his jacket pocket. He shook a cigarette out and lit it with a sigh of relief. “God, I was gasping.”
Then he frowned, took another drag, and ground the cigarette out in the metal ashtray. A plume of blue smoke rose straight up in the still air. He shook his head. “But the total pisser is that I can’t smoke now without feeling guilty. Becca was always on at Kelly and me about it. I think we smoked more just to annoy her. But now . . . Every time I light up, I hear her voice. Kelly, too.”
“Where is Sergeant Patterson today?” Doug asked.
“You don’t know?”
Doug shook his head. “Know what?”
“She got seconded to another division. As of yesterday. No warning.”
“You’re having me on.” Doug stared at him, the pint in his hand forgotten.
“I wish I was.” Bisik drank some more beer, shrugged. “I suspect I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Did Sergeant Patterson tell you she spoke to us?”
“No. But I saw her, outside the station. Looks like I wasn’t the only one who did.”
Doug ran through the possibilities. Had Gaskill seen them? Or had it been the desk sergeant, reporting to Gaskill? Trying to remember who else might have walked by in those brief seconds, he felt suddenly uncomfortably exposed.
When Bisik saw him glance up and down the street, he said, “Relax. We’re a good ways from the station. That’s why I chose this pub.” He lit another Silk Cut. “And besides, I don’t k
now anything. I don’t know what Kelly told you. If they want to send me to Siberia, at this point I’m not sure I care.”
“So you don’t know anything about Angus Craig?”
Bisik squinted at him, then pulled a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. The sun’s rays were dropping lower. “Who’s Angus Craig when he’s at home?”
Doug shook his head. “If you don’t know, maybe it’s better you don’t ask. Where is Superintendent Gaskill this afternoon, by the way?” He wondered if even now Gaskill was planning to remove everyone who had been close to Rebecca Meredith.
But that was ridiculous. Paranoid. He was definitely getting paranoid.
“Golfing,” said Bisik. “Not my cup of tea, but he lives for golfing, our super. And I suppose it’s a good day for it, if you like that sort of thing. Me, I’d rather sit in a beer garden.” He took his sunglasses off again, fiddling with the earpiece. “The guv’nor—Becca—would have said it was a perfect day for rowing.”
Doug saw his opening. “Last Friday was fine like this, wasn’t it? But she didn’t go home to Henley to train. Any idea why?”
“Last Friday?” Frowning, Bisik twirled the sunglasses. Doug found himself hoping they were only Portobello Market knockoffs. “No. She left at the usual time.”
Disappointed, Doug asked, “Anything else unusual about that day? She left her car in London and took the train back to Henley, which apparently she didn’t normally do.”
Bisik drank some more of his pint with maddening deliberation. “We were working on that knifing case and getting nowhere,” he said slowly. “Kids saw their mate get stuck in the gut but none of them will testify. Can’t say I blame them, honestly. They’d just be asking for the same thing to happen to them. But Becca was seriously pissed off. Can’t think of—oh, wait.” He beamed at Doug. “This Vice copper came in from another division. She and Becca were chatting in Becca’s office.”
“She?”
“Yeah. Seems like they knew each other. Old girls’ palaver.”
“Do you have any idea who this officer was, or why she was in your station?”
“No. I was interviewing stroppy teenagers most of the afternoon.” Bisik gave a little smirk, as if pleased at a recollection. “Blond bird, about the guv’nor’s age. Not bad looking. I wouldn’t have minded taking her out for a drink.” He took a drag on the cigarette, his guilt apparently forgotten for the moment. “But I wasn’t introduced. I just heard enough of the chitchat in passing to get the impression that they went back a while. You know, ‘How’s your Uncle George, then?’ That sort of thing. And Becca was actually smiling. Now that, I would say, was unusual.
“Maybe they went out for drinks,” he added, looking surprised at the idea. “I suppose the guv did have a social life, although we never saw any evidence of it.”
“So who would know who this woman was?”
“Kelly—Sergeant Patterson—maybe. She was in CID that afternoon. But she’s in Dulwich, or Plumstead, or somewhere. Always confuse those two. And probably the super, since this bird was on our patch.”
Doug thought it would probably be a very good idea to try other avenues before he asked Superintendent Gaskill for that information. “Do you have Sergeant Patterson’s mobile number?”
“Yeah.” Bisik put out the fag and pulled out his phone, then fished in his jacket pocket until he came up with a crumpled Ladbrokes slip. Helpfully, Doug handed him a pen.
Bisik scrolled down the phone’s screen, then scribbled a number on the slip and handed it across. “Good luck getting her to answer, mate. I’ve been trying her since yesterday.”
It had taken Kincaid longer to get away from Henley than he’d hoped. When he and Cullen had separated after their rather late lunch, he’d gone back to the incident room. He’d briefed DI Singla and the rest of team on their interview with Freddie Atterton, leaving out only Atterton’s last revelation.
Then he’d made a second statement to the few hardy members of the press—mostly sportswriters hoping for a juicy biopic tidbit—still camping outside the police station.
He had not called Chief Superintendent Childs, and that was weighing on him.
But passing Hambleden Mill on his drive to the village had brought home the fact that Angus Craig lived within a vigorous walk’s distance of the place where Rebecca Meredith’s body had been found. And although Craig might not have walked quite so easily to the spot on the Bucks bank where they thought Becca had actually been murdered, he could certainly have got there quickly and easily in a car.
He slowed as he reached the village of Hambleden. The church, the pub, the redbrick, rose-rambled cottages—all were picture-postcard perfect.
And the house, when he found it, just outside the village and set back on a long drive, was imposing enough to make a mere detective superintendent think twice about knocking unannounced at the grand door.
Kincaid might have been tempted to call the place a great pile of brick if it hadn’t blended so gracefully into the landscape. The fact that he couldn’t pinpoint the house’s architectural origins made him think it had been added on to over the years with more than usual skill.
The sweeping lawns of the grounds were immaculate. The warm brick and red tile roof of the house merged into the autumnal blaze of the trees on the hill beyond as if painted against a backdrop.
It was lovely, a place to cherish, and a place meant to impress.
And it was all very grand, even for a deputy assistant commissioner in the Met. Maybe, Kincaid thought charitably, the wife had money.
Stopping the Astra in the drive, he wondered exactly what he was going to say to Angus Craig, then decided it might be better if he didn’t think too much about it.
Climbing out of the Astra, he closed the door with the softest of clicks, straightened his tie, and crunched across the gravel drive. He’d just have to make it up as he went along.
The bell was a brass gryphon, and when he pressed it, he heard a clang from deep within the house, then the faint yip of a dog.
He waited, shifting his weight a bit. After the drama of the doorbell, he wouldn’t have been surprised to be greeted by a butler in a starched shirt and morning suit, but it was Angus Craig himself who answered the door.
Craig looked as Kincaid remembered, although he might have put a few pounds on an already sturdy frame since Kincaid had last seen him. His thinning sandy hair was combed back from his broad, florid face, which bore the annoyed scowl of a man interrupted while doing something important. He wore golfing clothes and was still in studded shoes.
Afraid that the sight of the Astra might make Craig take him for a double-glazing salesman, Kincaid took the initiative. “Assistant Commissioner Craig? I’m Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, with the Yard. I doubt you remember me, but I’ve been on one or two of your command courses at Bramshill.”
The scowl was quickly replaced by a falsely jovial smile, and Kincaid realized that Angus Craig not only knew who he was but why he was there.
“Superintendent Kincaid, yes, I remember you. I hear you’re doing a good job on the Meredith investigation.”
“Thank you, sir. I wondered if I might have a word?”
“Of course,” Craig said, but he looked less than pleased. “Come in. We can talk in my study. I was just changing my shoes.”
As Kincaid followed him inside, Craig cast a glance at the Astra before closing the door. “I should think the Yard could provide an officer of your rank with a little better class of vehicle.”
“It’s my personal car, sir.” Kincaid felt surprisingly defensive on the Astra’s behalf.
Raising a sandy brow, Craig made no apology for the insulting comment. His shoes clicked on the wide-planked oak floors as he walked away, and Kincaid wondered how Craig’s wife must feel about the man’s disregard for the fine fabric of the house. Craig stopped at a bench in the hall, changing his golf shoes for leather slippers while Kincaid waited.
The interior
of the house was not as ostentatious as Kincaid had expected. Walls and woodwork were painted a soft white. The furniture and flower arrangements were simple, if expensive looking, and a tasteful series of charcoal nudes, both male and female, adorned one wall. From somewhere in the back of the house, he heard a dog’s high-pitched barking.
Craig set the golf shoes to one side of the bench and stood up. “Damn that dog. The wife’s. He does that whenever she’s out.” He nodded towards a room across the hall. “This way, Superintendent.”
Following him through the doorway, Kincaid saw that while the room was as beautifully proportioned as the rest of the house, it was marred by an overlarge desk.
Wide windows gave a view of the front lawns, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, a small fire burned in a beautifully curved iron grate.
Two wingback leather chairs sat at an angle before the fire, forming an inviting conversation nook. But Craig chose to sit behind his massive desk, leaving Kincaid in the awkward position of having to pull up a small armless chair.
It was the same sort of intimidation tactic practiced by Peter Gaskill and it would have made Kincaid dislike Craig even if he’d known nothing else about him.
Dark bookcases displayed golfing trophies, interspersed with leather-bound copies of classics that Kincaid suspected had never been read. A console table between the windows held a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and two cut-crystal tumblers on a tray, but Craig made no move to offer Kincaid a drink.
Kincaid settled back as comfortably as he could in the small chair, brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel, and looked round the room. He wasn’t about to give Craig the satisfaction of displaying a reaction to his rudeness, and he wanted to see what line Craig would take about Becca Meredith if unprompted.
Craig took the bait. “Tragic, this business with DCI Meredith,” he said. “But I understand the ex-husband is the likely suspect.” He didn’t say who exactly had given him to understand this.
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