To dwell in darkness a n.., p.28
To Dwell in Darkness: A Novel, page 28
part #16 of Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James Series
“No. I rang him awhile ago, but it went to voice mail. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just . . . I tried, too. Do you think he’ll be back soon?”
Gemma glanced at Melody, who looked as puzzled as she felt.
“Kit.” She went over to the sink, reached around him, and turned the water off. “What’s this about? Is something wrong?”
He still didn’t face her. “Something . . . weird . . . happened. Erika said I should tell you.”
Gently Gemma turned him around. His face was flushed. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me, then.”
“Would you rather I left, Kit?” asked Melody.
“No. You should probably hear this, too.” He wiped his dripping hands on the tea towel. To Gemma, he said, “You know that girl who came into the café yesterday? Ariel?” Gemma nodded. “She came to the house. Not long after you left this morning.”
“What? She came here?”
Kit nodded. “She said Dad told her she could come see the kittens. She was all apologetic—said she hadn’t meant to intrude and she’d come another time. So I—let her in.” The last bit came out in a rush.
“What happened?” Gemma asked carefully, fighting a frisson of apprehension and the urge to glance at Melody.
“Nothing. It was just . . . I don’t know. It just seemed wrong. I can’t explain why. And I feel stupider now than I did when I told Erika.”
“She didn’t . . . touch you, did she?”
“Oh, God, no.” Kit looked mortified, but he didn’t meet her eyes and Gemma thought perhaps the girl had done something that he wasn’t willing to admit. “But she picked up a kitten and . . .” He shook his head. “It didn’t feel . . . I didn’t think she really liked it. I just wanted her to leave.”
“And did she?”
“Yeah. But—”
Gemma waited, trying not to push him.
“When I told her we found the kittens on Wednesday, she said that was when her friend had died, and that she thought she was meant to have one of the kittens. Was she talking about the guy who . . . burned?”
“I don’t know,” said Gemma, trying to recall everything that Duncan had told her, although a glance at Melody’s expression told her that was probably the case.
Shifting from foot to foot, Kit said, “She wanted to know where Dad was.”
“You didn’t tell her anything?”
“No. Just that he was out somewhere.” Kit fidgeted. “Can I go upstairs now? I have a paper to finish for school tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Gemma told him.
Kit was halfway across the room in one stride. Then he stopped and turned back to Gemma. “Will you tell Dad?”
“Of course,” she said again. “As soon as he gets home.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a fleeting smile, and a moment later they heard him running up the stairs.
“Would Duncan have told the girl that, and given her your address?” Melody asked, coming to stand beside Gemma at the sink.
“I can’t imagine that he would.” Gemma frowned. “Although he did seem to feel sorry for her. Still . . .” She gazed out the window. The intermittent rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky was heavy, and dark would come early. “I wish they’d get back. Doug hasn’t rung you, either?”
“No. I’d just checked in case I’d missed a call or a text when Kit came in.” Melody picked up Kit’s damp tea towel. “Here, you wash, I’ll dry.”
Absently, Gemma opened the cupboard and reached under the sink again for her kitchen gloves. Then she stopped, the yellow rubber fingers dangling from her hand.
“What’s wrong?” asked Melody, giving her a surprised glance.
“Oh, surely not,” whispered Gemma, staring at the gloves. “You heard what Kit said. ‘No proper bloke would be caught dead using kitchen gloves.’ I’ve never seen Kit or Duncan use them.”
“Doug doesn’t own a pair,” Melody said. “Nor does Andy. I’ve bought my own so I wouldn’t ruin my hands doing the washing-up.”
Gemma held the gloves up between them. “Dillon Underwood had kitchen gloves under his sink. What if—I know it sounds daft—but what if that’s what he used when he strangled Mercy? That’s why there were no fingerprints on her skin. We looked for nitrile gloves, but not ordinary kitchen gloves.”
“Yes, but . . . Surely he would have washed them by now, or even bleached them?” protested Melody.
“But what if he didn’t?” said Gemma. “What if those gloves were the only trophy he dared keep? And he’d have thought he was so clever, leaving them in plain sight.” She dropped the Marigolds on the work top and grabbed her phone from the kitchen table. “I’m going to have uniform and the SOCOs pick them up now. It’s worth a try. We’ve already got the warrant.”
Gemma had made the call, and Melody had finished the washing up—sans gloves—when they heard the sound of a car. They both went to the front window. Gemma’s orchid-colored Ford Escort had pulled up in front of the house. The doors all opened at once and three men got out. Absurdly, Gemma thought of clowns emerging from a tiny circus car. But this was Duncan and Doug, and from the back climbed a scruffy-looking stranger hoisting a large backpack.
“Oh, my God.” Beside her, Melody had raised a hand to her mouth. “It’s him. It’s really him. They found Ryan Marsh.”
Kincaid had sensed Marsh growing edgy as they drove into the quiet streets of west Notting Hill. By the time he’d parked the car in front of his house, Marsh’s tension was palpable.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Marsh said, sitting forward so that he was breathing down Kincaid’s neck. “For a copper,” he added with a sneer.
Kincaid pulled the key from the Escort’s ignition and turned round, deliberately. “Yes. It is a nice place. And I promise you I am not on the take. But if I am going to invite you into my home, I expect at least the semblance of respect. Is that clear?”
“Okay. Right.” Marsh sat back. “Family money, then?”
“It’s a long story, and it’s none of your business,” Kincaid said, wishing he was as certain now as he had been six months ago that his home was without taint. But this was neither the time nor the place to deal with his worries.
“Let’s get you inside,” Kincaid said and opened his door.
Doug had spotted Melody’s little Renault. “Melody’s here.” He sounded relieved, and Kincaid suspected his ankle was giving him fits. They were tired and cold as well, although they had stopped at a motorway café and eaten. Marsh had sat with his back to the door and shoveled food in as if he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks, rather than days.
Kincaid led the way to the house, with Doug bringing up the rear. The dogs were already barking, and before he could put his key in the lock, the door swung open.
As Gemma shooed the dogs back, Melody faced them. She looked hollow-eyed and pale, still, and once they were inside, she and Ryan Marsh stared at each other as if they had both seen ghosts. “You’re all right,” Melody said at last, reaching out as if she might touch him. Then she dropped her hand to her side.
“And you.” Marsh seemed to search her face. “I’m glad. I’m sorry I—”
Melody was already shaking her head. “It’s all right.”
Nodding, Marsh set down his pack, then knelt to pet the dogs. They were sniffing round his ankles as if they’d never smelled anything more enticing. “Who’s this, then?” Marsh asked.
“Geordie is the cocker,” said Gemma. “And the little terrier is Tess. I’m Gemma, Duncan’s wife.”
Marsh stood and held out his still slightly grubby hand, but Gemma gave it a firm shake regardless. “You have kids, then?” Marsh asked, taking in the scattered toys. He seemed, thought Kincaid, reassured.
“Yes,” answered Gemma. “Two little ones. And a teenager. But the younger two are out with a friend. Come in the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on. Melody and I have drunk enough tea to sink a battleship already, but we can give you a start at catching up.”
It was an awkward gathering. Melody murmured something to Doug, concerned, Kincaid guessed, about his ankle, then pulled out a chair for him. She asked Gemma if they had an ice pack or a bag of frozen peas, and went to dig in their freezer. Ryan Marsh sat, but on the edge of his chair, and looked as if he might bolt any minute.
Kincaid pulled mugs from the cupboard while Gemma filled the kettle. “There’s something you should know,” she said quietly as he stood beside her. “That girl, Ariel, the one who came in the café yesterday. She showed up here this morning, when Kit was on his own. She said you sent her. That you gave her our address.”
“She what?” Kincaid’s voice sounded overloud, and he realized the room had gone quiet. “Of course I didn’t give her our address. What did she want?”
“She said you sent her to see the kittens.”
“I never talked to her about the kittens. It was the children who did that.” He was still baffled. “Could Toby have told her where we lived? He was rattling on about the cats.” They had made both Toby and Charlotte memorize their address, in case they were ever lost.
“No.” Gemma shook her head. “He was never alone with her. I’m sure of it.”
“Then— How could she— No one at the station would have told her—”
The knowledge hit Kincaid like a blow. “She followed me,” he said. “She must have followed me. I took the tube home from the station yesterday. Walking from Holland Park, I thought I felt someone—but I told myself not to be daft—”
“Why?” asked Doug. “Why would she follow you?”
“Kit said she wanted to know where you were,” Gemma said.
“He didn’t tell her?” Kincaid’s heart was pounding with a sudden sickening apprehension.
“He didn’t know.”
“Bloody hell,” Kincaid said. “She followed me! Did she know Kit was home alone?”
Gemma frowned as she thought. “She could have seen me leave. I walked to the tube. But there’s no way she could have known you were gone unless she’d been standing in the street since before dawn. I wonder what she’d have said if you had been here.”
“Maybe that someone at the station gave her your address,” suggested Doug. “Or with Gemma gone, she could have said one of the little ones told her.”
“She lied about her miscarriage, too,” Kincaid said slowly. “I found out yesterday. Cam—one of the other girls,” he explained for the benefit of everyone except Ryan, “Cam told me yesterday that she saw Ariel leaving an abortion clinic, and when she checked, the clinic confirmed that Ariel had the procedure. I didn’t think it was relevant at the time. But if she lied about that, what else did she lie about?” He turned to Ryan. “You said she knew you’d given Paul the smoke bomb. She told me—and everyone else—that she didn’t. Tell me exactly what happened that morning.”
Ryan stared at him, openmouthed. He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together, then said, “Okay. Paul was arguing with Matthew. At the flat. Ariel told Paul to just shut up, that Matthew was never going to change his mind. Then she walked out. I left not long after, but Paul followed me to King’s Cross.” Ryan shook his head. “He just looked so damned defeated. He said Matthew would never give him a chance to prove he was serious about the cause, but that maybe I would. I remember I thought that what he really wanted was to prove himself to Ariel. And I thought”—Ryan hesitated—“I thought maybe it would get her off my back. She’d been coming on to me since—no”—he frowned—“not just since Wren died, but before Wren died. She always seemed so fragile—I didn’t think I could just tell her to bugger off, so I said Paul was her boyfriend and I didn’t want to trespass. Besides, I couldn’t afford to alienate anyone in the group. So I thought if Paul was the hero of the day . . .”
“So you gave Paul Cole the smoke bomb, there in front of King’s Cross?” Kincaid asked.
“Matthew had given it to me before I left the flat. I don’t know where he was keeping it. Somewhere in his things, the stuff that no one else was ever allowed to touch. I had it in my backpack. I gave it to Paul and he put it in his backpack. We went over what he was to do, where he should stand. I said I’d be there but would stay well back, so no one in the group would realize I wasn’t in position.”
Gemma had gone on making tea while they talked. Now she handed Ryan a cup, which he accepted with a grateful nod. After a sip, Ryan went on, frowning with the recollection. “Then she rang him. It must have been Ariel, because Paul said, ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’ Then he listened and said, ‘Right. Fifteen minutes,’ before he rang off. When I asked him what was up, he gave me a thumbs-up and said, ‘Her house. Her dad’s not home.’ ”
“She told me they went to Paul’s room at the university,” said Kincaid, “and that they had a terrible argument about her miscarriage. So she lied about that, too.”
“But—even if you’re right, it was a smoke bomb,” protested Ryan. “I know what I gave Paul was a smoke bomb. So that doesn’t explain anything.”
Kincaid began to pace. “Think about it. Was Ariel there when Matthew bought it?”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure she was.”
“This bloke, the one who sold Matthew the smoke bomb at the protest, did he sell other things?”
Shrugging, Ryan said, “He’s been around demonstrations since he served in Afghanistan. He knows weapons. If he wouldn’t sell a WP grenade, he probably knows who would.”
“So what if Ariel went back? What if she convinced him to sell her a grenade? Or got the name of someone else? God knows what story she would have come up with, but she’d have been believed.”
“But,” said Ryan, “how would she have made the swi—”
Doug broke in, excitement in his voice. “She had him come to her house. Say they had sex. He dozed off. She switched the smoke bomb in his backpack with a grenade.”
“But Paul would have looked at the damned thing before he pulled the pin,” protested Ryan. “Paul was a bit of a wanker, but he wasn’t stupid.”
“Look.” Kincaid stopped his pacing and pulled out a chair, pulling it round so that he was facing Ryan. “She’s an art student. I’ve been in her house. She uses stencils and paints. How hard would it have been to paint over the WP label, then stencil ‘smoke’ on the canister? You really think Paul would have noticed the difference?”
“No, but . . .” Ryan’s blue eyes were dark with shock. “That would mean she planned it. Planned it all. Manipulated everyone. Matthew. Paul. Me. Why?” His tea sloshed out of his cup as his hands jerked. “And what if I hadn’t agreed? Or Paul hadn’t come to her house that morning? Did she intend to kill me if I hadn’t agreed to let Paul do it?”
“I think Paul was the target,” Kincaid said slowly, “and that if you hadn’t agreed to the switch, then Ariel would either have found another opportunity to use the grenade or come up with something else. I believe she’s capable of both careful planning and of seizing the moment. As to why . . . You said she was flirting with you even before Wren died—”
“You know about Wren?” broke in Ryan. “About what happened to her?”
Kincaid nodded. “Cam and Matthew told me. Why didn’t you come forward? Identify her?”
“I couldn’t.” Ryan grasped his cup even tighter, his knuckles white. “At first Ariel said she thought Wren had jumped. I couldn’t believe it. I was . . . numb. And then she said she thought she’d heard another car, and maybe someone running away. After that, I was afraid. I was afraid she’d been killed because of me. As a message to me.”
“But—”
“I couldn’t tell anyone. My family’s been threatened.”
“Your family?” said Gemma, sounding horrified.
“Don’t ask me.” Ryan looked up at her. “I can’t tell you.” It was a plea, as well as a warning. Then he said, “But this—if any of this is true, you’re saying that both Wren and Paul were killed because Ariel wanted me? But that’s—that’s just—I can’t—”
“I wouldn’t take it too personally,” broke in Doug. He’d propped his ankle up on a spare chair and covered it with the bag of frozen peas, but the peas were now melting. “There’s something you don’t know. Ariel’s father told Duncan that her mother had died when she was a teenager. I looked up the accident report, just out of curiosity. It didn’t really mean anything until now. Ariel was fourteen. She and her mum were on their way to see an aunt near Stratford. It was at night, a country lane. The car went off the road and rolled. Ariel was wearing her seat belt. She suffered a broken collarbone. Her mother was not. She was ejected from the car and killed. The thing is”—Doug paused, adjusting his dripping ice pack—“Stephen Ellis, Ariel’s father, said his wife was a fanatic about wearing her seat belt. He even threatened to sue the car’s manufacturer. But tests done on the car showed that the seat belt latch was functioning normally. They concluded that Mrs. Ellis just hadn’t quite pushed the tongue all the way into the latch.
“According to her statement at the time, Ariel said she thought her mother swerved because she saw a rabbit in the road. But what if—what if she unlatched her mum’s seat belt and grabbed the wheel?”
“That’s worse than crazy.” Ryan was looking at them all as if they were bonkers.
“Is it?” asked Kincaid. “Maybe she didn’t get on with her mother. Now she has all the attention from a father who dotes on her, gives her anything she wants. If she did what Doug’s suggesting she did, she’s not averse to risk. And what about Wren?”
“What about Wren?” said Ryan, frowning.
“You said yourself you couldn’t believe Wren jumped. But what if she didn’t? What if there was no other car? No people running away? And Ariel didn’t need to go back to her car for paint?”
“You’re saying Ariel pushed her?”
“Why should we believe anything she said?”
“But—Jesus Christ.” Ryan pushed his chair back and stood up. “But she was hysterical. I felt sorry for her! How could she—”
“There are people who will do anything to get what they want.” Gemma had been leaning against the work top, cradling her mug, listening to them. Now she added, with certainty, “And because they can. Dillon Underwood is one. And although her motives may be different, I think Ariel Ellis is another. What we think is reasonable or logical doesn’t apply.”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just . . . I tried, too. Do you think he’ll be back soon?”
Gemma glanced at Melody, who looked as puzzled as she felt.
“Kit.” She went over to the sink, reached around him, and turned the water off. “What’s this about? Is something wrong?”
He still didn’t face her. “Something . . . weird . . . happened. Erika said I should tell you.”
Gently Gemma turned him around. His face was flushed. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me, then.”
“Would you rather I left, Kit?” asked Melody.
“No. You should probably hear this, too.” He wiped his dripping hands on the tea towel. To Gemma, he said, “You know that girl who came into the café yesterday? Ariel?” Gemma nodded. “She came to the house. Not long after you left this morning.”
“What? She came here?”
Kit nodded. “She said Dad told her she could come see the kittens. She was all apologetic—said she hadn’t meant to intrude and she’d come another time. So I—let her in.” The last bit came out in a rush.
“What happened?” Gemma asked carefully, fighting a frisson of apprehension and the urge to glance at Melody.
“Nothing. It was just . . . I don’t know. It just seemed wrong. I can’t explain why. And I feel stupider now than I did when I told Erika.”
“She didn’t . . . touch you, did she?”
“Oh, God, no.” Kit looked mortified, but he didn’t meet her eyes and Gemma thought perhaps the girl had done something that he wasn’t willing to admit. “But she picked up a kitten and . . .” He shook his head. “It didn’t feel . . . I didn’t think she really liked it. I just wanted her to leave.”
“And did she?”
“Yeah. But—”
Gemma waited, trying not to push him.
“When I told her we found the kittens on Wednesday, she said that was when her friend had died, and that she thought she was meant to have one of the kittens. Was she talking about the guy who . . . burned?”
“I don’t know,” said Gemma, trying to recall everything that Duncan had told her, although a glance at Melody’s expression told her that was probably the case.
Shifting from foot to foot, Kit said, “She wanted to know where Dad was.”
“You didn’t tell her anything?”
“No. Just that he was out somewhere.” Kit fidgeted. “Can I go upstairs now? I have a paper to finish for school tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Gemma told him.
Kit was halfway across the room in one stride. Then he stopped and turned back to Gemma. “Will you tell Dad?”
“Of course,” she said again. “As soon as he gets home.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a fleeting smile, and a moment later they heard him running up the stairs.
“Would Duncan have told the girl that, and given her your address?” Melody asked, coming to stand beside Gemma at the sink.
“I can’t imagine that he would.” Gemma frowned. “Although he did seem to feel sorry for her. Still . . .” She gazed out the window. The intermittent rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky was heavy, and dark would come early. “I wish they’d get back. Doug hasn’t rung you, either?”
“No. I’d just checked in case I’d missed a call or a text when Kit came in.” Melody picked up Kit’s damp tea towel. “Here, you wash, I’ll dry.”
Absently, Gemma opened the cupboard and reached under the sink again for her kitchen gloves. Then she stopped, the yellow rubber fingers dangling from her hand.
“What’s wrong?” asked Melody, giving her a surprised glance.
“Oh, surely not,” whispered Gemma, staring at the gloves. “You heard what Kit said. ‘No proper bloke would be caught dead using kitchen gloves.’ I’ve never seen Kit or Duncan use them.”
“Doug doesn’t own a pair,” Melody said. “Nor does Andy. I’ve bought my own so I wouldn’t ruin my hands doing the washing-up.”
Gemma held the gloves up between them. “Dillon Underwood had kitchen gloves under his sink. What if—I know it sounds daft—but what if that’s what he used when he strangled Mercy? That’s why there were no fingerprints on her skin. We looked for nitrile gloves, but not ordinary kitchen gloves.”
“Yes, but . . . Surely he would have washed them by now, or even bleached them?” protested Melody.
“But what if he didn’t?” said Gemma. “What if those gloves were the only trophy he dared keep? And he’d have thought he was so clever, leaving them in plain sight.” She dropped the Marigolds on the work top and grabbed her phone from the kitchen table. “I’m going to have uniform and the SOCOs pick them up now. It’s worth a try. We’ve already got the warrant.”
Gemma had made the call, and Melody had finished the washing up—sans gloves—when they heard the sound of a car. They both went to the front window. Gemma’s orchid-colored Ford Escort had pulled up in front of the house. The doors all opened at once and three men got out. Absurdly, Gemma thought of clowns emerging from a tiny circus car. But this was Duncan and Doug, and from the back climbed a scruffy-looking stranger hoisting a large backpack.
“Oh, my God.” Beside her, Melody had raised a hand to her mouth. “It’s him. It’s really him. They found Ryan Marsh.”
Kincaid had sensed Marsh growing edgy as they drove into the quiet streets of west Notting Hill. By the time he’d parked the car in front of his house, Marsh’s tension was palpable.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Marsh said, sitting forward so that he was breathing down Kincaid’s neck. “For a copper,” he added with a sneer.
Kincaid pulled the key from the Escort’s ignition and turned round, deliberately. “Yes. It is a nice place. And I promise you I am not on the take. But if I am going to invite you into my home, I expect at least the semblance of respect. Is that clear?”
“Okay. Right.” Marsh sat back. “Family money, then?”
“It’s a long story, and it’s none of your business,” Kincaid said, wishing he was as certain now as he had been six months ago that his home was without taint. But this was neither the time nor the place to deal with his worries.
“Let’s get you inside,” Kincaid said and opened his door.
Doug had spotted Melody’s little Renault. “Melody’s here.” He sounded relieved, and Kincaid suspected his ankle was giving him fits. They were tired and cold as well, although they had stopped at a motorway café and eaten. Marsh had sat with his back to the door and shoveled food in as if he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks, rather than days.
Kincaid led the way to the house, with Doug bringing up the rear. The dogs were already barking, and before he could put his key in the lock, the door swung open.
As Gemma shooed the dogs back, Melody faced them. She looked hollow-eyed and pale, still, and once they were inside, she and Ryan Marsh stared at each other as if they had both seen ghosts. “You’re all right,” Melody said at last, reaching out as if she might touch him. Then she dropped her hand to her side.
“And you.” Marsh seemed to search her face. “I’m glad. I’m sorry I—”
Melody was already shaking her head. “It’s all right.”
Nodding, Marsh set down his pack, then knelt to pet the dogs. They were sniffing round his ankles as if they’d never smelled anything more enticing. “Who’s this, then?” Marsh asked.
“Geordie is the cocker,” said Gemma. “And the little terrier is Tess. I’m Gemma, Duncan’s wife.”
Marsh stood and held out his still slightly grubby hand, but Gemma gave it a firm shake regardless. “You have kids, then?” Marsh asked, taking in the scattered toys. He seemed, thought Kincaid, reassured.
“Yes,” answered Gemma. “Two little ones. And a teenager. But the younger two are out with a friend. Come in the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on. Melody and I have drunk enough tea to sink a battleship already, but we can give you a start at catching up.”
It was an awkward gathering. Melody murmured something to Doug, concerned, Kincaid guessed, about his ankle, then pulled out a chair for him. She asked Gemma if they had an ice pack or a bag of frozen peas, and went to dig in their freezer. Ryan Marsh sat, but on the edge of his chair, and looked as if he might bolt any minute.
Kincaid pulled mugs from the cupboard while Gemma filled the kettle. “There’s something you should know,” she said quietly as he stood beside her. “That girl, Ariel, the one who came in the café yesterday. She showed up here this morning, when Kit was on his own. She said you sent her. That you gave her our address.”
“She what?” Kincaid’s voice sounded overloud, and he realized the room had gone quiet. “Of course I didn’t give her our address. What did she want?”
“She said you sent her to see the kittens.”
“I never talked to her about the kittens. It was the children who did that.” He was still baffled. “Could Toby have told her where we lived? He was rattling on about the cats.” They had made both Toby and Charlotte memorize their address, in case they were ever lost.
“No.” Gemma shook her head. “He was never alone with her. I’m sure of it.”
“Then— How could she— No one at the station would have told her—”
The knowledge hit Kincaid like a blow. “She followed me,” he said. “She must have followed me. I took the tube home from the station yesterday. Walking from Holland Park, I thought I felt someone—but I told myself not to be daft—”
“Why?” asked Doug. “Why would she follow you?”
“Kit said she wanted to know where you were,” Gemma said.
“He didn’t tell her?” Kincaid’s heart was pounding with a sudden sickening apprehension.
“He didn’t know.”
“Bloody hell,” Kincaid said. “She followed me! Did she know Kit was home alone?”
Gemma frowned as she thought. “She could have seen me leave. I walked to the tube. But there’s no way she could have known you were gone unless she’d been standing in the street since before dawn. I wonder what she’d have said if you had been here.”
“Maybe that someone at the station gave her your address,” suggested Doug. “Or with Gemma gone, she could have said one of the little ones told her.”
“She lied about her miscarriage, too,” Kincaid said slowly. “I found out yesterday. Cam—one of the other girls,” he explained for the benefit of everyone except Ryan, “Cam told me yesterday that she saw Ariel leaving an abortion clinic, and when she checked, the clinic confirmed that Ariel had the procedure. I didn’t think it was relevant at the time. But if she lied about that, what else did she lie about?” He turned to Ryan. “You said she knew you’d given Paul the smoke bomb. She told me—and everyone else—that she didn’t. Tell me exactly what happened that morning.”
Ryan stared at him, openmouthed. He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together, then said, “Okay. Paul was arguing with Matthew. At the flat. Ariel told Paul to just shut up, that Matthew was never going to change his mind. Then she walked out. I left not long after, but Paul followed me to King’s Cross.” Ryan shook his head. “He just looked so damned defeated. He said Matthew would never give him a chance to prove he was serious about the cause, but that maybe I would. I remember I thought that what he really wanted was to prove himself to Ariel. And I thought”—Ryan hesitated—“I thought maybe it would get her off my back. She’d been coming on to me since—no”—he frowned—“not just since Wren died, but before Wren died. She always seemed so fragile—I didn’t think I could just tell her to bugger off, so I said Paul was her boyfriend and I didn’t want to trespass. Besides, I couldn’t afford to alienate anyone in the group. So I thought if Paul was the hero of the day . . .”
“So you gave Paul Cole the smoke bomb, there in front of King’s Cross?” Kincaid asked.
“Matthew had given it to me before I left the flat. I don’t know where he was keeping it. Somewhere in his things, the stuff that no one else was ever allowed to touch. I had it in my backpack. I gave it to Paul and he put it in his backpack. We went over what he was to do, where he should stand. I said I’d be there but would stay well back, so no one in the group would realize I wasn’t in position.”
Gemma had gone on making tea while they talked. Now she handed Ryan a cup, which he accepted with a grateful nod. After a sip, Ryan went on, frowning with the recollection. “Then she rang him. It must have been Ariel, because Paul said, ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’ Then he listened and said, ‘Right. Fifteen minutes,’ before he rang off. When I asked him what was up, he gave me a thumbs-up and said, ‘Her house. Her dad’s not home.’ ”
“She told me they went to Paul’s room at the university,” said Kincaid, “and that they had a terrible argument about her miscarriage. So she lied about that, too.”
“But—even if you’re right, it was a smoke bomb,” protested Ryan. “I know what I gave Paul was a smoke bomb. So that doesn’t explain anything.”
Kincaid began to pace. “Think about it. Was Ariel there when Matthew bought it?”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure she was.”
“This bloke, the one who sold Matthew the smoke bomb at the protest, did he sell other things?”
Shrugging, Ryan said, “He’s been around demonstrations since he served in Afghanistan. He knows weapons. If he wouldn’t sell a WP grenade, he probably knows who would.”
“So what if Ariel went back? What if she convinced him to sell her a grenade? Or got the name of someone else? God knows what story she would have come up with, but she’d have been believed.”
“But,” said Ryan, “how would she have made the swi—”
Doug broke in, excitement in his voice. “She had him come to her house. Say they had sex. He dozed off. She switched the smoke bomb in his backpack with a grenade.”
“But Paul would have looked at the damned thing before he pulled the pin,” protested Ryan. “Paul was a bit of a wanker, but he wasn’t stupid.”
“Look.” Kincaid stopped his pacing and pulled out a chair, pulling it round so that he was facing Ryan. “She’s an art student. I’ve been in her house. She uses stencils and paints. How hard would it have been to paint over the WP label, then stencil ‘smoke’ on the canister? You really think Paul would have noticed the difference?”
“No, but . . .” Ryan’s blue eyes were dark with shock. “That would mean she planned it. Planned it all. Manipulated everyone. Matthew. Paul. Me. Why?” His tea sloshed out of his cup as his hands jerked. “And what if I hadn’t agreed? Or Paul hadn’t come to her house that morning? Did she intend to kill me if I hadn’t agreed to let Paul do it?”
“I think Paul was the target,” Kincaid said slowly, “and that if you hadn’t agreed to the switch, then Ariel would either have found another opportunity to use the grenade or come up with something else. I believe she’s capable of both careful planning and of seizing the moment. As to why . . . You said she was flirting with you even before Wren died—”
“You know about Wren?” broke in Ryan. “About what happened to her?”
Kincaid nodded. “Cam and Matthew told me. Why didn’t you come forward? Identify her?”
“I couldn’t.” Ryan grasped his cup even tighter, his knuckles white. “At first Ariel said she thought Wren had jumped. I couldn’t believe it. I was . . . numb. And then she said she thought she’d heard another car, and maybe someone running away. After that, I was afraid. I was afraid she’d been killed because of me. As a message to me.”
“But—”
“I couldn’t tell anyone. My family’s been threatened.”
“Your family?” said Gemma, sounding horrified.
“Don’t ask me.” Ryan looked up at her. “I can’t tell you.” It was a plea, as well as a warning. Then he said, “But this—if any of this is true, you’re saying that both Wren and Paul were killed because Ariel wanted me? But that’s—that’s just—I can’t—”
“I wouldn’t take it too personally,” broke in Doug. He’d propped his ankle up on a spare chair and covered it with the bag of frozen peas, but the peas were now melting. “There’s something you don’t know. Ariel’s father told Duncan that her mother had died when she was a teenager. I looked up the accident report, just out of curiosity. It didn’t really mean anything until now. Ariel was fourteen. She and her mum were on their way to see an aunt near Stratford. It was at night, a country lane. The car went off the road and rolled. Ariel was wearing her seat belt. She suffered a broken collarbone. Her mother was not. She was ejected from the car and killed. The thing is”—Doug paused, adjusting his dripping ice pack—“Stephen Ellis, Ariel’s father, said his wife was a fanatic about wearing her seat belt. He even threatened to sue the car’s manufacturer. But tests done on the car showed that the seat belt latch was functioning normally. They concluded that Mrs. Ellis just hadn’t quite pushed the tongue all the way into the latch.
“According to her statement at the time, Ariel said she thought her mother swerved because she saw a rabbit in the road. But what if—what if she unlatched her mum’s seat belt and grabbed the wheel?”
“That’s worse than crazy.” Ryan was looking at them all as if they were bonkers.
“Is it?” asked Kincaid. “Maybe she didn’t get on with her mother. Now she has all the attention from a father who dotes on her, gives her anything she wants. If she did what Doug’s suggesting she did, she’s not averse to risk. And what about Wren?”
“What about Wren?” said Ryan, frowning.
“You said yourself you couldn’t believe Wren jumped. But what if she didn’t? What if there was no other car? No people running away? And Ariel didn’t need to go back to her car for paint?”
“You’re saying Ariel pushed her?”
“Why should we believe anything she said?”
“But—Jesus Christ.” Ryan pushed his chair back and stood up. “But she was hysterical. I felt sorry for her! How could she—”
“There are people who will do anything to get what they want.” Gemma had been leaning against the work top, cradling her mug, listening to them. Now she added, with certainty, “And because they can. Dillon Underwood is one. And although her motives may be different, I think Ariel Ellis is another. What we think is reasonable or logical doesn’t apply.”
