The Garden of Lamentations Read online

  Dedication

  For Wren

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Frontispiece

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Deborah Crombie

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  She stood at the bus stop, shuffling her feet. It had been twelve minutes, and still no bus. You’d think on bloody Kensington High Street on a Friday night, you could get a freaking bus. This sucked.

  Not to mention the creepy guy in the hoodie and earpods who kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She felt too exposed in her white, filmy spring dress, and she hadn’t even brought a cardigan to throw over her shoulders. What had she been thinking, wearing the damned thing? Well, she knew what she’d been thinking. It was a gorgeous night, unseasonably warm, and she’d thought things would turn out differently.

  Deliberately, she turned her back on hoodie and checked her mobile. No text. No missed call. It seemed she’d been wrong.

  And still no bus. Hoodie edged a little closer.

  That did it. She’d walk round the corner into Kensington Church Street and catch the 52—that way she wouldn’t have to change at Notting Hill Gate. But it meant going back past the piano bar and she didn’t want to see them.

  She hurried, looking back once to make sure hoodie hadn’t followed. When she passed the club, music came thumping through the open first-floor windows. She ducked her head, as if that would make her invisible. When she’d stormed out, she’d half hoped someone would follow, but now she didn’t want to talk to any of them. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

  And Hugo, she was finished with him for good, she really was. Just thinking about last night made her flush with shame. Feeling guilty about wanting to break things off, she’d slept with him again. And then, tonight, she’d found out what else he’d been up to. Jesus. Wanker.

  Her sandals slapped on the pavement as she cut across the open forecourt of St. Mary Abbott’s church. It seemed dark and deserted with the flower stall closed, and she was glad to round the corner and climb the hill to the 52 stop.

  The bus came trundling round the corner, squeaking and sighing to a stop, and she climbed on with relief. She sat downstairs—no way she was attempting the spiral stairs in the full-skirted dress. Settling into the seat, she looked away from her reflection in the glass, but not before she’d seen the dark hair curving against her cheek and the bare line of her neck. She shivered.

  Back at the club, she’d taken one sip of the nasty drink the bartender had made her, then left it on some stranger’s table. Now she wished she’d held her nose and got it down. At least it might have made her sleep.

  When the bus rattled to a stop at Elgin Crescent, she got out and walked the rest of the way. The gardens were dark, the streets quiet. The house, when she reached it, was dark, too, except for a faint glow from the lamp in the basement kitchen.

  Taking her key from her bag, she paused for a moment on the step, suddenly reluctant to go in. She wished she had someone to talk to. Her mum, maybe, who would give her sensible advice. But her mum was miles away, and she couldn’t ask for her help. She’d promised not to tell anyone what she’d learned, and it was a promise she was bound to keep.

  She’d been an idiot with Hugo. She could see that. She could also see that it didn’t matter in the long run. He was trivial, never more than a diversion, and her life would go on very much the same without him.

  It was the other thing that was going to have consequences she hadn’t foreseen. Consequences that were going to change her life, one way or the other, whatever happened.

  Jean Armitage never set an alarm clock. She had awakened at 5 a.m. every morning of her adult life, winter or summer, rain or shine. She took great pride in this. To her mind, people who weren’t ready to meet the day were lacking in fortitude.

  When her husband, Harold, had been alive, she’d slipped carefully from the bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom to dress so as not to disturb him. A banker, he’d thought it uncivilized to rise before six.

  Now, she enjoyed the freedom of switching on the bedside lamp, of dressing as she pleased, of making the bed with boarding-school neatness before going downstairs. On this Saturday morning in May, she fluffed the pillows and gave the flower-patterned duvet cover a final, satisfied pat. Crossing to the window, she pulled open the curtains and stood for a moment, looking down into the communal garden. The sky was a clear, pale rose and the first rays of the sun were just gilding the tops of the trees.

  Her pleasure was marred, however, by the sight of the half-finished extension jutting into the garden proper from the back of her neighbor’s house. Jean frowned and gave a tsk of disapproval. Just because the people had suffered a loss didn’t give them an excuse to encroach on community land. She’d complained to the Council, as had some of the other residents on the garden, but so far nothing had been done. Well, she’d never been one to back down from a challenge.

  A few minutes later, armed with coffee, she let herself through the iron gate that separated her small private patio from the communal garden proper. In fine weather, she liked to stroll the path that wound round the garden’s perimeter, sipping her coffee and taking stock. The perfectly raked pea gravel crunched under her feet and she caught the heady scent of the blooming Cecile Brunner roses. Clive Glenn, the hired gardener, had surpassed himself this year. The hedges were immaculately clipped, the trees were in full leaf, and the late-spring flowers were bursting in full glory. Cornwall Gardens had never looked more beautiful, and she had no doubt it was the finest garden in Notting Hill.

  Jean tugged her cardigan a bit more firmly over her shoulders as she walked. A slight chill lingered in the air, but the day promised to be warm and sunny. Perhaps it would give her a good chance to canvas some of the other residents for support.

  She’d begun to formulate a plan when something caught her eye. Frowning, she stopped, gazing at the brilliant green swath of lawn that meandered through the garden’s center. The vista was marred by something white bundled under a plane tree in the heavily wooded area she thought of as the grove. Those bloody builders working on the extension, she thought, allowing herself a silent curse word, leaving rubbish where it could blow about.

  Or had there been a burglary? she wondered, her heart quickening a little with alarm. Whatever the object was, it lay in the grass not far from the garden shed, and there had recently been a rash of break-ins in London’s communal garden sheds.

  Any burglars would be long gone, she chided herself, leaving the path and setting off across the dew-damp grass with renewed purpose. But she slowed as she drew nearer. What had looked like a large white bundle of plastic or paper had begun to resolve itself into what looked disturbingly like a human shape. It was,
Jean realized with a start, a woman. A young woman in a white dress, stretched out beneath the great branches of a plane tree.

  She lay on her back, her face turned slightly away, but as Jean drew nearer she recognized her profile and the dark shoulder-length hair. It was the nanny from across the garden.

  Incensed, Jean Armitage drew a breath, ready to scold as she charged forward with renewed purpose. What sort of a prank was this? Young people did anything these days. Sleeping in a private garden after a night on the town, she guessed. Such behavior was not to be tolerated in Cornwall Gardens, not among civilized people. She would have a thing or two to say to the girl’s employer when she’d got the young laggard up and about.

  Suddenly, the sun climbed over the tips of the treetops, the light painting the green grass and the white dress with rippling, shifting dapples.

  Jean stopped, her shoes squeaking on the wet grass. The heavy scent of the roses seemed suddenly cloying. Instinctively she put a hand to her breast. There was something not quite natural about the girl’s position. And she was still, so still. A sparrow swooped down, almost brushing the girl’s dark hair, and yet she did not stir.

  Any reprimand died unformed on Jean’s breath. She moved a step closer, then, slowly, another. And saw that the girl was not sleeping at all.

  “You’re up early for a Saturday,” Gemma said as she padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in her dressing gown. “I thought I heard you.”

  Kincaid turned from the coffeemaker. He’d taken a quick shower, then thrown on jeans and yesterday’s slightly wrinkled shirt. “I tried not to wake you.” The machine hissed as coffee began to drip into the carafe.

  His wife slid into a chair at the kitchen table, smothering a yawn as she pulled back her tumbled copper hair and anchored it with a scrunchie. “That smells heavenly,” she said, taking a deep sniff as the aroma reached her.

  “Want some?” Kincaid lifted her favorite mug from the shelf beside the cooker. It was festooned with garish pink roses, some of which cascaded over the chipped rim, but Toby had bought it for her at the market with his pocket money, so it would never be thrown in the bin.

  “Of course.” She watched him as he added a dash of milk to her cup. “But I thought we were having a lie-in. It is Saturday.”

  “So it is.” He handed Gemma her coffee, summoning a smile, and poured his. But he was too restless to sit. Standing with his back to the cooker, he went on, “But I couldn’t sleep. This damned case is giving me nightmares.”

  “I thought it was all sewn up. Open and shut.” She was eyeing him warily now.

  He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I just want to have one more look over the file before it goes to the prosecutors. What if I missed something?” It had been a simple enough case. A coke dealer in Camden, found shot in his flat.

  “You promised to take the kids and the dogs to the park,” said Gemma, sounding unconvinced. As if to make her point, Geordie padded in, tail wagging, and plopped down at Gemma’s feet.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t be long.” That earned him a disbelieving look. “No one will be in on a Saturday morning without an active case,” Kincaid added. “I just need—” He stopped.

  He couldn’t tell her what he needed. He couldn’t say that he meant to force himself to look at the crime scene photos—or that he hoped that if he could do that, he might stop dreaming of another crime scene, and of the man he had called a friend, dead, with a gun in his hand.

  Turning, he set his cup in the sink, sloshing coffee over his fingers. He wiped his hand with the good tea towel, then went to kiss Gemma’s cheek.

  But she didn’t turn her face up to him. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, her voice sharp. “What am I supposed to tell the kids?”

  Kincaid’s hands shook with a sudden rush of anger. “Whatever you like. Since when do I have to apologize for doing my job?”

  He walked out of the kitchen without giving her a chance to answer. As he left the house, the front door banged behind him with a sound like a gunshot.

  “Don’t let the kittens out.” Gemma looked up as the patio French doors opened, wiping a grimy gardening glove across her brow. She’d thought it was Toby or Charlotte, and at seven and three—and a half, as Charlotte regularly reminded her—they were easy game for tiny feline escape artists. But it was Kit, with Captain Jack, their black-and-white kitten, draped over his shoulder.

  “Um, need some help?” he asked tentatively, surveying the spilled bag of potting soil and the empty plastic containers littering their small flagstone patio. Beyond, the shady spots in their Notting Hill communal garden begged for lemonade and lawn chairs. The fine morning had turned hot as noon approached, and Gemma could feel her dirt-stained nose going pink with sunburn.

  “You’ve done more than your share today already.” She sat back with a sigh, wondering if it had been her knee she’d heard pop. This gardening lark was not half what it was cracked up to be. The begonia she’d just put carefully in a pot had a broken and bedraggled stem, and her back hurt.

  Kit shrugged, keeping firm fingers on the scruff of the kitten’s neck. But he had looked after the younger children while they all paid a visit to Rassells, the garden center on Earl’s Court Road. Thank goodness, too, or Toby would undoubtedly have wreaked havoc among the roses and rhododendrons.

  Her enthusiasm for her project was waning. Having grown up above a high street bakery in north London, gardening didn’t come naturally to her.

  “Has Dad rung?” Kit’s tone seemed deliberately neutral. Gemma couldn’t tell if he was upset by Kincaid’s failure to give the kids their promised outing to Hyde Park.

  “No,” Gemma said, suppressing a sigh, “not yet.” She’d regretted her irritation with Kincaid as soon as he’d slammed out the door. She’d stood, frowning, watching him from the kitchen window as he got into his old green Astra and drove away.

  They’d never criticized each other for the long hours they spent on the job. Both detectives, it was one of the things that had made their relationship work. But this—this wasn’t the job. It was something else, and it worried her. He hadn’t been the same since the day in March when they’d heard Ryan Marsh had died.

  Gemma had tried to talk to Kincaid about it, but he’d merely given her a blank stare and changed the subject. They’d always been able to discuss things, first as partners on the job, then as lovers, and, eventually, spouses. She wasn’t sure how to deal with the wall he’d thrown up between them lately.

  Shifting the squirming kitten to his other shoulder, Kit glanced at his watch. “It’s just that I’ve a history exam to study for, and I promised some mates from school I’d meet them at Starbucks this afternoon.” He disentangled sharp little claws from his shirt and Jack gave a meow of protest. “Oh,” Kit added as he turned back towards the house, “you do remember that Toby has ballet in half an hour, and Charlotte is supposed to go to MacKenzie’s?”

  Gemma glanced down at her dirty hands, her jeans and sweaty T-shirt, and said, “Bugger.”

  Kincaid looked from the interior glass window of his office in Holborn Police Station into the CID room, momentarily empty in the lunchtime lull. Staff had been in and out during the morning, but his team were all off for the weekend, pending any new cases, and for a Saturday the Borough of Camden seemed relatively calm.

  He’d edited his report on the Camden shooting a half dozen times, changing a word here and a word there, only too well aware he was wasting time. The prints of the crime scene photos lay at the bottom of the file folder, untouched. What kind of a cop was he, unable to look at a gunshot wound?

  His mobile lay on the too-tidy surface of his desk. Reaching out, he touched it, then adjusted its alignment with the blotter by a millimeter before drawing his hand back. He knew he should call Gemma, but the longer he put it off the harder it got. What would he say?

  Maybe he would just pick up flowers on the way home. Clichéd, yes, but perhaps a bouquet and a “sorry” would suffi
ce.

  And the kids? He grimaced. He couldn’t bear the thought of Charlotte’s disappointment. Disgusted with himself, he stood and slipped his mobile into his pocket. It was time he behaved like a proper father. And a proper husband. Maybe he could still keep his promise to the kids.

  He’d grabbed his jacket from the clothes hook and closed his office door behind him when Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Faith came striding into the CID room. Tall and thin, with fair hair going gray and a clipped mustache, his governor wore even his Saturday civvies like a uniform.

  “Duncan,” said Faith, “glad I caught you. The desk sergeant said you were here.”

  “Just going, sir.” Kincaid wished he’d made his escape a moment sooner.

  But Faith didn’t look like a man with an urgent mission. “Good work on the case,” he said. “The DAC will be pleased.”

  The deputy assistant commissioner, Crime, had been taking all the murder investigation teams to task on their clear-up rates recently. Kincaid understood the politics and the numbers crunching, but he also knew that too much emphasis on targets encouraged sloppy policing. And now, with the things that had happened—

  Faith interrupted his thoughts. “Tell your team a job well done. And I’ll be sure to mention it to your former governor when I see him.”

  “Sir?” Kincaid looked at him, puzzled. His former boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Denis Childs, had taken personal leave from Scotland Yard in February, after requesting Kincaid’s transfer to the Borough of Camden’s murder investigation team at Holborn Police Station in central London. And not only had Childs offered Kincaid no explanation for his decision, he hadn’t answered any of Kincaid’s subsequent attempts to communicate.

  “Oh, I assumed you knew.” Faith looked as surprised as Kincaid felt. “Chief Superintendent Childs is back on the job.”

  Gemma had managed to change into a cream-colored summer blouse, but had to make do with dusting off the knees of her jeans and splashing her flushed face with cold water.