Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“I’m always most reluctant to disrupt what seems to be a stable home situation, particularly when a child has suffered a loss.” She fixed Gemma with a sharp eye. “But the demands of a police officer’s job are both heavy and unpredictable, as Mr. Kincaid has demonstrated today, and as both of you are officers of senior rank, I’m not sure you can provide the sort of environment Christopher needs. And as neither of you has any blood tie to the boy, and we don’t know what Christopher’s mother would have wished for him, I’m inclined to give consideration to his grandparents’ petition for custody.”

Gemma felt Kit’s physical recoil. She touched his arm in reassurance and leaned forward. “Ma’am, may I speak?” When Judge O’Donnell nodded, she said, “You’re right. The job is demanding and unpredictable. But there are two of us, and one of us has always managed to be there-”

“That’s all very well for the time being. But you’ll forgive me, Ms. James, if I say I’ve seen no evidence of a long-term commitment on the part of you and Mr. Kincaid.”

A black pit seemed to open before Gemma. How could she answer that? “I-”

“There’s also the matter of Christopher’s education. His grandparents have assured the court that they have the means to send him to public school-”

“I don’t want to go to public school,” broke in Kit, tears of fury starting up in his eyes. “I like it where I am-”

“Your Honor.” Eugenia spoke for the first time. “It’s just this sort of disrespectful behavior that concerns us. Christopher is obviously living in a household where this is considered acceptable. Nor is he being encouraged to show the interest in his future fitting for a boy his age-”

“You don’t know anything,” Kit shouted at his grandmother. “I’m going to Cambridge. Lots of kids from comprehensives get into Cambridge-”

Judge O’Donnell rapped her knuckles sharply on the table once. “That’s enough, son. I’ll not tolerate displays of temper in my chambers, nor reward them.” When Kit subsided, his hands clenched in his lap, she turned to Eugenia. “Mrs. Potts, it does worry me that Christopher seems to feel a great deal of hostility towards you.”

Eugenia seemed to pale beneath her makeup, but she smiled. “He has some childish grievance over a dog. I’m sure, in time, that it can be overcome.”

Clapping a hand on Kit’s shoulder, as if fearing the boy might not be able to restrain himself, Miles Kelly said hurriedly, “Ma’am, may I remind you that Kit’s father, Ian McClellan, feels that Mr. and Mrs. Potts have never given Kit the proper emotional support in his grief over his mother’s death.”

“You may remind me all you like, Mr. Kelly, but I don’t have to give it credence. It doesn’t seem to me that Mr. McClellan has demonstrated much in the way of emotional support himself, by taking a job in Canada and leaving his son behind in England.”

Eugenia whispered urgently in Cavanaugh’s ear, and when she’d pulled away, he addressed the judge. “Is Your Honor aware that at the time of the late Mrs. McClellan’s death, she and Mr. McClellan were separated? That Mr. McClellan was, in fact, living in the south of France with a young woman? We feel this demonstrates a long-standing lack of responsible behavior concerning his son-”

“That’s enough, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said the judge with a glance at Kit. “We will adjourn this hearing until further notice.” She sighed and stood. “I may very well find that neither party is a fit guardian, without evidence to the contrary.”

She had seemed pathetic in life; death had not given her dignity.

Kincaid looked down at Beverly Brown’s twisted body. It lay at the far end of a vacant expanse of cracked and weed-infested concrete. Her head was pillowed on a drift of windblown rubbish, her small, sneaker-clad feet pushed against the bottom of a rusted metal barrel.

When Maura Bell had said Crossbones Graveyard, he’d thought of a churchyard, with a bit of grass and headstones; not this wasteland, its fence adorned with fluttering ribbons and a few faded wreaths.

“What is this place?” he asked Maura, who stood beside him. She’d been called out immediately when the body had been reported and had identified the victim herself.

The police surgeon had certified death, and they were now waiting for the arrival of the pathologist, the photographer, and the forensics team. The wheels of justice ground slowly, as always, and he tried to control his impatience. The time made no difference now – he’d known by two o’clock that there was no possible way he could get to Kit’s hearing. But he couldn’t think about that now – his personal concerns would have to wait until he had put this case behind him.

“It was a medieval cemetery, an unconsecrated burial ground for prostitutes and others who couldn’t afford proper burial,” Maura answered. “When London Transport began work here on the Jubilee Line extension a few years ago, they started digging up bodies. Work was stopped, and the place has been in limbo since. London Transport want to use the property for part of their travel hub; the local residents want a park, with some sort of fitting commemoration for those buried here. Meanwhile, the heroin addicts have a field day.”

“I suspected she might be a junkie, when we met her,” he said, remembering the girl’s edgy pallor.

“She could have met someone here, looking for a buy.”

“Maybe. But dealers don’t usually strangle their clients.” The bruising was clearly visible on the girl’s exposed throat.

“A rape gone wrong?” suggested Maura.

“Not unless he dressed her again.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this was a random killing, and neither do you. We’re a few hundred yards from the warehouse where Laura Novak was killed, not to mention the fact that it was Beverly Brown who reported the fire.”

“Could she have seen something else that night?” Maura mused. “But if so, why didn’t she report it?”

“Maybe she didn’t realize what she’d seen. Maybe she was protecting someone.”

“Or maybe she was frightened,” Maura said slowly.

“With good reason.” He thought of the two little girls, now motherless, like Harriet Novak. Whoever this bastard was, he had to be stopped.

And what of Harriet? Gemma was right, time was running out. He tried to put aside the fear that Harriet was already dead, that they would find her body tossed away like a bit of rubbish, as Beverly Brown had been.

“If this was the same killer,” said Maura, “why no attempt to hide the victim’s identity this time? Or to hide the body? She wasn’t even covered.”

Kincaid glanced round the barren lot. “Lack of means? Lack of opportunity?” He grimaced as a gust of wind blew grit in his eyes and a fat raindrop splashed against his cheek. The rain had been teasing since midmorning, advancing and retreating like a shy schoolgirl, but now the sky to the west looked thunderous. “Let’s get that tarp up,” he called out to the uniformed officers. “The Home Office pathologist won’t be happy if her trace evidence gets washed away.”

When a car pulled through the cordon of patrol cars and Kate Ling got out, he found he wasn’t surprised.

“Duncan,” she said as she reached them. “If you really want to see me every few days, you could just buy me a drink.”

“Hullo, Kate. You remember Inspector Bell, from the other day?”

Already pulling on her gloves, Kate nodded at Maura. “I hear you got an ID on the warehouse corpse.”

“News travels fast in exalted circles,” Kincaid told her. “That’s about all we’ve got, so far, and now…” He gestured at the body before them. “This young woman was a resident at the women’s shelter across the street from the warehouse.”