about to say something else.
“Good for you,” Kincaid told him with cheerful bonhomie. “About time you made a change, Doug. But I think you’ll have to do it another day.”
After a more thorough look through the case file, Kincaid had rung DI Neal Weller. A brusque message on Weller’s voice mail informed him that Weller was in court and would return calls as soon as possible.
“Court,” Kincaid said to Cullen, who grimaced.
“That might take him out all day. Or longer.”
“Might not be a bad thing.” Kincaid didn’t mind gathering his own impressions of the case before he discussed it with Weller, starting with the crime scene. Not that he expected to find evidence that the SOCOs had missed, but he always liked to see where a death had taken place, even if he was coming into a case after the fact. It helped him organize his mental landscape.
“We’ll start with Haggerston Park,” he told Cullen. “Call down for a car, and I’ll clear things with the guv’nor.”
“Will your personal connection cause any conflict of interest?” his chief superintendent, Denis Childs, had asked when Kincaid was shown into his office.
“Not unless our friend Tim Cavendish starts to look like a suspect,” Kincaid had answered. In fact, the personal connection might give Kincaid an advantage denied another detective. “I’ll let you know if I think there’s a problem,” he’d assured Childs.
Once he’d finished his meeting with Childs and found the car ready, he had Cullen drive them east, skirting round the top of the City, through Shoreditch and into Bethnal Green.
Haggerston Park looked benign, if a little faded by the August heat. Young Asian parents strolled with babies in push chairs; a passing jogger swigged from a water bottle; an elderly white couple walked arm in arm, soaking up the sun.
As they drove past Hackney City Farm, Kincaid caught the unmistakable whiff of manure. The smell, etched into the sensory circuits of his childhood, triggered a spasm of longing for the dairy fields of Cheshire. And then the thought of home led him to wonder what he would tell his mother the next time she asked about plans for the wedding.
Gemma had been more and more evasive on the subject, not to mention prickly in general, and now there was the business with her mother…Not that he wasn’t concerned about Vi, but it worried him deeply that family stresses seemed to make Gemma pull away from him, rather than drawing her closer. At least she’d been voluble enough in talking to him about this case. Perhaps the investigation would give him an opportunity to get her to open up about whatever was bothering her. If formalizing their relationship was going to change things between them, he’d rather go on as they were.
Checking the map against the case report, he directed Cullen into Audrey Street, where they parked and got out. The scene had been cleared. A strip of crime scene tape hung limply from the iron gate at the park entrance, and a placard to one side held the previous day’s date and asked that anyone having seen suspicious activity at that location report it to the police help line.
Kincaid followed the path, taking in the details, until he reached the section of broken fence still marked off- limits by tape-not that a strip of tape would keep kids and curiosity seekers at bay.
“A good spot for a rape or a mugging, at least after dark,” said Cullen, studying the terrain. “Or a drug deal gone wrong, a gang knifing. But odd for a suicide.”
“Or a murder.” Kincaid walked farther along, until the trees thinned and he could see the land curving away towards Hackney City Farm. He then went back and examined the taped area, thinking about the scene photos included in the file. “What was this guy doing here?” he mused. “Meeting someone?”
“And then he just dropped dead?” Cullen tested the fence a few feet outside the taped area. “I don’t think the weight of a body falling would have broken the fence.”
“Unless it was already damaged. We’ll have to check with the groundskeepers. And I want to talk to the pathologist myself. But first let’s have a word with Mr. Malik’s partner.”
“It’s not far,” said Cullen, having taken over navigation while Kincaid drove. “Just this side of Bethnal Green Road.”
“That might make a bit more sense of Malik being found in the park.” Following Cullen’s directions, Kincaid pulled up in front of an undistinguished building in a side street off Warner Place. It was the second house in a rather grimy terrace. Gray-brown brick, blue door and blue trim work. Lettering over the ground-floor windows read MALIK PHILLIPS, SOLICITORS, and to one side, a little more discreetly, there was a phone number.
Kincaid pulled into the curb and got out. Studying the shop front while waiting for Cullen to come round the car, he peered through a gap in the miniblinds, but saw nothing but shadows. He pressed the buzzer, and after a moment the door released. He pushed it open and entered a small hallway, Cullen close on his heels. To their left, an open door led into the reception area he’d glimpsed through the blinds.
The room was empty, but it looked more inviting from the inside than it had from the window. Comfortably worn brown leather chairs and sofa, a serviceable desk, an industrial-grade Berber carpet, but the room was clean, and the freshly painted cream walls held imaginatively hung canvas reproductions of Banksy street art. An interesting choice for a solicitor, Kincaid thought, the ultimate outlaw artist.
A female voice called from upstairs. “Naz, you forget your keys again? Why the hell didn’t you ring me-” A woman peered down at them from the first-floor landing. “Sorry. I thought you were my partner. He’s late, and the receptionist isn’t in today. Can I help you? We usually see clients by appointment.” The tone was slightly disapproving. She started down the stairs, and as she came into the light cast by the glass transom in the front door, Kincaid saw that she was dark skinned, and West Indian rather than Asian. She was a little too thin, and wore a navy business suit with a plain white blouse. Her dark hair looked as if it had been straightened, and was pulled back in an unflattering knot. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught the reek of stale cigarette smoke.
“You’re Louise Phillips?” He held out his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard?” She stared at him. “If this is about Azad, you know I can’t talk to you. Unless”-she took a sharp little breath and her eyes widened-“is it Sandra? Are you here about Sandra?”
So she didn’t yet know what had happened. Naz Malik’s death had made a paragraph that morning in one of the tabloids, but it was probably not the sort of paper Louise Phillips read, and Naz’s death hadn’t been violent enough to get more mention. “Mrs. Phillips, is there somewhere we could talk?” he asked.
“It’s
Turning, she led them up the stairs. The cigarette smell intensified as they climbed, and as they entered the first-floor office, Kincaid saw why. A plastic pub ashtray held place of honor on the cluttered desk. It was filled with cigarette ends, and one lipstick-smeared specimen had burned to ash in the slotted edge. The room was not much more attractive. Scuffed and untidy, it lacked any of the reception area’s charm, and in spite of the heat, its two windows were shut.
Louise Phillips waved an ineffective hand at the fug in the air. “Naz is always getting on at me, but it’s
Kincaid managed a smile, wondering how much exposure to secondhand smoke it took to contract lung cancer, and sat in one of the metal and faux-leather chairs that fought to occupy space between boxes stuffed with files. Cullen freed another chair, and Phillips sank down behind her desk with the apparent relief of one returning to charted territory, or at least escaping from a smoke-free zone.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait and talk to Naz?” she said. “Whatever it is-I can’t imagine why he’s late. He’s never late-”
“Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid broke in. It was always better to get it over with quickly. “We can’t talk to your partner. I’m sorry, but Naz Malik is dead.”
“What?” Phillips stared at him, and her dark skin seemed to go slightly gray. “You’re joking.” She swallowed,
