The next day I stood on the concourse at King’s Cross, watching the arrivals board for the Edinburgh train that was due at midday. Somewhere on it was Luke Gibson, returning to London, hopefully oblivious to the fact that I was waiting to talk to him. I’d taken care to give his housemates the impression that we hadn’t found anything of interest and had other lines of enquiry that were more promising. There was a record of the items I’d removed from their house that I was supposed to leave with them, but I’d elected to post it to them rather than filling it out before I left. Somehow, I hadn’t got around to posting it yet. By the time it arrived, they would know all about the bag and its contents. More to the point, so would I.
There were too many people on the concourse and too many exits for my liking, even though I’d called in British Transport Police support to make sure I didn’t miss Luke. They had confirmed with the guard that someone who matched Luke’s description was sitting in the seat he’d reserved on the Edinburgh train. A vast group of Spanish students swarmed past me, chattering and laughing, and I scowled at the noise. I moved a few paces to my right so I could keep platform 4 in my line of sight as they passed. The platform was currently deserted, apart from the officers strung along it, waiting.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t miss him.’
I smiled at the big BTP sergeant who was standing beside me. ‘I have faith in you.’
‘We know which train he’s coming in on, and we’ve got a good recent description of him. We’ll pick him up.’ He listened to his earpiece. ‘The Edinburgh train has left Stevenage. It should be here in twenty-two minutes.’
‘Give or take thirty seconds.’
‘It’s usually on time.’ He was an older officer and serious to his very bones. He nodded up at the clock above us. ‘It’ll be bang on. You wait and see.’
I’ll have to, I thought. I had nothing better to do.
The sergeant yawned widely, and excused himself. ‘I was on earlies today. Up at half past four. It catches up with you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I need a coffee. Can I get you one? You’ve still got time before the train gets in.’
‘White, please. No sugar.’
He headed off to get it from one of the cafés on the concourse. Seth would have scolded me for drinking it when I’d already had coffee that morning. He would have insisted on herbal tea, or decaf. What was the point in decaf if you didn’t have to drink it, Derwent’s voice sneered in my head. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure more caffeine was such a good idea. I found myself flinching as a pigeon swept low over my head to investigate a crumb on the floor. It wasn’t as if I needed to be any more jittery.
I’d have felt calmer if Derwent was with me, oddly; I trusted him to get his man. But he was all the way down in suburban Sutton with his girlfriend, Melissa, and her little boy Thomas, taking a day off after his efforts in the Poplar case. There was a time he’d have turned down extra time off, but he had more reasons to stay away from work these days. Nothing had changed him like getting together with Melissa and taking on responsibility for Thomas. He had become a father to the boy, and that had mellowed him, which should have made him easier to deal with. It made him more vulnerable, though, and miserably aware of it. These days the tough cases were more likely to get under his skin. I thought of him carrying the tiny body of the baby out of the house where she had lived her brief life, and how he must have felt about it. That was the sort of job that left a mark on your soul even if you managed to make an arrest. I should call him to see if he was all right, and I would have if we hadn’t been bickering about Seth. And Seth was irrelevant, when it came down to it, because this was about work and being there for your colleague.
Be the better person, Maeve.
The BTP officer returned with something that at least looked like coffee. It was hot, and strong enough to make me stand up a little straighter, and entirely welcome. I drank it fast, feeling the caffeine hit my bloodstream. Decaf indeed …
The sergeant nudged me sooner than I had expected. ‘Two minutes.’
The clock said 11.58. I alternated between staring at it and looking down the tracks, trying to pick out the approaching train’s headlight.
‘There.’ He pointed at a glimmer in the distance. ‘See it? Another sixty seconds and the passengers will be disembarking.’
The train slid into the station and came to a stop. All down the empty platform, the officers had taken up their positions, arms folded. They were big, solid men, so if Luke Gibson tried to cause me any problems I had plenty of muscle to call on.
‘According to his reservation he’s in Coach G.’ The officer guided me to a different position, to one side of the platform so I could see the length of the train. ‘Here they come.’
The passengers spilled out when the doors finally slid open, a surge of humanity in all shapes and sizes, ages and classes. They hurried towards the taxi ranks and the entrance to the underground, rushing because life was a competition, especially in London. The platform went from deserted to Oxford-Street-on-Christmas-Eve crowded in the time it took to take a breath. I scanned the faces, hunting my target, afraid to blink in case I missed him.
‘Is that him? IC1 male, blue hoodie, bag on left shoulder, beard—’
‘No.’ I had seen him at last and already started to move, sure of myself now that I’d found him. ‘Navy polo shirt, carrying a brown leather holdall in his right hand. His hair is shorter and lighter than in the passport picture.’
‘Got him.’ My BTP sergeant muttered something into his radio.
The officers began to converge on Luke Gibson as he walked up the platform, still unaware that anyone was watching him. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed in the harsh station lights. He was taller than I had expected, and broader – he’d put on muscle since his passport photograph was taken. The boyish good looks had settled, becoming more interesting. He swung his bag up to his shoulder as I watched and something about the movement looked familiar to me, an echo that I couldn’t quite trace to its source. There was something about him …
I shook off the feeling as my path converged with his. Concentrate. He hadn’t noticed me approaching. I waited to speak until he was close enough to touch, in case he ran. ‘Luke Gibson?’
He frowned at me, confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘Are you Luke Gibson?’
‘Yeah.’ He looked down at the ID in my hand, and back up at me, and then at the little ring of uniformed officers that had gathered around him. ‘What’s going on?’ Then, with sudden tearing anxiety, ‘It’s not Mum, is it?’
‘Nothing like that.’ I couldn’t quite manage to smile at him, though, as I usually would, to reassure him. Everyone feared the police for the bad news they might bring, if nothing else. But I was there because of a murdered woman, and at the thought of her I found I was all out of smiles. ‘We need to speak to you regarding the death of Paige Hargreaves.’
‘Who?’ His expression was absolutely blank. Too blank?
‘Paige Hargreaves,’ I repeated clearly. ‘She was a journalist.’
‘Oh!’ He blinked. ‘Yeah, I remember her. Did you say she’s dead?’
‘You didn’t know?’
I’d allowed an edge of sarcasm into my voice but he answered as if I’d been straight with him. ‘No, I didn’t. I had no idea. When did this happen?’
‘We’re still trying to establish the facts of the case.’ Police-speak at its best, telling him absolutely nothing.
‘Right. Sorry, why do you need to speak to me?’ He was looking baffled. ‘I barely knew her. I think I met her twice.’
‘We found some personal items of hers in your house.’
‘Personal items?’ He frowned. ‘What do you mean by that? What sort of thing? And what does that have to do with me?’
‘We’ll discuss it in interview.’ I nodded to the officers on either side of him. ‘We need to search you—’
That got through to him. ‘Search me? Like hell. I haven’t done anything wrong.’ His voice had risen but he caught hold of his temper before I had the chance to tell him to calm down. He took a moment to collect himself, then said more quietly, ‘You have no reason to search me.’
‘We can’t transport you to my office without searching you. It’s for your own safety and for the safety of the officers who are taking you there. It’s routine,’ I added, which was true.
‘This is crazy.’ He looked past me and flushed, aware for the first time that everyone who passed us was staring and undoubtedly speculating on why he was being stopped. ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’
‘I’ll explain everything when we’re at the office, OK?’ I touched his arm to get his attention back on me. ‘Let’s get this done quickly. I don’t want to keep you standing here for any longer than you have to be.’
I could see him thinking through what I’d said to him so far, considering his options, puzzling through the situation he’d found himself in. Anyone would have been rattled to be stopped like that in public, but he was more self-possessed than most, I thought. After a beat he nodded and bent to put his bag down. ‘Fine.’
‘Arms out,’ a BTP officer behind him said briskly. ‘Are you carrying anything you shouldn’t have on you? Anything sharp in your pockets? Anything that could hurt me when I’m searching you?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked up and kept his eyes fixed on mine as the officer patted him down, assessing me in the same way I was contemplating him. I couldn’t guess what conclusions he was coming to, but I had the impression of a sharp intelligence at work: not just a pretty face. And he had the sense to go quiet, which nine out of ten people wouldn’t have managed. He didn’t speak again until we started to move towards the exit, where the transport van I’d requested was waiting on double-yellow lines with its hazard lights flashing.
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘This is only a conversation,’ I said smoothly, sidestepping the question of whether arrest was a possibility.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘You know that better than I do.’
‘I don’t know anything at all.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, then.’
He didn’t say anything else – not then, nor in the van, nor when we arrived at the office, which made me wary. If he was quiet, he was thinking.
I would have given a lot to know what was on his mind.