To Dwell in Darkness: A Novel (Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James Novels)
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In the tradition of Elizabeth George, Louise Penny, and P. D. James, New York Times bestselling author Deborah Crombie delivers a powerful tale of intrigue, betrayal, and lies that will plunge married London detectives Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James into the unspeakable darkness that lies at the heart of murder.
Recently transferred to the London borough of Camden from Scotland Yard headquarters, Superintendent Duncan Kincaid and his new murder investigation team are called to a deadly bombing at historic St. Pancras Station. By fortunate coincidence, Melody Talbot, Gemma's trusted colleague, witnesses the explosion. The victim was taking part in an organized protest, yet the other group members swear the young man only meant to set off a smoke bomb. As Kincaid begins to gather the facts, he finds every piece of the puzzle yields an unexpected pattern, including the disappearance of a mysterious bystander.
The bombing isn't the only mystery troubling Kincaid. He's still questioning the reasons behind his transfer, and when his former boss—who's been avoiding him—is attacked, those suspicions deepen. With the help of his former sergeant, Doug Cullen, Melody Talbot, and Gemma, Kincaid begins to untangle the truth. But what he discovers will leave him questioning his belief in the job that has shaped his life and his values—and remind him just how vulnerable his precious family is.
Kincaid asked, impatience evident. “Judging from the facial bones, probably,” said Rashid. “Parts of the shoes are left . . . hiking boots, I’d guess, a fairly large size. But the hands are gone. And the center of the torso . . .” He used a probe, carefully. “The body contracted, of course, but I’d say he was holding the device at waist level, more or less.” “Any ID?” Rashid glanced back at Kincaid. “Bloody hell, Duncan. This guy is toast. I’ll be lucky to get teeth. Although”—he prodded again
jacket. “I’m a cop! Help me, for God’s sake!” Through a break in the haze she saw his face, soot smudged, now inches from her own. Light brown hair, red-rimmed blue eyes. “Cover your face,” he said, nodding an acknowledgment. She saw that he had a blue handkerchief in his hand. “The fire—it’s bloody phosphorus.” Holding the handkerchief to his face like a mask, he grabbed her elbow with his other hand. Together they pushed forward, through the knot of people jostling the other way. With her
have had hot chocolate. “Crayfish and rocket for me,” said Gemma. “And I’ll have a latte, too.” She winked at Kit. “And tuna for me.” Kincaid closed the menu with a snap. “Stay here. I’ll order. And don’t let anyone steal my chair.” When he returned to the table, Toby pulled at his sleeve. “We’re going to the ballet. Tomorrow. MacKenzie’s taking us to the . . . matinee.” He struggled a bit with the word. “It’s Sleeping Beauty,” put in Charlotte, who was bouncing with excitement. “I want to be
comfortable conversation areas. Some of the occupants having tea or cocktails looked extremely well heeled, while some just appeared to be tired tourists. He asked for the Booking Office Bar at the reception desk and was directed to a doorway on his right. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. From light into dark, indeed. But it was a glorious dimness. The room had been the original booking office for St. Pancras station, and the restoration had celebrated George Gilbert Scott at his most
two entire chickens all by yourself.” “Too many Yorkshire puddings,” Kit said, which was at least half true. He’d made them himself. Having discovered how easy they were, he’d been practicing, and these had come out just the way he liked them—crispy on the outside but still slightly spongy in the center. “There is no such beast as too many Yorkshire puddings,” Erika said with a twinkle. “In fact, I thought we could have the leftovers with tea, with good German butter and some of my homemade