Free To Dwell in Darkness by Deborah Crombie

Iris’s, was decidedly middle class.
    Matthew, on the other hand, had the unmistakable drawl of a prep school boy. Doug Cullen, who had done his best to disguise the fact that he had gone to Eton, would have recognized it instantly. What were they playing at, these privileged kids? Kincaid wondered.
    â€œIris,” said Trish Hollingsworth, “where were you? Where’s Ryan? What happened?”
    â€œThey—they think it might be Ryan that’s dead.” Iris’s words ended on a wail.
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” said Matthew. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Ryan knew what he was doing.” He scowled at Kincaid and Callery. “Unless you lot did something to him.”
    Callery spoke for the first time. “What’s your name, sonny? And don’t mess me about.”
    â€œWhat is this? Good cop/bad cop?” Matthew sneered.
    â€œYou haven’t begun to see bad cop, so don’t tempt me, son.” There was a menace in Callery’s voice that made Matthew step back.
    â€œQuinn,” he said grudgingly. “Matthew Quinn. But I don’t see what business it is of yours—”
    â€œMatthew!” It was the other girl, a delicate young woman with Asian features. She came off the sofa with her hands balled into fists, the force of her voice at odds with her small stature. “Just shut the fuck up, will you?”
    She crossed the room to Iris. “Is it true?” she asked, her voice shaking.
    Iris nodded. “I didn’t see. But something terrible happened, and he’s not here. Ryan’s not here.” She looked beseechingly at the others, as if someone might tell her differently, but no one spoke.
    The girl’s face twisted in grief. “Oh, God. No. Please, no.” She put a hand to her mouth and swayed.
    Just as Kincaid reached for her, fearing she might collapse, they heard the bang of the downstairs door and the stomp of police-issue boots on the stairs.
    â€œI think,” said Kincaid, “that it might be a good idea if we all had a talk down at the station.”
    They had not got the group into the waiting panda cars without considerable protest from Matthew Quinn.
    He was the last to be escorted down the stairs, once he’d locked the door. Turning back, he’d said to Kincaid, “You’ll see about this, you and your jackbooted thugs. I’ll call my—” Then he’d stopped, clamping his mouth shut.
    â€œYour lawyer?” Kincaid asked. “You have a lawyer, do you? Now that’s interesting. Why do you need a lawyer?”
    But Quinn had refused to say anything else, and Kincaid decided that he would interview the rest of the group, and separately, before he spoke to Quinn again.
    But before he talked to anyone, he wanted to see what had been pulled from the CCTV footage at St. Pancras station.
    And all assuming, of course, that SO15 didn’t hijack the protesters.
    Nick Callery walked away from the idling cars, phone pressed to his ear. After a brief phone conversation, he returned to Kincaid and said, “Your place it is, then, at least for now. My guv’nor’s not convinced it’s SO15’s party. We’ll wait and see.” He did not sound pleased.
    Kincaid had already put in the request for a search warrant for the flat. “We’ll see what we turn up once we can get a team in there. Let’s hope there wasn’t a bomb factory in the bedroom.”
    â€œBunch of bloody amateurs if you ask me,” Callery grumbled as they got back in the silver Vauxhall and the driver pulled out into traffic ahead of the panda cars.
    â€œBetter than professionals,” Kincaid said with feeling, and they made the rest of the trip in silence.
    The concrete fortress of Holborn Police Station seemed much more welcoming than it had when Kincaid had left it late that afternoon. It promised warmth, and smelled of stale coffee rather than burned flesh.
    Once