To Dwell in Darkness by Deborah Crombie Page A

the search warrant. Every computer in that flat will go to forensics, and nothing is ever really erased. You know that, don’t you?”
    â€œBut you never said anything about a search warrant,” Quinn said stubbornly.
    Kincaid glanced at Sidana, saw her looking just as perplexed. “Matthew.” He leaned forward, making certain he had eye contact with Quinn. “Can I call you Matthew? There has been a death. A very painful and unpleasant death, whether accidental, suicide, or homicide, and injuries, some of them severe, to other people. You admittedly acquired the device responsible. Of course we will be searching your flat. And we will be holding you—all of you—here until we have some answers.”
    â€œCould anyone really be so clueless?” Kincaid asked as he and Sidana entered the CID room, followed by Nick Callery and DC Sweeney.
    Sidana frowned. “He’s like a little boy playing at terrorist.”
    â€œDoesn’t make him any less dangerous,” said Callery. “And I think he’s not nearly as gormless as he makes himself out to be.”
    â€œHe still didn’t ask for a lawyer,” Kincaid added. “Is it because he’s decided to go with the ‘little boy lost’ act?”
    Nor had any of the others, even when informed they were being held overnight. They simply might not have the resources or be aware that they could ask for a public defender, but he wasn’t convinced either of those things was true of Matthew Quinn.
    â€œWe have twenty-four hours,” Kincaid told the team as Simon Gikas joined them. “Less than twenty-four hours,” he added, glancing at his watch, “to come up with something that will allow us to hold them longer. I want to know everything there is to know about Matthew Quinn. And the others.
    â€œWe won’t get the search warrant until first thing in the morning. I want everyone to be fresh, so do the best you can tonight, but get some rest.” He turned to Callery. “Do you have an update on St. Pancras?”
    â€œThe trains are running again. But that area of the arcade is still cordoned off and will be guarded until forensics has been over every molecule.” Callery sketched them a salute. “I’m off. Things to do, people to see.” He sauntered out.
    Kincaid raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. It was after ten o’clock. The station had been closed for almost five hours. It could take days to sort out the train delays that would affect not only all of Britain but spill over into Europe.
    To Simon, he said, “I want someone going over the CCTV footage as far back as necessary. The victim didn’t appear from out of nowhere. He has got to be on camera at some point, and I want to see his face. Simon, can you organize—”
    â€œBoss,” Gikas interrupted. “I’ve come across something very odd. They all claimed this Ryan Marsh was a well-known protester who’d been arrested at demonstrations, right? Well, there are no arrests recorded for any Ryan Marsh. Nor am I seeing a Ryan Marsh in the public databases that looks like a good match for the description of our victim.”
    Having assigned everyone a task, Kincaid walked out of Holborn Police Station and stood, shivering against the wind, irresolute. This was turning into such a bizarre case, and he really wanted someone to chew it over with. By the time he got home, Gemma would—at least he hoped she would—be asleep, the children tucked in their beds.
    He supposed he could have requisitioned a car, which would, this time of night, have got him home faster than the tube. Or he could take a taxi, but that idea didn’t suit him, either. He wanted time to think.
    His phone rang. An irritation, unless it was Gemma or news of Tam.
    But when he checked the caller ID, he saw that it was Doug Cullen, and then he knew exactly what he needed.
    â€œWhere are you?” he