He was certain that there were things Viv Holland was not telling him. What he didn’t know was whether or not those things had any bearing on the deaths of Fergus O’Reilly and Nell Greene. He sensed that Viv was an intensely private person, and that even the little she’d shared with him had been under duress.
As for now, he only had a suspicious death, not a crime. Was he justified in pulling in more manpower, from either uniform or CID, until he knew if O’Reilly had been taking prescribed medication that might have killed him?
He could, he thought, do a little digging himself. His curiosity was aroused, he had to admit. How often did he have a celebrity death on his doorstep—much less the death of a celebrity he had admired and had actually met?
And, having had a word with Doug Cullen—make that Metropolitan Police Detective Sergeant Doug Cullen—while Viv was speaking to her daughter, he now knew he had an entire contingent of coppers at hand.
Kincaid woke to the touch of a cool hand on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he found Gemma sitting on the edge of the bed, studying him, her brow creased in a frown. “What is it?” he managed to mumble, his mouth dry from the pain pill he’d swallowed when he came upstairs.
“You were dreaming again, muttering in your sleep.”
“Was I?” He tried to hang on to a fragment from the jumbled images that teased at his consciousness, but it was gone. “I can’t remember.”
“I thought you might have a fever, but you’re cool.”
“I know I am,” he replied, summoning a grin. Sitting up a bit, he was glad to find that his head didn’t swim. He slipped his good arm round her waist. “Come to bed.”
“I think you must have a concussion,” said Gemma. “It’s the middle of the afternoon in someone else’s house, and the children will pop in any minute. Besides, I’d hurt you.” She smiled and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth very gently.
“Ow.”
“See? I told you so.”
Pushing himself farther up in the bed, he flexed his right arm and hand gingerly, then moved his head. Nothing spun. “I feel better. Those pills must be magic.” He released Gemma and reached for the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table. “What’s going on?”
“DI Booth took Viv to make the identification. We have all of her things packed into her van. Melody’s going to drive the van to the pub and I’m going to take the kids to the village in Melody’s car. They want to get ice creams at the mill.”
“Melody must have told them about the ice creams.”
Laughing, Gemma said, “I’m not taking responsibility. But they could use an outing and I want to see the village—and the pub. I’ll help Melody and Doug unload the van. I’m not sure who’s on hand at the pub if Viv’s not back.”
Kincaid swung his legs off the bed. So far so good. “I’m coming, too.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“If I managed to keep up with Ivan this morning, I could probably run a marathon.”
Gemma started to speak, then hesitated.
“What is it, love?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were feeling up to it. But Melody got the key to Nell Greene’s cottage from Mark Cain. I thought you might like to be the one to give it to DI Booth.”
Joe had loaded all Viv’s equipment into her van, helped by the tall, lanky kid who was visiting—Kit, he thought the boy was called—and Melody, and Melody’s friend from London, the one who was mad on gardening. He hadn’t needed to be told that the friend was a cop. With his round glasses and neatly pressed chinos, the guy looked more like a programmer, but he had that quiet, watchful air all cops seemed to acquire, natural as breathing.
A half hour later, Melody and Grace and Melody’s friend had squeezed into the van, while the pretty copper-haired woman and the other bloke, the one who’d been in the car crash, got into Melody’s car with the three kids. When they’d all driven away, he raked the gravel forecourt until it formed perfect undulating ripples, like the sand in a Japanese meditation garden.
It wouldn’t last. Of course it wouldn’t. Nor did the trimming and tidying he did every day in the gardens, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t worth the doing, in and of itself. He understood Viv, with her constant battle to master elements that were of necessity fleeting.
Going round the side of the house, he put the rake away in the shed, then made his way through the kitchen garden and down the walk that ran along the outside of the formal hedges. At the end of the last hedge, he crossed the bottom lawn and entered the thicket of trees that bordered the river. The arching branches hid him now from any casual observer. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, not until he’d had time to think about what he’d heard.
His carefully tended path through the trees ended in a small clearing on the river’s edge. The one-room fishing hut—built by Addie’s great-grandfather shortly after the construction of the house—hugged the shoreline. Here, the river had been partially dammed so that it widened into a good-sized trout pool, and the hut’s large covered porch extended a few feet over the water.
When he’d first come to work here, he’d found the hut neglected since Addie’s father’s death—Ivan Talbot was no fisherman. Joe, fascinated by the place, had offered to make the necessary repairs. He’d mended the fishing tackle as well, and would cast a line when he’d finished his day’s work in the gardens. More and more often, he spent the night on a camp bed in the hut rather than driving back to his small, barren flat in Moreton.
When Addie caught on to his overnight stays, she’d offered to let him live there if he wanted to make the place more habitable. “But surely you’ll miss the nightlife, and your friends,” she’d said.
“I don’t think you can say that Moreton-in-Marsh has nightlife,” he’d answered with a smile. He didn’t add that he didn’t have any friends he could be bothered to keep up with. The oldest of six in a cramped house, he’d never wanted anything as much as to be alone.
Once settled in the hut, he fished, he cooked simple meals on the camp stove, and read his books on landscape design and plants and philosophy. On warm evenings, he stretched out on the little dock and watched the stars. In the winter, he warmed himself by the wood-burning stove. The lack of company bothered him not at all.
But he had, unfortunately, missed sex, and that had been his undoing.
The shade from the riverside sycamores kept the hut cool on warm days, but it also meant the room grew dim in the afternoons. Lighting the lamp that hung from the beamed ceiling, he took a glass from one of the storage shelves and reached for the seldom-drunk bottle of single malt. He’d just poured a generous finger when he heard footsteps on the porch, then the hut door was yanked open.
Without turning, he said, “What do you want, Roz?”
“Pour me one of those.” She sat, uninvited, on the edge of the camp bed.
Joe took down another glass and splashed some whisky into it. When he turned, he saw that she was far from her usual calm and collected self. Her hair had come loose from its customary twist. Her perfect lipstick had vanished, and her blouse was half untucked from the waistband of her dark trousers. A few weeks ago, he’d have been aroused at the sight of Roz disheveled. Now, he said, “Drink up and get out.”
“Sit down, darling, for heaven’s sake.” Her lips formed a pout.
He knocked back enough single malt to set his throat on fire and stayed where he was. “What do you want, Roz?” he said again.
“Did you hear . . . about him?” When she lifted her glass, he saw that her hand was shaking.
“One of the church ladies told me. You know what gossip is like in the villages.”
Roz flushed. “That was beneath you. So . . . Did you talk to Viv?”
“Really? And what should I have said when she was being taken to identify the body? You are a harpy, Roz.”
She gave him a calculating look over the rim of her glass. “That never bothered you before.”
“Yes, well.
” He shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”
She looked hurt. “I never thought you’d be so petty, darling Joe.”
To tell the truth, it had surprised him as well. Their relationship had seemed the perfect liaison of convenience. She was almost twenty years older, with her own home, a good job. There was none of the pressure to do the things required of a conventional relationship—to marry, to settle down, have kids, buy a little box on a housing estate.
It had been ideal. Until the day when he’d walked in on her in Beck House.
She raised an arched eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? About him?”
Unmoved by her appeal, he said, “Why shouldn’t I?”
Roz took another swallow of the Glenlivet and licked her lips. “Because, if you do, I’ll tell Addie you’ve been skimming.”
He stared at her. “You bitch.” Swallowing hard, he tried to tamp down the rage. “You know I wasn’t— I’m a partner, for God’s sake, and I’ll pay the bloody money back.”
“Then why not tell Addie? What did you need the money for, anyway, Joe? Some problem with your pack of relatives?”
“None of your damned business,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Well, whatever it was, I doubt it will make a difference to Addie.” Her smile was vicious.
“Damn you, Roz. Get out.” He crossed the room in one long stride and yanked her up by her arm. The remains of her whisky splashed over them both, the fumes filling his nose like brimstone. He shoved her towards the door. “And don’t come down here again. I swear I’ll hurt you if you do.”
Chapter Eleven
A glance to her left showed Gemma that there were still people on the small terrace of the Old Mill, on the other side of the river. Slowing, she said, “Looks like they’re still open.” A couple with a spaniel on a lead appeared round the corner of the building, licking ice cream cones. “And still serving ice cream,” Gemma added. Checking that there was no traffic coming, she pulled onto the tiny bit of verge at the edge of the small roundabout and stopped. They could cross the stone footbridge to the mill. “Hop out, you lot.”
Toby was first out, of course, whooping. Kit took the time to unbuckle Charlotte from her booster seat and help her from the car.
“Mummy.” Charlotte stood at her window. “You need an ice cream, too.” Her little face puckered with the gravity of this announcement.
Gemma laughed, thinking of the state of her waistband after Viv’s lunch. “Not today, love. How about you taste it for me and tell me which one is best. Maybe I’ll have one tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” asked Kincaid, leaning back into the car.
For a moment she was tempted. Tempted to hold Charlotte on her lap while she dripped ice cream, tempted to listen to Kit explain the mechanics of the water mill. Tempted to scold Toby for trying to climb the terrace railing. Tempted, most of all, to take in the sight of Kincaid, bruised but whole. She sighed. “No. I promised I’d help. And you are not lifting boxes, so don’t even think about it.” Wagging a finger at him, she gave him her most severe frown.
Seeing Kit hesitate, gazing in the direction the van had taken, she wondered if he was worried about Viv. Toby was already on the bridge, tightrope-walking on the low stone parapet. “Go,” she told Kincaid and Kit. “Before Toby falls in the river. I’ll be at the pub.” She pointed down the road. “You can’t miss it, on the left after the big bridge and the main roundabout, across from the church. You can find me when you’re finished.” Waving at them, she drove on before she could change her mind.
The village glowed in the afternoon light, golden stone buildings festooned with the brilliant scarlet of creeper, the pathways busy with families, dogs, and cyclists. She passed the well and crossed the river, and there was the long, low pub as she remembered it from the previous evening, when lights had been aglow in the windows. Today she drove past, making a sharp left into the car park. She found an empty space easily—it was the lull between afternoon tea and happy-hour drinks. Looking round for the van, she saw that Melody had pulled it through an arch into an inner courtyard.
The van’s rear doors were open. Melody and Doug and a wiry, olive-skinned man in a cook’s apron were sliding crates from the back. Grace stood to one side, hands in her anorak pockets, watching them. “Grace,” called Gemma. “Are you sure you don’t want an ice cream? The kids are all at the Old Mill with their dad and they’d love you to join them.”
Grace shook her head and disappeared into the building across the courtyard from the pub.
“Viv not back yet?” Gemma asked as she reached the van. “Grace has a bee in her bonnet about something. And I thought all the kids were getting on well.”
Melody balanced a crate of jam jars on her hip. “Gemma, this is Ibby, Viv’s sous-chef.” She nodded towards the man in the apron.
He put out a hand. “Hiya.” Gemma had a glimpse of the colorful tattoos on his forearm, vegetables twining round a chef’s knife, and the words mise en place in flowing script.
Bea Abbott, whom Gemma had met very briefly in the kitchen at Beck House, came out from the pub’s service entrance. When she saw Gemma, her face fell. “Oh. I thought you were Viv. What on earth is keeping her?” Apparently, she hadn’t expected an answer because she immediately turned to Ibby and added, “Hurry up, can’t you? Evening rush is going to start any minute, and we’ve got full bookings. Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be Saturday.”
Gemma had to bite her tongue to keep from saying she doubted Nell Greene and Fergus O’Reilly had died just to inconvenience Bea. She was saved by the crunch of tires on gravel as a black Volvo pulled into the car park. Viv got out and came towards them, followed by Detective Inspector Booth.
Bea greeted them with her hands outstretched. “Viv, what’s kept you? I was so worried—”
But Viv walked past her and stopped in front of Ibby. She looked at him and simply nodded.
“Oh, man.” Ibby shook his head. “The bugger. God damn him.”
Viv took his arm and turned him away. “Come on. Let’s see what state the kitchen’s in.”
“It’s a positive ID, then?” Melody asked Booth quietly.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Booth turned to Bea. “Colin Booth, Gloucester CID. And you are?” Gemma noticed that he hadn’t used his rank, and that in the few moments since he’d arrived he had very unobtrusively loosened the knot in his tie. She was beginning to like Colin Booth.
“Oh,” Melody broke in before Bea could answer. “So sorry. This is Bea Abbott. She’s—”
Bea spoke for herself. “I’m Vivian’s business partner and the pub’s manager. This is a terrible business, er, Mr. Booth.” Not knowing Booth’s rank had obviously put her wrong-footed, but she recovered quickly. “What can we do to assist you?”
“I understand Mr. O’Reilly left a coat?”
“Yes. It’s in my office. I’ll just fetch it.” Bea turned away briskly, as if that was all there was to it.
Booth stopped her. “Miss Abbott, I’ll need to have a word with your staff about Mr. O’Reilly’s visit—or visits—to the pub yesterday. Is there someplace I can speak with them?”
“All of them? But it’s—” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for dinner service, and as I said—”
“This won’t take long, Miss Abbott.” A clear command.
“Oh, all right,” said Bea, sounding more exasperated than ungracious. “I suppose you can use the small dining room. It’s not set up yet.” She turned to lead him inside.
Melody and Doug were headed towards the kitchen with more crates.
Gemma hesitated for a moment, then glanced at Booth. He was watching her, and he gave her the slightest of nods before following Bea Abbott. Slipping her hands in her jacket pockets, Gemma trailed along a few feet behind him, as if she had nothing better to do.
As she entered the pub, Gemma looked round curiously. Booth and Bea had stepped into a small office ju
st to the left of the door. Ahead was a small dining room, separated from a bar lounge area to the right by an inglenook fireplace. Looking through the lounge, she saw another dining area through a doorway on its far side. The burly, balding man behind the bar looked curiously back at her.
The pub was certainly an appealing place, with white-painted paneled walls offset by dark polished wood and leather furnishings, and red dhurrie carpets on the stone-flagged floors.
In the office, Bea handed Booth a long camel hair coat and said, “If you want to have a seat, I’ll just fetch everyone.”
Booth stopped her. “Before you do that, can you tell me where this coat was found?”
“Where he was sitting. There, in the corner.” Bea pointed to a leather sofa in the L-shaped nook that formed the far corner of the lounge.
“Did anyone see him leave?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Jack—he’s the bartender—or Sarah, who’s one of the waitstaff. All I know is that when I came in to close up, it was there.”
“But you knew who the coat belonged to?”
Shifting impatiently, Bea said, “Well, yes, of course.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. O’Reilly, then?”
“I—” Bea stopped and took a breath. “I’m not sure I’d say acquainted. I’d never met him before yesterday afternoon. But obviously I knew who he was.”
“From Miss Holland?”
“Well, yes, but I’d have recognized him regardless. From his books and everything. But I was surprised to see him standing in the yard yesterday afternoon.”
Surprised and not thrilled, thought Gemma, who seemed to have done a good job of fading into the woodwork. Booth, she was sure, was well aware that she was still standing in the hallway.
Feeling in one of the coat pockets, Booth pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. He nodded as he rifled through it. “National insurance. Credit cards. A photo ID but no driving license—in which case we’ll have to find out how he got here—but there’s nothing with a London address.” Shifting the coat, he retrieved a mobile phone from the other pocket. It was a sleek new iPhone, but Gemma could see that when he pressed the power button, nothing happened. Even charged, it would be pass coded. Booth shrugged. “That won’t be much help at the moment.” Frowning, he felt the rest of the coat. “There’s no room key here—”
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