This house, unlike the Talbots’ comfortable Arts and Crafts home, he guessed to be at least seventeenth century. “If O’Reilly was staying here, he certainly went for posh,” he said as they walked up the curving drive, their feet crunching on the manicured gravel.
A flight of steps on the left of the covered porch took them up to the elevated ground floor and a glassed-in entry. “Airlock,” Kincaid murmured as they stepped through the second set of doors into reception, and Booth’s lips twitched in a smile.
The house might be Tudor, but there was nothing fussy about the large central hall that greeted them. The cream walls and gleaming white woodwork were anchored by a chevron-patterned blond wood floor and a long, sleek reception desk. The young woman behind the desk was sleek as well, with bobbed dark hair and a crisp white blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked with professional courtesy, but her brow creased as she inspected them.
Kincaid realized they must look an odd couple, Booth with his expensive suit, he in his slightly rumpled sports jacket—not to mention his bruises and bandages and a few drips of pistachio ice cream on his shirtfront. Booth stepped up to the desk and flashed a blinding smile along with his warrant card.
Pulling up an online photo of Fergus O’Reilly on his mobile phone, Booth inquired if he was a guest of the hotel.
“Mr. O’Reilly?” The woman’s frown deepened. “Is there some sort of problem?”
“I’m afraid Mr. O’Reilly has been in an accident. And this is an official inquiry. Can you confirm that he was a guest here?”
“Well, yes, but— What’s happened to him?”
“Mr. O’Reilly was killed in an automobile crash yesterday evening,” Booth said.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That’s awful. I can’t believe it.” She paused for a moment, her brow puckering again. “Although I did wonder . . .”
“You wondered what? Miss”—Booth glanced at her name tag— “Jane.”
“Mr. O’Reilly never picked up his key last night. He’d left it at the desk. He didn’t come in the night before, either, but he used his room yesterday morning. Housekeeping said nothing had been touched today.”
“O’Reilly didn’t sleep in his room night before last?” Kincaid asked.
“Well, I can’t be certain,” said Jane. “But he didn’t pick up his key before I went off duty at eleven, and housekeeping said his bed hadn’t been slept in.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We pride ourselves on our attention to our guests.”
“Of course,” Booth said. “I take it Mr. O’Reilly had booked through tonight?”
Jane checked her computer. “Yes, the booking was for three nights.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound insensitive, but what are we to do about his room? We have guests booked into it tomorrow. Will someone be coming for his things?”
“I’d suggest that you have your manager pack his things and hold them until further notice. In the meantime, my colleague and I need to have a look at his room.”
“Oh.” The young woman hesitated again. “I’m not sure— Maybe I should contact my manager—”
“I promise this won’t take long and that we’ll be very discreet. I certainly don’t think you’d want uniformed officers here.”
The idea of such disruption to the hotel did the trick. “Well, if you’re certain . . .” Jane reached into a cabinet under the reception desk.
When she’d retrieved the keys, Kincaid took the opportunity to ask, “Did you talk with Mr. O’Reilly at all during his stay?”
“Not more than the usual chitchat. I think I asked about his journey, and if he would be needing to park a car. He said he’d come by train and had got a taxi from the Moreton station.”
“Did he say why he was visiting Lower Slaughter?”
Jane shook her head. “No. He was nice enough—quite the charmer, I’d say—but it was a bit perfunctory. He seemed . . . distracted.”
“Did he meet anyone here at the hotel?”
“I don’t think so. He had a drink in the bar the first night.” She nodded to the right of reception. Kincaid had noticed the bar when they’d come in, a stunning room with a free-standing horseshoe-shaped bar and blush velvet–covered bar stools. Gemma would love it.
“He was alone?” Booth put in.
“As far as I know. I was on duty that evening and I pretty much see anyone coming or going.” She thought for a moment. “There was something, though. It was not long after he’d given me his keys. I went out to help some late arrivals with their luggage. Mr. O’Reilly was talking to someone in the garden, over near the churchyard entrance. A woman. Blond, I think.”
“You didn’t recognize her?”
“No, it was just an impression, really. A woman’s shape, a flash of light on her hair. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Booth said. “Can you tell us what time this was?”
“It was after he’d been in the bar. Half eight, maybe? I came back inside and I didn’t see him again.” Coming round the desk, she said, “If you’ll follow me,” and led them up the wide central staircase to a room on the first floor. She unlocked the door and stood aside, then hesitated. “Are you certain this is all right? I feel I should stay, but I can’t leave the desk unattended . . .”
“We won’t be long,” Booth assured her, and closed the door firmly. “I suspect she thinks you look disreputable,” he said to Kincaid, grinning. “But I thought she’d have doubted me if I’d told her you were a detective superintendent.”
Kincaid grimaced. “Ouch. That does nothing for my confidence.” Looking round the room, he saw that the bed had been turned down by housekeeping, but not slept in. A partially open duffel bag sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, and one of the bedside tables held a dog-eared paperback thriller.
“Somehow I’d have expected better literary taste,” Booth commented. “Something on food, or at least an Irish noir detective novel.”
While Booth looked through the duffel, Kincaid opened the wardrobe. Hanging in it were a sports jacket, a couple of cotton button-down shirts, and a pair of wool trousers. The clothes were expensive brands, but he noticed that the shirts were beginning to wear at the collars and cuffs. The pair of lace-up dress shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe looked bespoke, but when he examined them more closely, he saw that the heels were wearing. “He liked his clothes, but they were getting a bit shabby. Anything in the duffel?” he asked as he checked the pockets of the jacket and the trousers.
“Socks and underwear. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt.”
“No medication?”
Booth shook his head. “I’ll check the bathroom.”
Following him, Kincaid watched as he went through the shaving kit by the sink. O’Reilly had left out on the dressing table a bottle of Tom Ford cologne. The kit held nothing but ordinary toiletries, a razor, and a travel-size bottle of aspirin. “No prescription medications, no alcohol stash,” said Booth. “The barman at the pub said he had nothing but coffee with his dinner.”
Kincaid frowned. “Would he have taken aspirin if he had a heart condition?”
“I’ll ask the pathologist. But if he took some form of digoxin, it’s not here.”
There was something about the paucity of possessions and the worn clothing that struck Kincaid as a little sad, and certainly did not fit his idea of a successful chef.
When they went downstairs, the receptionist had printed out O’Reilly’s address for them. “Chelsea,” Booth said, scanning it. “Viv Holland said he used to live in Chelsea.”
Jane had gone back to scrolling down her computer screen. “Our register shows Mr. O’Reilly as a returning guest. I didn’t realize he’d stayed here before. Ah.” Her frown cleared. “That explains it. I work Wednesday through Sunday. It was a Monday night, almost three weeks ago.”
“What the bleeding hell,” Booth said as he and Kincaid walked back towards the pub. “No one I spoke to said anything about O’Reilly being here
three weeks ago.”
Kincaid was thinking it out. “So, are Viv Holland and her staff lying, or did they not see him?”
“Well, I intend to ask them. But one person at a time, and not until I know more.”
The sun had set, leaving a lingering rose stain on the underside of the clouds. The lights in the pub shone like beacons in the gloom. When they reached the roundabout and Booth turned towards the pub, Kincaid said, “I thought Nell’s cottage was to the left.”
“Yes, but I know that road and I don’t fancy walking that lane in the dark. I’ll drop you at the Talbots’ after.” Booth had glanced at him as he said it and Kincaid suspected that the detective, like Melody, was coddling him. But if he was honest, he had to admit that the doctor’s pain pill had worn off some time ago. He wasn’t, however, going to pass up his chance to learn more about Nell Greene. And he was glad enough to settle into the leather seat of Booth’s Volvo.
“Nice car.”
“What will you do about yours?” Booth asked.
Kincaid shrugged. “No idea. It will have to be something that will hold kids and dogs.”
“That’s called the wife’s.”
Kincaid thought he saw Booth smile in the dark.
Booth drove through the center of the village, then took the road that branched off by the mill. Hedges flashed by in the glare of the headlamps, and once he had to brake sharply when a rabbit darted across the road. When he slowed for Nell’s cottage, Kincaid saw why he had missed it when he and Ivan had driven by that morning.
A long, low building in the ubiquitous Cotswold stone with a neatly thatched roof, it was set back from the road and faced north, towards the village, so that the front entrance was hidden from the lane. The dark bulk of the rising hill loomed behind it, and only one faint light shone from a window by the front door. Booth stopped the car in the drive and they got out without speaking. The air felt still and heavy and the only sound was the distant call of a bird.
“Storm coming,” Booth said softly as he fished out the key.
As soon as they stepped inside and switched on the lights, Kincaid could see that no expense had been spared on the place. The floors were bleached wide plank, the walls a pale mint, and the upholstered furniture looked comfortable.
The cottage was feminine, and above all, tidy. Tidier, God knew, than his own house ever looked, between the kids and the cats and the dogs. Here there were no stacks of newspapers, no empty tea mugs, not even any dog toys littering the kilim. A few issues of Country Life were stacked neatly on the ottoman that served as a coffee table, the television remote aligned perfectly in the center. In a basket at the end of the sofa, he found a current issue of the Radio Times and some knitting.
Bookcases had been built in on either side of the hearth. Examining the volumes, Kincaid found popular novels, some classics, as well as some books on gardening and knitting.
There were two framed photos on the bottom shelf. Kincaid recognized Nell instantly, even though he’d only seen her in the dark and in pain. Both showed Nell with a black-and-white border collie—Bella, he presumed. In one, Nell was smiling at the camera. In the other, she was facing the dog, which was placed in a perfect sit. Kincaid wondered if Mark Cain had taken the photos.
Although Kincaid had another look among the books and objets d’art, there were no other photos, and nothing to suggest that she had kept in touch with work colleagues or extended family.
Kincaid picked up the first photo and held it in the lamplight. Nell Greene had been a trim woman with an ordinary, pleasant face and short light-colored hair that might have been described as blond. The photo did not highlight what he remembered the most. She had had beautiful eyes.
“The woman alphabetized her spices,” Booth called from the kitchen. Photo in hand, Kincaid joined him. Booth was peering into a drawer beside the cream-colored Aga. The only spots of color in the room were provided by a turquoise teakettle on the Aga and a bowl of green apples on the kitchen table. Kincaid spotted a few cookery books grouped on an open shelf, but when he looked more closely he saw that they were well-thumbed copies of Nigella and Nigel Slater, homey rather than challenging.
Looking about, Kincaid saw a couple of unopened bottles of wine in a rack and a bottle of sherry beside the salt and pepper mills. “No other alcohol?”
“No. And no sign she’d been drinking in her initial blood test last night, which corroborates what the bartender told me. He said she only had coffee and a glass of tap water.”
Kincaid held up the photo for Booth’s inspection. “Would you say she was blond?”
“You mean could she have matched our receptionist’s description?” Booth squinted at the image. “Maybe. At night, in the right light.”
“Questionable, I agree.”
Neither of them said that no one could mistake Viv Holland for anything other than blond.
The dog’s bowls, Kincaid discovered, were by the back door, and the basket with her toys and chew bones was under the kitchen table. There were only a few stray tufts of black-and-white hair on the bare floors. Having grown up with collies, he thought Nell must have vacuumed every day to have kept the house in such a pristine state.
He had always found searching the property and the possessions of the recently dead a complicated business—fascinating, because how people lived and what they lived with told so much about them, disturbing, because it seemed such an elemental invasion of privacy.
“I don’t think we’ll find anything in here,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll just check the rest of the house.”
The only bathroom was off the hall and, unlike the kitchen and living areas, did not seem to have had much updating. It was clean, however, and the toiletries were organized in pretty baskets. Checking the medicine cabinet, he found toothpaste and various over-the-counter medications. Behind these were two prescription bottles.
He wasn’t carrying gloves, so using a tissue as a precaution, he turned the bottles until he could read the labels. One was an antianxiety drug, the other a common antidepressant. Both were nearly full, and both were dated nearly a year ago.
The bedroom held a neatly made double bed, nightstands, a dresser, and an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe. He tried that first, running his hands gently over the hanging things. The business suits were of good quality but had a layer of dust on the shoulders. The other things in the wardrobe were the sort of simple, practical things one wore for life in the country, much of which was spent outdoors.
Carelessly, he’d used his right hand to move the hangers in the wardrobe and now it was throbbing badly. With a grunt of pain, he sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer with his left hand. Bookmarks, hand cream, a small torch. And beneath the detritus, a framed photograph, facedown. He held it to the light.
It was Nell’s wedding picture. The clothes were dated, the dress the overly ruffled fashion made popular by Princess Diana. The young Nell looked hopefully out at him, perhaps a little too seriously for a wedding day. The groom had been a good-looking man with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, but Kincaid thought that even then his expression showed the beginnings of a certain pomposity.
What had become of this young couple? And why had Nell kept the photo if she couldn’t bear to look at it?
Chapter Thirteen
May 2007
“Fire two duck, two steaks, medium well,” Viv called out.
“Two duck, two freaking wasted steaks,” Ibby muttered. “Medium well, this beef, might as well throw it in the bin.” The steaks were rib eyes, heritage beef, with mushrooms and red wine sauce, and they were the most expensive thing on the menu.
Viv agreed with him, but his grousing was the last thing she needed right now. She took a second of her attention from the plates at the pass to glare at him. “Make that, ‘Yes, Chef,’ and keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” From the sauté station, Ibby gave her an exaggerated bow.
“Shut the hell up
, Ibby. Tonight, of all nights.” She could strangle him. But that would be after she strangled Fergus, who had walked out in the middle of service and left her to expedite, tonight of all nights.
“Back in a tic,” Fergus had said, and that had been half an hour ago. It meant they were one down on the hot line. They were beginning to lose it, and the tension had seeped into front of house. Not that front of house wasn’t tense enough as it was.
The buzz had started at lunch. A last-minute booking for one at half seven, under an innocuous name, but one that the maître d’ thought he had seen before. The man had come alone a month ago, wearing a suit. He’d sampled several of the house specialties, had one glass of wine, and asked some knowledgeable questions about the menu—all the hallmarks of a Michelin inspector.
It was now a quarter to eight, so if the man had been on time, his starter order should be coming off the printer at any moment. And if they were right about him, they absolutely could not afford to screw up. Which brought her back to it—where the hell was Fergus? There had been too many nights recently when he’d slipped out and come back a little more wired than he should be, but he’d never done it when so much was at stake.
Viv tried to concentrate on the plate in front of her. A calf’s sweetbread with an old-school sauce soubise, it tasted fabulous but took an artist’s hand with the garnish to make it look like something anyone would want to eat. That was Fergus’s strength, not hers. Give him a squeeze bottle and a pair of tweezers and he was bloody Picasso.
She’d just arranged the last bits of thyme and sorrel when Danny, the maître d’, came clattering down the kitchen stairs with the ticket in hand. “I think it’s him,” he said. “He’s ordered the breast of quail.”
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