The verges had dwindled away as he left the last houses of Lower Slaughter behind, so that now he was walking in the lane itself. But he took this route every night, along Copsehill Road north towards Lower Swell. His bungalow was not much more than half a mile, just before the first junction. He knew where the muddy patches were, and the thickness of the trees and hedges crowding in from either side at least gave him some cover from the rain.
When he heard the car coming, he automatically moved as close to the left-hand hedge as he could get. It was another few yards to a layby, but the back of his anorak was reflective so that even in the dark and the rain he should be easily visible. The car came round the bend in the lane behind him, the headlamps picking out the slanting raindrops and the glisten of the wet leaves in the hedge. The car had slowed and he was just about to lift his hand in a wave of thanks when the sound of the engine changed. It was revving up, the engine squealing with sudden acceleration.
Turning, he was shouting, “Slow the fuck do—” when the searing lights cut him off, blinding him.
The impact caught him by the side, threw him hard into the hedgerow, then into the road. He lay on his back, stunned. Looking up, he thought disjointedly how odd it was to see the falling rain from beneath, silvery in the light of the headlamps. The moisture was trickling down his neck, into his jacket. The car had stopped, but it was still running, he could hear the engine ticking over. A door creaked open. There was a swish of footsteps and a moment later a familiar voice said, “Oh my God. Are you all right?”
Jack tried to raise his head, tried to answer, but no sound came. He couldn’t feel his legs.
A torch glared suddenly in his face, pinning him to the tarmac. Then the beam swung wildly. He felt a crushing blow, and darkness descended.
Chapter Fourteen
The rain had stopped sometime in the early hours of the morning. Mary Thompson avoided the worst of the puddles in the farm’s yard. It was her turn on the altar guild rota at St. Mary’s in Lower Slaughter and that meant a very early start. There had been a cold snap with the rain, and it was her job to turn the heaters on in the church so that by the time anyone turned up for the service, the church would be warm enough that they wouldn’t shiver in their coats.
Her old four-by-four was cold as well. She huddled deeper into her fleece-lined jacket as she waited for the engine to catch. But it was a beautiful morning, she reminded herself, the first rays of the sun just catching the treetops, the clear sky a pale lemon yellow. Careful of the ruts at the end of the drive, she turned into the road and headed south towards the village. Water stood on the verges, and the foliage in the hedges drooped with the weight of moisture.
Mary settled into her seat as the car began to warm, enjoying the sense of being early abroad and owning the morning. The trees seemed to have turned overnight and when there was a gap in the hedges, she could see smudges of reds and golds in the distance.
She’d just switched Radio 4 to Radio 2 to fit her upbeat mood when she saw something at the side of the road. A deer, she thought with the first stab of dread. It happened. The deer darted out, and if whoever had hit this one hadn’t sustained serious damage, they were lucky. But she couldn’t bear wondering if the poor beast was still alive and should be put out of its misery. Worst case, she’d ring her husband and ask him to bring his hunting rifle. She glanced at the dashboard clock as she passed the huddled shape. It was still early—she could stop.
She pulled into the next layby and left the truck. The crisp air nipped at her lungs as she took a deep breath and started back up the road, walking fast, her boots squelching in the sodden fallen leaves. Something niggled at her. The shadows were still deep at ground level, but something about the shape hadn’t looked right. Her unease grew as she rounded the gentle curve. Now that she could see more clearly, the shape looked more like a bundle than a deer—perhaps she’d been mistaken and someone had thrown rubbish into the hedge. But as she drew closer, she made out what looked like legs, canted slightly towards the road. And there, almost under the hedge—was that the pale blur of a face? Her stomach lurched. Dear God. Her steps slowed, then she shamed herself for her fear and stumbled the last few yards.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, an invocation.
She didn’t need to touch the body that lay before her to know that he was dead. The man’s eyes stared heavenwards, sightless. And she knew him.
Colin Booth poured beaten eggs into the frying pan, adding a dash of cream and a few grinds of salt and pepper as he began gently stirring. The eggs would be cooked slowly, just the way his mum had taught him to make them. Bacon was draining on kitchen paper, the first lot of granary bread already in the toaster, coffee made, butter and jam ready. It was his Sunday routine, making breakfast for his wife and son. He’d been for a run, picking up a Sunday paper for Jessica on his way back. Humming along with something he vaguely recognized on Radio 2, he used his free hand to pull the plates from the warming oven. The eggs were almost there. He pressed the toaster lever.
“Lucas,” he called to his son, who was sprawled on the floor in front of the television in the sitting room. “Two minutes. Tell your mum. And TV off.”
“But, Dad, it’s Match of the Day—”
“I know you’re recording it. You can catch up after breakfast.”
“But it won’t be the same.”
Booth sighed. His son was football mad. The eggs had reached the perfect, silky texture. Spreading the plates on the work top, he divided the eggs and bacon among them. He was about to step into the sitting room when he heard his wife’s voice and then the television went blessedly silent.
Jess padded into the kitchen and slipped her arm round his waist. “Mmm. If you ever decide to give up policing, you can be my short-order cook.”
“I already am your short-order cook.” Kissing the top of her head, he handed her a plate, then nodded towards the sitting room.
“He’s coming. Let him sulk for a bit. It will be his own fault if his eggs are cold.” She put the hot toast in the toast rack and more bread slices in the slots while Booth poured the coffee.
“He’s still upset about yesterday?”
Jess shrugged. “He made two goals. Of course he was disappointed that you weren’t there.”
“I’ll take him out for some practice today.” Booth had been football mad himself, had even dreamed of a professional career before a knee injury had sidelined him at sixteen. Sitting down across from his wife, he thought how much he liked the sight of her on Sunday mornings, in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, her sandy hair falling loose round her shoulders, her freckled face free of weekday makeup.
“I was hoping he might pick up a game with some of the boys,” she said with a grin that let him know exactly what she was thinking they might do in that eventuality.
Before he could respond, his mobile vibrated. “Oh, bloody hell.” He reached for the phone where he’d left it on the work top, frowning when he saw the name on the ID. “It’s Dr. Mason,” he murmured to Jess as he answered.
“Colin.” The pathologist’s voice was loud in his ear. “Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, but there’s something I think you should see.”
“Is this about O’Reilly?” he asked. He’d told Jess last night about the death of the chef they had both so admired. It was Dr. Mason who’d found the digoxin in O’Reilly’s system and she had intended to test Nell Greene as well. “And the Greene woman?”
“Not exactly. You know I’m on rota this weekend. I got a call this morning to look at the victim of a presumed hit-and-run. The accident was less than a mile from your village.”
“You mean Lower Slaughter?”
“Yes, but to the north, unlike Friday night’s accident. Still, I thought three deaths in the same vicinity was a bit much of a coincidence.”
Booth had lost all interest in his breakfast. “Are you at the scene?”
“Yes. I’m ringing from my car.” She gave him directions.
“There are injuries that are inconsistent with those caused by the vehicle,” Dr. Mason said carefully. “And there’s another thing, Colin. The victim was the bartender at the pub where both of the Friday-night victims had their dinner.”
Sunday-morning breakfast had been a haphazard affair in the Talbot household, with cereals, fresh fruit, and bread for the toaster set out so that everyone could help themselves. Melody’s mother had left for the early service at St. Paul’s, the church up the hill in Upper Slaughter. Ivan was sequestered in his study with newspaper business—his usual excuse when it came time to go to church. Gemma and Duncan had taken the children for a walk in the grounds.
Melody had managed a piece of toast, but a night of tossing and turning, waking up periodically to check her mobile, had left her without much appetite. Andy hadn’t texted her again. Now she was regretting not answering his calls or texts yesterday, but she couldn’t quite see how to apologize gracefully. With her second cup of coffee in hand, she went looking for Doug.
She found him in the sitting room, his laptop on the ottoman, two empty coffee cups rather precariously balanced on the arm of his chair. Unread Sunday papers were stacked on the coffee table and a small fire crackled in the grate. Through the French windows, she saw the tops of Gemma’s and Duncan’s heads traverse the view—they must be walking across the bottom terrace.
“What are you doing?” she said to Doug, a bit more sharply than she’d intended, but she was feeling cross, and for the first time that weekend, a bit territorial.
“Reading about Fergus O’Reilly.” Doug looked up at her, apparently oblivious to her irritation. “The celebrity chef had fallen on hard times, I’d say.” He glanced back at his screen. “His Chelsea restaurant won a Michelin star in 2007, but lost it the next year. Two years later, O’Reilly’s closed. There were lots of tabloid reports of a wild lifestyle—drink, drugs, rock and roll, and models. Have a look.”
Melody sank down on the sofa next to his chair as he turned the laptop screen towards her. The photo Doug had pulled up showed O’Reilly, wearing his trademark fedora, with his arm wrapped round a waif-thin, high-cheek-boned, pouty-lipped young woman. Melody’s immediate impression, as it had been when she’d occasionally caught O’Reilly on television, was how extraordinarily good-looking the man had been. The curls and dimples might have looked feminine on another man, but with O’Reilly’s strong bone structure had just made him more striking. For the first time, Melody had a real sense of the shock of this man’s death.
“Then he partnered with a London restaurateur for a couple of years,” Doug went on. “And after that, another venture on his own, reopening O’Reilly’s in a new location in Hammersmith. The reviews were only so-so. Two years later, O’Reilly’s 2.0 went the way of its predecessor. Somewhere along in there”—Doug scanned the screen— “that would have been in 2010—there was a marriage. That didn’t last much longer than the restaurant. And, then, a year after the divorce, his ex-wife died of a heroin overdose.”
Melody grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Very. Fergus O’Reilly disappears from the London scene for a while after that, although there’s no indication that he was involved with his ex at the time of her death. I think he did some American food programs.”
“Ouch again.”
“Right. I’m not coming up with anything recent. If I were Booth, I’d contact O’Reilly’s former partner, the restaurateur, fellow by the name of Colm Finlay. Another Irishman.”
“I’m sure DI Booth will appreciate the suggestion.” Melody’s slight irony was lost on Doug, as she had thought it would be. “What’s Finlay doing now?”
“He has a couple of successful West End restaurants.” Doug named one in Kensington where they’d both eaten.
“So he’s the real deal,” said Melody, impressed, then added thoughtfully, “So in all this research you’ve been doing, have you come up with anything about Viv Holland?”
“Only connected to the original O’Reilly’s. After that, nothing. No news items, no social media, not even a listing on LinkedIn.”
“The pub must have some kind of Internet presence.”
“Yes. And nicely done, too.” Doug pulled up a page displaying the pub’s flower-decked exterior, then clicked over to a dinner menu, presented against a background photo of the bar area, complete with sparkling glassware and its welcoming fire. “But Viv’s name is nowhere on it.”
Melody’s coffee sat forgotten on the side table. “No one disappears that thoroughly unless they mean to. So, what—or whom—was Viv hiding from? O’Reilly? And if it was O’Reilly, how did he find her here? She—” The light dawned and Melody swore. “My mother. My lovely, interfering mother. I remember her saying Viv was reluctant to do the luncheon, but Mum thought her talent was unappreciated—obviously, we know now, as she was good enough to be cooking in a Michelin-starred restaurant. The invitation list wasn’t public, but what if one of the guests knew O’Reilly and just happened to mention it, or mentioned it to someone who passed it on to O’Reilly . . .”
“Duncan told me last night that the hotel receptionist said O’Reilly was here three weeks earlier, just for one night. What if he came to see for himself?”
“That it was really Viv?” Melody stared out into the bright, sun-washed garden, visualizing it as it had been yesterday, full of guests and the buzz of conversation. “In which case, why wait until the day before the luncheon to turn up again? What if— You said his career had taken a dive. What if it wasn’t Viv he came back to see? What if it was someone who was coming to the luncheon? Someone important. Maybe—”
“That’s all very well, but—” Doug jabbed a finger at the screen. “You’ve just skipped over the big question. Assuming Viv was hiding from O’Reilly—and that’s a big if at this point, but if that’s the case—why?”
Melody stared at him. “Oh, well. Maybe he was violent. Maybe she owed him money. Maybe—”
Doug’s mobile pinged with a text. “Bugger.” He sounded annoyed, but pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. His eyes widened as he read the message. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. Then, with a glance at Melody, he hastily put the mobile away.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. Um . . .” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Bloke at the rowing club broke his ankle.”
“There must be a lot of that going round, then.” She gave a pointed glance at the ankle he had torn so badly when he fell off the ladder in his sitting room.
What on earth was he up to? she wondered. Doug Cullen couldn’t tell a decent lie to save his life.
Doug looked mulish. “It happens.” He closed the laptop with a snap. “Come on, let’s go outside. Do your hostess duties and give me a proper tour of the garden.”
“You look much better this morning,” said Gemma as she and Kincaid stood at the end of the pergola, looking down on the lawns and gardens spread below them.
“Even with the shiner?” He touched a fingertip to his cheekbone, tentatively.
“It’s not too bad. You could do the dissolute rock star thing and wear sunglasses to cover it up.”
“Our friend Andy might not appreciate the ‘dissolute rock star’ description,” Kincaid said with a grin.
Gemma squeezed his arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
A gust of breeze sent a flurry of pink rose petals swirling down upon them. “Look, Mummy,” called Charlotte, who had been skipping back and forth on the gravel path, singing to herself. “It’s con-fitti.”
“Confetti,” Gemma corrected absently, still admiring the view. The rain had given everything a new-minted brightness and the air seemed suddenly ripe with autumn. The trees across the river seemed to have been brushed with gold and russet just since yesterday.
Toby and Kit had found a football somewhere and were kicking it about on the bottom lawn, watched by the two dogs, who loo
ked like referees on the sidelines.
Squatting, Charlotte began gathering the petals. “I’m going to make you a present, Mummy. You can take it home.” It was the first time they’d taken Charlotte to stay with strangers and she’d done remarkably well. Perhaps her separation anxiety was abating.
Gemma bent down to examine the petals filling Charlotte’s small hand. “That’s lovely, darling. We can make a sachet. But we’ll need something to put your petals in.” Fishing in her jacket pocket, she found a clean tissue. “How about this? We can wrap them up.”
Kincaid had moved to the edge of the terrace. He stood, his hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze abstracted.
Going to him, Gemma said softly, “It is lovely here, isn’t it? I didn’t think I’d like it quite so much.”
“You’d better not get too accustomed to the lap of luxury,” he teased.
“It’s not that—although I have to admit it is nice. It’s just that I didn’t expect the place to be so . . . I don’t know. Relaxed, maybe. I will be glad to get home, though.”
They’d decided at breakfast that Kincaid would stay another day to deal with any issues that might arise with the car insurance, and that Melody would run Gemma and the children to the train after Sunday lunch. Melody and Doug would drive back later in the afternoon in Melody’s car. The Talbots had planned to stay another few days and had assured Kincaid that he was welcome.
“Ivan wants to take me to look at a car in the morning,” Kincaid said now. “He says he has a friend who can make me a really good deal.”
“Not on anything we can afford, if he’s in Ivan’s league.” Gemma was horrified at the idea. “And we don’t know yet what the insurance will pay on the Astra—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash. But it only seemed polite to accept the offer. And we are going to need a car as soon as possible.”
“Well, just don’t—”
“Mummy,” said Charlotte, running to her with the crumpled tissue, “I have lots of petals. What’s a sashay?”
A Bitter Feast Page 16
