“He’s not the owner. The paper is legally my mother’s. Passed down from her parents. Dad’s just the managing editor.” Melody knew as soon as she said it that she’d sounded horribly prim and condescending, but she couldn’t take it back.
“Just the managing editor. Okay. Like this place is just a little weekend cottage.” Andy waved a dismissive hand at the house.
“The house isn’t that bi—”
“Oh, spare me,” Andy snapped, rolling his eyes. “You’re a freaking heiress, Melody, and you didn’t bloody tell me. Were you ashamed of me? Your working-class bit of fluff?”
“Oh, no. God, no! How can you think that?”
“Well, I do think. I think we’ve been going out, what, almost a year, and you said nothing. Were you ever going to tell me?”
“You don’t understand.” She reached out to touch him, but his look stopped her. Pulling her hand back, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and began to shiver. “I didn’t tell you at first because I thought it would frighten you off. Once they know, no one ever looks at me the same way—you’ve just given me proof enough of that. But the longer I put it off, the harder it got. And, then, I thought if it ever got out about us in the tabloids, then everyone on the job would know who I was—”
“Oh, right,” Andy broke in. “You can invite three cops home for your mum’s charity do, and not me?”
“It wasn’t like that.” She was pleading now. “They’re the only ones who know. I had to tell Gemma, and Doug found out. And I’d never invited anyone at all here, before this weekend.” She could tell from his face that she wasn’t moving him and she felt helpless, unable to stop this argument spinning out of control. “Look, I’m sorry I was upset over the photo, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my parents. Can’t you come in? We can talk about this—”
Andy shook his head. “No. I’m getting the next train back to London. I had the taxi wait in the village.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “And, besides, I don’t have anything else to say. We’re finished, Melody Talbot.”
She stared at him, her stomach dropping. “You can’t mean that.”
“Give my regards to your mother. It’s been nice knowing you.” With that, he turned and started up the drive, his head down, his hands shoved in his blazer pockets.
“Andy, please,” she called after him, but he didn’t pause, and he didn’t look back.
Kerry Boatman put down her phone and pushed her chair back from her desk, still smiling after her conversation. The first thing Gemma had said was “Caught you working on a Sunday, didn’t I? I can hear the sirens in the background.”
“Just finishing up,” Kerry had told her. “The girls went to church with their grandparents, so I thought I’d get a head start on Monday. What’s up with you? I thought you were out of town this weekend, hobnobbing with the country set.”
She and Gemma had first met on a case a couple of years earlier, when Kerry had been a DI at Lucan Place Station in Chelsea. Now, sadly, the station had been sold off by the Met. Kerry had been promoted to DCI and moved to Kensington Station on Earl’s Court Road. Then, last spring, she and Gemma had worked together to solve the murder of a young nanny in Notting Hill. Since then, they’d become good friends.
Kerry had come to respect Gemma’s professionalism and instincts on the job, and often wished she had her on her own team. So when Gemma had given her a brief rundown of the events in Lower Slaughter, Kerry said, “Trust you to run smack into one, if not two, possible murders. So what can I do for you?” She’d jotted down Gemma’s requests and said she’d get back to her as soon as she could.
Now, she studied her notes and did a quick Internet search. Colm Finlay, the restaurateur, would have to wait until the morning, as she could find only a corporate contact number. But she might be able to work in taking a look at the flat in Chelsea that afternoon while she was shopping for her daughter’s birthday.
Chapter Twenty
September 2007
On a night in the first week in September, Viv checked her mobile at the end of service and found she’d missed half a dozen calls from her dad. That was unnerving, but worse, there were no messages. She ran up the back stairs and out into Margretta Terrace in her whites, her heart pounding. Alone in the street, she pressed her dad’s number. When he answered, his usually hearty voice was almost unrecognizable.
“Dad? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“It’s your—” He broke off, and she thought she heard him choke back a sob before he said, “Darling, it’s your mum. She went into hospital yesterday. A cut on her knee had got infected. By the time I got her to agree to see the GP, they said it had gone septic and that she needed an emergency operation—”
“What? Why didn’t you call me?”
“It all happened so fast, love. They said she just needed to stay in hospital for a couple of days, for the antibiotics, and we didn’t see any reason to worry you.” Her father made that small choking sound again. “But she’s got worse. They say the first drugs aren’t working. They can’t get the infection under control.”
It was a moment before Viv could gather enough breath to say, “What hospital, Dad? Where is she?”
“Redditch. The Alexandra.”
“Is she—” Viv swallowed hard. “How bad is it, Dad?”
“They’re trying a new round of antibiotics. But—they say it could be touch and go. She—she’s asking for you. Can you come, Viv?”
“Of course. Of course I’ll come.” Viv tried to work out the logistics. It was already almost eleven—she’d have to manage with what she had in her locker. “I can get the train to Birmingham and from there to Redditch, but it’ll be a god-awful hour of the morning before I get in.”
“That’s fine. Not going anywhere,” her dad said, and she could hear the effort he put into that bit of humor.
“What about Adam?” Her younger brother was still at university in Bristol.
“He’s borrowing a car from a friend. He should be here by breakfast.”
“Okay, I’ll ring you from the station.” Pausing, she tried to steady her voice. “Dad, I love you. Tell Mum, too, okay? And tell her she’s going to be fine.” She rang off before she completely lost it. Scrubbing at her wet cheeks with her apron, she checked the train times before she went back down to the kitchen. If she hurried, she could just make the 22:57, which, with a change in Birmingham, would get her into Redditch at 6:41 in the morning.
The crew was almost through with the scrub down. Fergus, who was bent over cleaning the gas rings, frowned as he looked up at her. “Where have you been? We’re almost done here.” Nothing was more reviled in the kitchen than slacking off on your part of the cleanup.
As Viv saw the expectant faces turn towards her, no doubt looking forward to watching a bollocking, she realized she couldn’t get through this in front of the whole crew. “Fergus. Can I have a word? In your office?”
“Can’t it wait until we’ve finished here?”
“No.”
For the first time, he seemed to realize something was wrong. “Okay.” Handing his scrub rag to John, he said, “Finish this for me, will you, mate?” and followed Viv into the tiny office cubicle. “What is it?” he asked when he’d closed the door.
“My mum. She’s really ill. I have to go.”
“What do you mean, go?” He seemed perplexed. “We were going to work on the duck liver parfait after service.”
“No. I mean I have to go to Redditch. Tonight. She’s in hospital there.”
Fergus still looked blank. “But you can’t. We’re rolling out the crispy duck leg on the menu tomorrow. I need you here.”
“Fergus, it’s my mum.” She wanted to shake him. “Don’t you understand? She might—” Viv couldn’t say it. She shook her head. “Ibby can take over my station. He’ll be fine. My mum needs me.”
“I need you,” Fergus said, but his face had lost its impatient tightness. He reached out, cupping her cheek wit
h a moth-light touch, something he only did when they were alone.
“Ring me when you get there, all right?” he said, but she had seen the distance in his eyes.
Melody sank down on the front step. She was too shocked even to cry. What had just happened? Had Andy really broken up with her? Her little blue car was parked to the side of the garage, and for a moment she thought about going after him. She could catch him before he reached the village. But what could she say that she hadn’t already said? And she couldn’t face his rejection again.
She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d walked so unsuspectingly to the front door. Petals from the St. Swithun’s roses on either side of the porch fluttered past her, shaken loose by the breeze, and the sun danced in the treetops of the Woodland.
After a bit, she realized she could hear the sound of voices coming faintly from the dining room. Lunch. Her mother. What was she going to tell her mother? And then she thought of Doug, and that was enough to get her to her feet.
She was going to kill him.
Stepping quietly into the hall, she stood in the pocket of shadow just outside the kitchen, where she could see into the room without being noticed. Her mum was loading plates into the kitchen dishwasher. Toby was bouncing a dog ball into the scullery for Polly. Mac was stretched out on his side, taking up as much of the kitchen floor as possible. Ivan still sat at the table, Charlotte leaning against his knee. He was telling Charlotte the Three Little Pigs in broad Geordie, just the way he used to tell it to her, and every time he said, “And then he blew the house doon,” Charlotte shrieked with laughter and told him to do it again.
Then, her mother seemed to sense her presence, and turned. “Melody?” When she didn’t move, her mother wiped her hands on a tea towel and came to her. “Melody, what are you doing out here, darling? Where’s your friend? Is he not staying for lunch?”
“No,” Melody managed to croak. “No, he’s not. He had to go.”
“Oh, what a shame,” said Addie, but it was obvious from her keen look that she knew something was wrong.
“Where’s Doug?” Melody managed to ask before Addie could say anything else. “I need a word with him.”
“In the sitting room, I think. He said he had some email to answer.”
“Thanks.” Melody turned away, her fists already clenched, but she could feel her mother’s eyes on her back as she walked out of the room.
When she reached the sitting room, Doug’s laptop was open on the table, but he was scrolling through something on his mobile. He started when he heard her and closed the phone screen. Looking up, he said, too casually, “Oh, it’s you. Um, where’s Andy?”
“You mean he hasn’t told you already?”
“What? Why would he—”
She cut him off. “You bastard, Doug. You absolute bastard.” Fury coursed through her. “How could you bring him here when I hadn’t—I didn’t—” She gulped back a sob.
“I was only trying to help—”
“You had no right. No right!” Melody realized she was shaking. “You are an interfering shit. Now he knows about Mum and Dad—”
Doug stood up so that they were face-to-face, separated only by the coffee table. “Melody, for God’s sake, be sensible. How could you not tell him? He was bound to find out, and better sooner than later—”
“That wasn’t for you to decide. It was none of your—”
“Melody, calm down.” Doug looked, she noted with some small, cold compartment of her mind, frightened. But he said, “What did you think would happen if you kept that from him? I’m your friend, for heaven’s sake,” he added, in a voice so reasonable that it made her want to strike him. “I only wanted—”
“Were. Were my friend. Did you know Andy broke up with me? Did you? This is your doing, Doug Cullen. This is all your fault.”
She expected him to argue, but he just looked at her. After a long moment, he shook his head and said, so softly that she could barely hear him, “No. No, really, Melody, it’s not.”
Somehow Kincaid ended up with the dog.
He’d walked out of the pub car park and crossed the road, standing for a while on the bridge over the Eye, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He couldn’t stop thinking about Nell. What if Gemma was right about what had happened? And why hadn’t he worked it out himself? He could see it all too clearly, now, Nell stopping to help, getting O’Reilly into the car but not managing to fasten his seat belt, talking to him, perhaps, as she drove, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong so that she could phone ahead to the hospital. Realizing her passenger wasn’t responding, looking over just as she was coming up to the T-junction and finding him slumped in his seat . . .
Kincaid had driven that road with Ivan, had seen how little warning there was of the upcoming intersection. And in the dark, in a panic . . . His head swam and he held on to the wooden bridge railing. What was wrong with him?
Was it the accident that was making him feel so strange? When he closed his eyes, he had moments of frightening disorientation in which he replayed over and over how he’d felt when he’d come to, upside down in the car.
He had to pull himself together.
The sound of a car coming from the direction of the mill had made him look up and move off the bridge. It was a local taxi. Glancing at the car’s back window as it passed, he could have sworn he recognized the passenger’s profile. He’d watched the taxi turn right at the roundabout and vanish from sight beyond the manor. Could that really have been Andy Monahan? Here? Melody hadn’t said anything about Andy coming this weekend. Shaking his head, he decided he must have been mistaken.
As he’d turned to walk back to the pub, the churchyard caught his eye and his thoughts had gone back to Nell. Would she be buried? And, if so, here? Who was looking after her arrangements? Perhaps Mark Cain would know something.
Reaching the pub, he’d seen Gemma coming towards him across the car park, the pretty black-and-white collie at her heels.
“Are you okay?” asked Gemma when she reached him. “I was getting worried about you.”
“Fine. Just needed some air.” Across the car park, he saw Booth, now in rolled-up shirtsleeves, standing by his Volvo with his mobile to his ear. “What’s going on?”
“Booth is organizing a house to house along Jack Doyle’s route and calling in help to take official statements from the pub staff. I’ve rung Kerry Boatman and she’s agreed to check some things in London. And I’ve rung Melody to say we’re staying over, but I had to leave a voice mail. She must be busy with the kids.”
Kincaid started to tell her he thought he’d seen Andy, but Gemma went on, “Viv says Mark Cain texted her that he’s home now but he can’t fetch the dog. I’ve promised Kit I’d help out in the kitchen but I can’t do it with the dog in tow,” she added, sounding exasperated.
The dog in question sat patiently at Gemma’s side, her head tilted as if wondering what these two unfamiliar humans were going to do with her next. She was a beauty, Kincaid thought. His mother had always favored the classic black-and-white coats in her border collies, and these were the dogs he’d grown up with.
“You are a love, aren’t you?” he said to the dog, holding out his uninjured hand for her to sniff, then stroking her head.
“I was just going to take her up to Cain’s myself,” said Gemma.
“I’ll take her,” Kincaid offered. “I wanted a word with him about Nell, anyway.”
Gemma frowned at him. “You sure you’re up to it?”
“I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of walking a dog.”
Her eyes widened at his tone. “I know, love. It’s just—take it easy, will you?” She handed him Bella’s lead. “You know where it is, right? You’ve been to Nell’s cottage. Viv says Mark’s farm is the first place on the right after that.”
“I can find it,” he said, and knew he’d sounded cross again. He didn’t understand why he felt so irritable. Reaching for the dog’s lead, he leaned in
and kissed Gemma’s cheek. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to be snappy. Don’t worry, okay?” He gave her his best effort at a cheeky grin and walked away, the dog trotting at his side.
It was a good thing, he thought a few minutes later, that Bella had been trained to heel properly on the left, and to walk calmly. He couldn’t have managed with his right hand. Once he had made the turn across from the mill and was well into the lane, the sun felt warm on his head and shoulders, and the scents from the hedgerows were heady. There were still blackberries among the brambles and he stopped to pick one. It was tart on his tongue, a tangible memory from his childhood.
When they neared Nell’s cottage, Bella began to pull a little, but he tightened her lead and talked to her soothingly. There was no sign of activity at the place. Bella relaxed when they had passed the drive. The lane began to climb more steeply and trees filled in the hedgerows, shading Kincaid from the sun. When Bella’s ears pricked up and her pace quickened, he began looking for the entrance to Cain’s farm, although a drive seemed unlikely among the thick growth. But Bella whined and bumped his knee as she tried to cross in front of him, and then he saw it, a break in the trees. A barred gate was set just off the road, and beyond that a raised causeway crossed a deep, leaf-filled rill. On the far side of the rill, the belt of trees gave way to an open pasture, and on either side of a curving drive sat a substantial stone farmhouse with a wooden barn and outbuildings.
The gate, Kincaid saw, was only loop latched, so he opened it and led the excited dog through, then made certain it was fastened behind him. There was a tractor in the farmyard, and an older-model Land Rover with a light trailer attached.
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