Booth picked up on the first ring, sounding irritated.
“It’s Kincaid here.” He could hear road noise in the background. “Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know there’s been another death associated with the pub in Lower Slaughter.”
“The hit-and-run? The pathologist rang me. She’s still at the scene and I’m on my way there now. How did you know?”
“Viv Holland called for Addie. Apparently she’s in quite a state. The victim was her bartender.”
“Bugger,” Booth muttered. “I was hoping to break the news to her myself. You’re still at the Talbots’?” When Kincaid confirmed it, Booth said, “I’m just coming into the village. Why don’t I swing by and pick you up? I suspect you’ll want to see this for yourself.”
Kincaid agreed and rang off before he remembered that Gemma had left him in charge of the children. Bloody hell. How could he have forgotten that? He’d felt odd since the accident—things he would ordinarily remember kept slipping from his mind. Now what was he going to do? He wanted to see the accident scene but he couldn’t leave the kids unattended.
Charlotte had gone back to picking up rose petals, singing to herself, but Toby had been listening. “Where are you going, Dad? Mum said you’d watch a video with us.”
“That’s not exactly what she said,” Kincaid corrected, but it had given him an idea. “Let’s find Melody, shall we? Maybe there’s something on the telly.” He urged both children towards the house, Charlotte clutching her rose petals. Doug came out through the sitting room French doors. “Did Melody turn up?” Kincaid asked him.
“No. She said something about finding the gardener. Um, boss, I think maybe I’ve done something a bit stu—”
“Look,” Kincaid broke in. “Could you do me a favor? You heard about the hit-and-run?”
“Ivan told me, yeah, when he was looking for Melody.”
“Ivan’s run Gemma down to the village, to see what she could do for Viv, and Booth’s just said he’d pick me up on the way to the scene. Could the kids hang out with you for a bit?”
“Me?” Doug sounded as if he’d been asked to practice surgery.
Kincaid couldn’t help grinning. “It’s not hard. You had the boys on the train.”
“Yes, but, Charlotte—I don’t know what to do with a girl.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ve got to go. Booth will be here any minute.” He started to clap Doug on the shoulder, thought better of it when his arm protested. Was the pain getting worse? Probably just his imagination, he told himself, shrugging it off. He didn’t have time for that now. “I’ll owe you a pint,” he told Doug. The children had run out to the lawn with the dogs, so he took his chance to escape, just murmuring, “Back as soon as I can.”
Booth was already waiting in the drive, talking to Ivan, who’d returned from taking Gemma down to the village.
Ivan didn’t ask questions, just nodded and said, as Kincaid got in the car, “Keep us informed, will you?”
When Ivan dropped Gemma and Kit at the Lamb, Gemma saw that although it had gone ten o’clock, the closed signboard was still out in the car park. A disgruntled-looking couple in hiking gear passed them, muttering about wanting their morning coffee. Hearing voices from the courtyard, Gemma and Kit bypassed the main entrance and walked through the courtyard archway.
On the grass near the garden play area, Grace was putting a pretty black-and-white collie through obedience exercises. When the collie saw them and started to bark, Grace firmly put her back in a sit.
Viv, who was sitting on the kitchen steps, rose and came to meet Gemma as Kit went over to Grace and the dog. Viv looked hollow-eyed, even more exhausted than yesterday. Her bright, spiky hair had gone flat, and she hugged herself as if she had a chill. “Gemma, I wasn’t expecting you. Grace said she’d asked Kit to walk the dog with her. I hope you don’t mind me drafting him.” She gave Grace a worried glance, and Gemma guessed that she hadn’t told her daughter the news about Jack.
“Mark didn’t want to leave the dog—that’s Bella, Nell’s collie—on her own all morning. He thinks she’s pining for Nell, and he had to help out a neighbor with a ram.” Turning away from the kids, she said more quietly, “Ibby and Angelica and the servers are all late. I told Grace that’s why we haven’t opened yet. But I don’t want her to be here when I tell them about Jack—” Her voice broke and she wiped trembling hands on her apron. “And Bea—Bea’s in Cheltenham. She goes to church with her father. I texted her saying I needed help with lunch service. I didn’t want to tell her over the phone. She should be back soon. I don’t know what I’m going to do—”
“First things first,” said Gemma. “Kit is happy to go with Grace and Bella, and I can certainly help with whatever needs doing. Or saying.” Putting a light hand on the other woman’s shoulder, she added, “Let’s start with getting you a cup of tea.”
“Yes, okay. Thanks.” Squaring her shoulders, Viv led the way across the courtyard to the kids. Grace, who was demonstrating the dog’s heel, looked happier than Gemma had seen her yesterday. “Listen, love, Kit’s mum is fine with him going with you, but don’t stray too far out of the village. And be—”
“Careful,” Grace mocked her. Her frown returned. “Although I don’t see what you think could be dangerous on a stupid walk. And Kit’s grown up. I’m sure he doesn’t need his mum to tell him what he can do.”
Viv’s face flushed. Before she could answer, Gemma said, “Sometimes he does, actually. But as we’re not leaving until after lunch, a walk is fine. You two have fun.”
Grace gave her a dirty look but turned her attention back to the dog. Kit gave Gemma a raised eyebrow, a look so like his dad’s that it always shocked Gemma. “You go,” she mouthed. “Tell you later.”
“Come on, Grace,” Kit called. “You can show me round.” When the children had disappeared through the courtyard arch, Gemma gently turned Viv back towards the kitchen door and led her inside.
The kitchen smelled of roasting meat and vegetables and fat, a heady, mouth-watering combination that instantly took Gemma back to long-ago Sunday dinners cooked by her mum in the flat above the bakery in north London. Stainless steel bins held neatly prepped vegetables and garnishes, and pots of stock simmered on the big commercial cooker. Several delicious-looking cakes sat under glass covers on a serving counter.
“We do Sunday lunch,” said Viv, “so I start even earlier than usual. But now— How can I— The staff will be here any minute and I have to— I don’t know how I’m going to tell them—” She pressed a hand against her mouth, suppressing a sob.
“Right this minute,” said Gemma, “you’re going to have tea.”
“But I—”
“Kettle. Mug. Teabags,” Gemma directed. “Then we can sit for fifteen minutes and sort things out. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
“Oh, right. Okay. If you’re sure.” Viv dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron, but she turned to the kitchen shelves, fetching an open box of Yorkshire teabags and a couple of chipped mugs. She filled an electric kettle, then turned to Gemma as it began to heat. “I’m so sorry about Grace being so rude. I know she’s upset about yesterday—she was fond of Nell—but it’s more than that. Lately, she’s been so hateful all the time—I don’t know what to do with her. And now I have to tell her about Jack. He was so good to her, you know. He has—had a grown daughter, so he knew how to talk to her—” Viv stopped, shaking her head. “I can’t think what—”
“Tea first,” Gemma interrupted. The kettle boiled and she poured hot water over the teabags she’d plopped in the mugs. When the tea had steeped for a couple of minutes, she added milk and sugar without asking. “Is there somewhere we can sit, just for a bit?”
Nodding, Viv led her, not into the bar area, for which Gemma was grateful, but into the smaller dining room behind Bea’s office. As they sat at the nearest table, she said, “Grace is how old? Eleven?”
Viv nodded.
“Well, it’s a hard age, isn’t it?” Not that Gemma felt she could offer expert advice. Kit had been eleven when he’d come to them, true, but his circumstances, like Charlotte’s, had been traumatic. And, besides, weren’t girls supposed to be harder to deal with than boys at that age?
“Yes, but—” Viv cradled the blisteringly hot mug in both hands, as if it could warm her from the outside in. “I know kids start needing to assert their independence, but this seems different. And the last few weeks, she’s seemed almost . . . I don’t know. Sly.” She sipped at the tea, making a face as it scalded her mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it all. But I do know that she’s going to be devastated about Jack, and that she won’t let me comfort her. And that she’s going to blame me—and maybe she should.”
“What?” said Gemma, startled. “Why?”
“He wasn’t himself last night. He was drinking, and Jack didn’t drink, not really. I offered to drive him home but he said he was fine. He wanted to walk. It was what he always did. And I didn’t press him. I went in and checked on Grace and when it started to rain I didn’t even think Jack might be getting soaked, and all the while—” Viv gulped at her tea, seeming not to notice the heat now, or the tears sliding down her cheeks. “All the while he must have been lying in the road and no one— If I had insisted on driving him—” Viv set down her cup and wiped a shaking hand across her cheeks.
Gemma reached in her pocket for a tissue and handed it to Viv. “You couldn’t have known what would happen. You said Jack always walked home?”
Viv nodded. “He has a car, a little Renault, but he doesn’t use it often. He says the walking keeps him fit. He’s ex-army, you know.”
Gemma found that didn’t surprise her. And she couldn’t imagine that Jack, even drunk, had not got out of the way of an oncoming car.
“What about family?” she asked. “Was he married?”
“Divorced for yonks. There’s a grown daughter—lives somewhere up north. I don’t even have a contact number—” Viv’s face crumpled again.
“Don’t worry about that now. The police can take care of it.” Gemma thought for a moment. “Viv, if Jack’s drinking was out of the ordinary, did he do or say anything else unusual last night?”
“No. He told me not to fuss. But—” She frowned. “He seemed, I don’t know. Maybe worried. He—”
Viv broke off at the sound of car doors slamming in the pub car park. Footsteps crunched on the gravel and the kitchen door banged. Viv set down her mug, her face draining of color.
Ibby came into the dining room from the kitchen, his mouth set in a scowl.
“What the hell, Viv? It’s after ten. Why aren’t we open? Sarah and Jack were probably held up the same as us, but you could have managed serving coffee and bloody cake, if that’s not too far below your high and mightiness. The police had the whole freaking road shut down and we had to go the long way round, can you believe it? You’d think they’d realize people had to get to—” The expression on Viv’s face finally seemed to penetrate his tirade.
Ibby stared at them, glancing from Viv to Gemma. “Viv? What is it? What the hell’s happened?”
“Your black eye is coming along quite nicely this morning,” Booth told Kincaid as they drove down Becky Hill Road towards the village.
Kincaid smiled. “Thanks. You’re not the first person to encourage me this morning. But I do feel a bit better,” he added, although he was not sure it was true.
“I expect you look a damn sight better than the poor bugger they found in the road,” Booth said, all levity gone. “I talked to him yesterday. Nice bloke.”
Kincaid wished now that he’d gone into the pub and met the man himself. “Gemma spoke to him as well.”
“Yes. Your wife has a knack for talking to people. A good cop, I think.” Slowing as they reached the village, he glanced at Kincaid. “Did you meet on the job? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“We were partners,” Kincaid admitted, a little ruefully. “Very un-PC of us. But the only thing I regret about it is not working with her on the job any longer. You’re right—she has good instincts. And she’s definitely the person you want on your side in a crisis.” They were alongside the Lamb now. The village was already busy with walkers and tourists, but the pub car park looked ominously empty. “Addie was out when Viv Holland rang. Gemma’s gone in her stead.”
Booth whistled. “That was quick work.”
“It sounded as if Viv needed some support.”
Passing the pub and the church, they quickly left the outskirts of the village behind. Copsehill Road ran north and Kincaid had not been this way before. Glimpses of open fields to either side were quickly eclipsed by trees and hedges. The arching trees began to connect overhead, shutting out the crystalline blue of the sky. The light turned a leafy green and Kincaid had a hard time visualizing the road in the dark, in the rain. Spots of color appeared ahead—red traffic cones, just beyond a layby, and then the bright blue and yellow of a patrol car, pulled sideways across the lane. The uniformed officer standing beside the car came towards them as Booth brought the Volvo to a stop and rolled down his window.
“Sir, if you could just—”
Booth held out his ID.
“Oh, sorry, sir. Dr. Mason’s expecting you. If you could just pull your car up there,” he added, gesturing towards the wider spot.
When Booth had parked the car, they got out, Kincaid carefully avoiding the muddy pools at the road’s edge. As they threaded their way through the cones and walked round a slight curve, Kincaid saw other vehicles, a mud-splattered Jeep and a mortuary van, parked on the verge. Beyond those, he glimpsed another patrol car blocking the road from the opposite direction.
A woman wearing a disposable paper overall came towards them. Middle-aged, square-faced, with alert brown eyes, she had obviously pulled the overall over her puffy jacket. She looked a bit like the Michelin Man. “Booth,” she said, shaking his hand. “Sorry to roust you on a Sunday morning. Who’s your walking-casualty friend here?” she added, turning her sharp eyes on Kincaid.
“Detective Superintendent Kincaid, from the Met. He was in the other car in the Friday-night crash.”
“Ah. The friend of the Talbots.” Kincaid must have looked surprised because she smiled. “News travels fast in these parts. Well, I’d say you were the lucky one in that collision. I won’t ask you to shake—I can see that arm is plaguing you—but I assume you want to have a look at our victim as well.”
Leading them to the muddy Jeep, she opened the rear hatch and pulled out the requisite paper suits and booties. Kincaid struggled getting his injured arm into the overall, but persevered, determined not to be kept away from the scene.
“Accident-investigation team not here yet?” Booth asked, steadying himself on the Jeep as he pulled on the paper booties.
“As soon as they finish the crash scene on the motorway. I came straight from there. Drug-driving on a Sunday morning, I ask you. Driver survived, too, the idiot.”
When they were ready, the doctor led them past the mortuary van, and for the first time Kincaid glimpsed the victim.
The man lay on his back at an angle to the road, his head nearest the hedge and lower than his torso. The back of his head and his shoulders were partially submerged by the rainwater that had pooled in the dips at the side of the road. Kincaid had to suppress the urge to move him to a drier spot—the man was past caring about the cold or the damp.
Sturdily built, the victim wore dark trousers and a dark anorak. One of his shoes—black rubber-soled lace-ups of the sort worn by people who stood on their feet all day—had come off and lay a few feet from the body. His socks, although both dark, didn’t match.
Dr. Mason squatted beside the body and stretched out a gloved finger. “See here, just above the right knee? There’s not much tearing to the trouser fabric, but his leg is broken, I’d say from the initial impact. Also, I suspect his pelvis is fractured.”
“He turned towards the car as it came on?” Kincaid looked back the way they’d come, trying to work out the point of impact. Had the victim been thrown five feet? Ten? Taking a step back, he studied the tarmac. “There aren’t any skid marks, unless they’ve been washed away by the rain.”
“I’m not certain even last night’s downpour would have completely washed away burnt rubber,” Booth commented, having followed the direction of Kincaid’s gaze.
“I’m inclined to agree,” the pathologist said. “And there are also injuries to the back of the head that are consistent with our fellow’s initial contact with the tarmac. However”—Dr. Mason moved, squatting again by the man’s head— “this one is not.” She pointed to an indentation at the top of the man’s forehead. “There’s no blood, of course. If he bled, it will have been washed away by the rain, and I’d guess that there wasn’t much to begin with. His skull was fractured and if the blow didn’t kill him immediately, he probably didn’t live long afterwards.”
Kincaid winced. The position of the blow to the bartender’s skull was almost identical to the lump on Kincaid’s forehead, but much easier to see as the man had kept his thinning hair buzzed short. A dapple of sunlight moved over the face of the corpse, giving it a sudden eerie animation.
“So what you’re telling us,” Booth said, straightening up, “is that someone deliberately hit this bloke with their car, then got out and bashed him in the head?”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s possible that the driver simply didn’t see him. Although”—she touched the anorak with her gloved fingers—“this jacket has highly reflective panels. It’s also possible that he rolled as he fell and hit his head on a stone. But I think either scenario is highly unlikely. I think this is where he landed after impact. And then I think someone hit him on the head, hard.” She stood to face them. “I think you’re looking at a murder, Detective Booth. And a particularly brutal murder at that.”