“Why is it,” asked Ivan, “that senior police officers are always total idiots in films and on the telly? I haven’t found that to be the case.” He gave Kincaid a sideways glance. “And you’re a superintendent, after all.”
“But not a chief superintendent,” Kincaid replied with a grin. “Therein lies the difference.”
“Well, your own super—former super, I should say—is not bad at all, and I think you’ll pass ACC Shelton. Why haven’t you gone for promotion?” added Ivan, this time keeping his eyes on the road.
“Because I don’t play golf,” Kincaid quipped, refusing to be drawn, even by Ivan.
“Neither do I,” said Ivan. “Bloody waste of time, if you ask me.”
Kincaid surveyed the workaday interior of Ivan’s country car. It was a classic Land Rover Defender from the 1980s, dark blue and lovingly restored. His father would love it, but it was certainly unexpected for a man of Ivan’s position.
He wondered how Ivan Talbot managed to navigate the spaces between his working-class background and his roles as a newspaper baron and a country gent with such apparent ease. “Isn’t it expected of you, the golfing?” he asked.
“The nice thing about money,” Ivan said, “I learned early on. You don’t have to do what people expect. Not that folks expected much of me in the beginning,” he added with a shrug of his big shoulders.
“That didn’t bother you?”
“I came from a two-up, two-down with the necessary in the back garden. My nan struggled to put tea on the table. How could they damage me? Not to mention I had Addie and the paper. Folks could think what they liked.”
Kincaid thought that one of the secrets to Ivan’s success—and his integrity—was just that: he met no one’s expectations but his own.
The green rolling countryside had flashed by them as they left the village, and it wasn’t until Ivan pulled to a stop at a T-junction that he realized where he was. The depressions left by the wrecked cars were still visible in the turf on the opposite verge. “Wait,” he said. “This is where she—Nell Greene— She must have come this way.”
Checking the rear mirror, Ivan idled the Land Rover at the stop. “This road’s the fastest way from the village to Cheltenham or Gloucester. All the surrounding villages use it.”
“But—” Kincaid surveyed the junction with dismay. “If she used this road regularly, how could she miss the stop?”
“Nell Greene, you mean?”
Kincaid nodded. His head hurt and he felt suddenly queasy. Why did he keep smelling blood?
“Maybe she felt ill,” Ivan suggested.
“Yes, but—” Kincaid stopped. That didn’t explain the dead passenger. Damn. He hated not having access to information. Maybe the local force had an identity on the man. Ivan turned into the main road and they left the junction behind, but that didn’t stop the scene from replaying in Kincaid’s head.
“Sorry, mate.” The man at the recovery yard in Cheltenham shook his head as Kincaid surveyed what remained of the Astra. “We’ve sent photos to your insurer. I’m sure they’ll be in touch. On the plus side, we recovered your mobile phone and an overnight bag. They’re in the office.”
But the phone, when removed from its plastic bag, was a total loss, its screen and casing shattered.
Ivan, who had come into the office with him, touched him on the shoulder. “Phone shop first, police station second.”
While Ivan drove to a nearby shopping district, Kincaid tried to come to grips with the loss of the car. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but seeing it had still been a shock. It was stupid, he knew. The Astra had little monetary value, and they had all hated it. But it had been a gift from his dad, and somehow the destruction of the car brought home his dad’s fragile health. He would have to tell his parents the car was gone. And then what? He had no idea what he would do to replace it.
While Kincaid dealt with the purchase of a new mobile phone and the data transfer, Ivan brought them coffee from a nearby Caffè Nero.
“I remembered how you liked it from breakfast,” Ivan said as they walked back to the Land Rover. “All set?”
Kincaid scrolled through text messages. There was one from Gemma: “Doug and boys coming early. All under control. Love you.”
“Yes.” Kincaid looked up, trying to place where they were on the map of Cheltenham he’d looked at that morning. “Are we close enough to walk to the station?”
“Not unless you’re very fit,” said Ivan. “We’re going to county HQ outside Gloucester.”
“Wally! Sprig!” Mark Cain whistled his dogs to him in the farmyard, then added, “Bella, good girl,” as the black-and-white bitch trotted behind them. He rubbed her head as she came to him, then finished locking the four-wheeler in the barn. He’d done his morning check on the flocks, Bella following the other dogs without much prompting, but he wondered how she’d do left on her own in the house when she’d been used to Nell being home most of the day.
Well, needs must. She’d have to get used to it, at least for the time being. He hadn’t heard from anyone about the dog and had no idea who to contact. He’d ask Addie at the luncheon.
He checked his phone for at least the tenth time that morning, but there was nothing from Addie, and still no call or text from Viv. Damn it, he was starting to feel like some kind of stalker. When he’d gone to the pub last night, he’d found only the waitstaff, closing up. Jack, Sarah said, had left early, and Viv had gone to bed, big day tomorrow and all that. When he’d rung Viv again from the courtyard, his call had gone straight to voice mail.
His irritation had turned to unease. They might not have an official relationship, but Viv had certainly never avoided him. Something was wrong, really wrong, and he’d sworn in frustration because he’d no idea what it was. The news about Nell had been bad enough without this added worry.
Leaving the pub, he’d gone back up the lane to Nell’s cottage and let himself in with the key neatly labeled nell with sticky tape.
Of course she’d labeled her key, he’d thought. Organized to a T, that was Nell. It had been her one fault in training Bella, always wanting to follow the rules. Sometimes, with dogs and sheep, you had to follow your instincts.
Was it instinct that had failed her on the road?
He’d entered the dark house with reluctance. It felt intrusive, and he hadn’t been able to shake the idea that Nell might just be asleep, that there had been some terrible mistake. But the cottage had been silent, and Bella had been frantically happy to see him, and to go out. When she’d finished her business, she jumped willingly into the Land Rover. Going back into the house for the dog’s bed, he’d stood for a moment in Nell’s kitchen. The place was as neat as Nell herself. The only thing out of place was a copy of the Times folded to the day’s crossword, half finished, pencil beside it. He’d closed the door and locked it firmly behind him.
Now, he shut the dogs in the kitchen and drove the Land Rover down to the pub. The village was starting to fill up with walkers, cars lining every available space on the verges, but the pub’s “customers only” car park was still empty. There was a half hour yet to morning coffee. But Viv’s van, he saw immediately, was already gone.
Going in through the main door, he found Jack already behind the bar, his usually cheerful face set in a scowl. The pub smelled welcoming, like coffee and baking bread. Viv had told him that morning coffee was a growing moneymaker for pubs, and that it was well worth it to stock top-tier coffee and serve fresh-baked pastries. The scents, however, were obviously not working their magic on Jack this morning. “Did you see them?” he asked, before Mark could even greet him.
“What? Who?” asked Mark, stopping at the bar.
“Bloody police.” Jack shook his head. “Asking about Nell Greene. Have you heard what happened to her?”
Mark nodded. “I’ve got her dog. Addie Talbot rang me last night.”
“Addie? How did the Talbots find out before anyone else in the village?” Jack sounded incensed.
“No idea. But it’s a dreadful thing. I still can’t believe it.”
Jack picked up a wineglass by the neck as if he might strangle it. “Did Addie tell you there was a bloke in the car with Nell?”
“No. I only heard the crash was at the Bourton T-junction—”
“He was killed, too, this bloke, but apparently the cops don’t know who he was. No ID. The thing is, Nell was here last night, on her own.”
“She said she might come. I meant to, but—”
“They gave me a description of the guy in her car. He was here, too.”
“What?” Mark stared at him. “You’re not suggesting that Nell picked up some stranger?” He couldn’t imagine anything less likely, but if his own ex-wife had taught him one thing, it was that you could never be certain what people might do.
“Stranger to her, maybe. But not to some.” Jack polished the wineglass with renewed force.
Baffled, Mark said, “What are you talking about?”
“I told them,” said Jack, “to ask Chef.”
Viv stared at Gemma, her expression blank. Then she let out a puff of breath and slumped against the work top. “That’s terrible. Poor Nell.”
“Did you know her well?” asked Gemma.
“No, not really. But she was . . . nice.” Viv grimaced. “That sounds a bit ‘faintest of praise,’ but she did seem to be a genuinely nice person. Done wrong by her ex, if rumors are anything to go by, although she never said so herself. I’d chat with her when she came in for a meal, if I wasn’t too busy. She was interested in food. And she seemed a bit lonely. She’d been so excited about this luncheon,” Viv added, her eyes glazing with tears. “Sorry.” She sniffed and wiped a hand across her eyes. “It’s just the shock.” Straightening up, she said, “We should be getting on with things,” and led the way out the door onto the terrace.
“Oh, it looks lovely,” she breathed, gazing at the tables, now covered in red-and-white-checked cloths. Addie was laying each place with an assortment of vintage china and glassware. “Addie must have raided every Oxfam shop in five counties for this much stuff.”
Looking up, Addie called out, “The plates for the salad course are in the scullery.” Then, she came to them, saying, “Oh, dear. Gemma’s told you about Nell.”
Grace had apparently got over her sulks enough to play with Charlotte, and the two girls were marching up and down the garden steps, followed by the now-panting terrier.
“Oh,” said Viv, as if the sight of Polly had reminded her. “The dog. What about her lovely dog?”
“Mark Cain has her,” answered Addie, and Viv nodded as if that made sense, but the nod was followed by a little frown. “But he didn’t—” She shook her head. “Never mind. We need to get the cold jars in the fridge and the tins in the warming ovens. And where the hell is Joe with my salad greens?”
“He’s in the kitchen garden, cutting the flowers for the table. He picked the greens first thing—they’re in buckets in the glasshouse.”
“Who’s Joe?” asked Gemma.
“My business partner,” said Addie. “He manages the gardens here, and sells the extra produce he grows in the kitchen garden to the local restaurant trade. I take a percentage.” She smiled. “Melody will tell you it’s quite feudal.”
“It’s brilliant stuff, is what it is,” Viv put in. “Seasonal, all organic, heritage varieties. He started out just growing for the pub and now every restaurant in the area is fighting over his veg, including the Michelin-rated kitchen up the hill.” She nodded in the direction of Upper Slaughter. “Addie better watch out or he’ll be digging up the rose garden for more growing room.”
Addie smiled. “Over my dead body. But I’ll send him up to the house with the salad stuff. He should—”
Whatever she’d been about to say was drowned out by a sudden cacophony of barking. Both Polly and Mac stood, facing the house, hackles up.
A tawny-haired woman in black trousers and a white top came out of the kitchen French doors.
“Oh, hush, Polly, Mac,” said Addie. “It’s just Roz—”
But behind the woman came two uniformed constables, a man and a woman. Unexpected visits from uniform were seldom good news.
“Grace,” called Addie. “Will you take the dogs up to the glasshouse and ask Joe to put them inside for a few minutes?”
Grace obeyed with only a curious glance for the officers, and the dogs went willingly. Charlotte, sensing something, came to Gemma and wrapped her arms round Gemma’s leg.
“Here, you go with Grace, lovey.” Gemma gave her a pat and watched with relief as she ran to catch up to the older girl. Whatever the officers wanted, she doubted a four-year-old needed to hear it.
Addie’s assistant, Roz, murmured something to the female constable as they crossed the terrace. As they reached the lawn, she called out, “Addie, these officers would like to speak to Viv.”
Viv, who’d been looking impatient at the delay, frowned. “How can I help you?”
“Miss Holland?” asked the female officer. Her name badge read pc murray, and her companion was pc mccabe. Murray and McCabe made Gemma think of an old-fashioned comedy duo, but these two were not smiling.
“Yes, I’m Viv Holland. Is there a problem?” Suddenly looking anxious, Viv added, “Is everything all right at the pub?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said PC Murray. “But your barman”—she pulled a small notepad from her uniform pocket and consulted it—“Mr. Jack Doyle, told us we might find you here. We were hoping you might be able to help us identify a man who was involved in a traffic incident last night.”
Gemma realized immediately who they meant, but it was obvious from Viv’s bemused expression that she had no idea where this was going.
McCabe spoke for the first time. “Ma’am, a Mrs. Greene from Lower Slaughter was also involved in the incident.”
“Nell? Yes, I just heard,” said Viv, sounding thoroughly puzzled. “Terrible. But what has that to do with—”
“It seems that Mrs. Greene was in your establishment, the Lamb—”
“Yes, I know the name of my pub—”
“The Lamb,” McCabe went on, unperturbed, and Gemma was beginning to find him as annoying as Viv apparently did, “until approximately 8 p.m. last night. As was a gentleman your barman described as being mid to late forties, a bit over six feet tall, brown eyes, with shoulder-length blondish hair. Your barkeep intimated that you could identify this gentleman.”
Viv stared at him. “Fergus? Are you talking about Fergus?”
“And that would be Fergus who, ma’am?”
“Fergus O’Reilly, of course,” Viv snapped. “But why the hell didn’t you ask him yourself?”
Murray stepped in, her voice gentle. “Ma’am, the gentleman had no ID. And I’m afraid he was deceased.”
“What?” The color drained from Viv’s face. “Are you telling me that Fergus is dead?”
Addie had a hand on Viv’s shoulder as Gemma pulled a chair from the luncheon table. Together, they eased Viv into it.
“Roz,” said Addie, “would you fetch Viv a glass of water?” Nodding, Roz turned away, but Gemma thought she looked almost as shocked as Viv.
“Viv, darling.” Addie gave Viv’s shoulder a squeeze. “Take your time.”
“His wallet,” Viv whispered. “He couldn’t stand having it in his trouser pocket, especially when he was cooking. He always kept it in his coat. And last night . . . after . . .” She swallowed. “Last night, when he left the pub, he left his coat.”
With its curved glass front and flat roof, the Gloucester Constabulary Headquarters at Quedgeley looked more like an aquatic center to Kincaid. At night, he suspected it might look like an alien spaceship.
“It’s green,” said Ivan, with proprietary pride as he pulled up the Land Rover in Visitors’ Parking. “The architectural firm came highly recommended.”
So he’d had a hand in the planning, Kincaid thought, and wondered what Ivan didn’t have a hand in. Although he had to admit the headquarters building was a damned sight more appealing than the Brutalist concrete facade of his own Holborn Police Station. Maybe he should petition Ivan to improve the Met’s architecture.
“I thought we’d have a chat with Mike Shelton.” Ivan gave Kincaid a sideways grin. “Who doesn’t golf.”
Mike Shelton, Kincaid soon learned, was Michael Shelton, Assistant Chief Constable, Operations, a slender, dark-haired man in his forties. Young for an ACC, Kincaid thought, as Shelton greeted them and shook hands warmly. He was in casual clothes rather than in uniform, and it wasn’t until Ivan said, “Thanks for taking the time to see us on a Saturday, Mike,” that Kincaid realized Ivan must have rung him and requested the meeting, probably while Kincaid was dealing with his phone.
“Not a problem,” Shelton said easily. “I had some things to finish up this morning as it was. How’s the Defender?” he asked when they were settled in the conference chairs in his glass-walled office.
It took Kincaid a moment to realize he was talking about Ivan’s car. So Shelton was a Land Rover enthusiast as well. “Tip-top,” Ivan answered. “Did you find the ’90 station wagon you’ve been looking for?”
“Not yet, but I’m not giving up. It’s the perfect thing for holding the kids, the dogs, and the camping gear, and it’s dependable enough to get us round Scotland next summer.”
“Mike’s quite a walker,” Ivan explained to Kincaid.
“I’ll be in your neck of the woods tomorrow,” said Shelton. “We’re doing Slaughters Vale.”
Kincaid recognized the name. He’d looked up some of the local walks, hoping to get out with the kids over the weekend. Now he wasn’t even sure he could manage the trek from Beck House to Lower Slaughter. His breakfast dose of pain relievers was beginning to wear off, his arm was throbbing, and his head felt like someone had taken an ax to it.
A uniformed constable brought in a tray with a freshly brewed pot of tea and three china cups. There were definite perks to being an ACC, Kincaid thought. The strong malty tea was welcome.
When they all had their cups filled, Shelton examined Kincaid. “Ivan tells me you were in an odd accident last night. You look a bit the worse for wear.”
“Considerably better than the other people,” Kincaid said with a grimace.
Retrieving a folder from his desk, Shelton slipped on a pair of reading glasses, making him look more like a college professor than a policeman, and scanned a report. “Mrs. Nell Greene, of Lower Slaughter, the driver of the vehicle, died at the scene of the accident. No trace of alcohol or drugs, according to the preliminary report. Unidentified male passenger, also dead at the scene.” He peered at Kincaid over the glasses. “Except the ambulance crew stated that they thought life was extinct before the collision. There was minimal bleeding from severe trauma injuries. That is odd.” Glancing at Ivan, he added, “I understand you knew Mrs. Greene personally?”
“Not well. My wife knew her better. Mrs. Greene was fairly new to the area but had made an effort to become involved in local activities.”
“And yet your wife didn’t recognize the passenger from Mr. Kincaid’s description?”
“No. And he didn’t sound like anyone that we know from the village.”
Shelton looked at the report again. “We’ve sent uniform to try to track down an ID, and routine postmortems are scheduled for both victims. Family liaison has tried to contact Mrs. Greene’s ex-husband. Any other next of kin that you know of?”
Ivan shook his head. “My wife has asked Nell’s neighbor to look after her dog.”
“Well, I’d put her failure to yield down to driver distraction—usually these days it’s a mobile phone if alcohol isn’t involved. But I don’t like the dead passenger. Nor do I like odd things on my watch.” Returning the folder to his desk, Shelton picked up the phone and said, “Tammy, send Booth in, will you?” Hanging up, he continued to Ivan and Kincaid, “One of my DIs is in today. I’ll have him take your statement, Mr. Kincaid, and then we’ll take it from there.”
There was a sharp knock on Shelton’s door. The man who entered wore an expression about as welcoming as a granite rock face. Unlike Shelton, he wore a suit. It was charcoal, and well cut enough to show off the muscles beneath the shoulders of his jacket. With a curly earpiece, he could have doubled as a Royal Protection Officer.
“DI Booth, I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Talbot. And this is Detective Superintendent Kincaid, from the Met.” They stood to shake Booth’s hand. Kincaid offered his left, and was glad he had. The man had a grip that could crush uninjured fingers. “Mr. Kincaid was a victim in an accident last night. I’ve sent you the report, Colin, if you could have a look.” While phrased as a request, it was obviously an order.
“Sir,” said Booth, with ill-concealed irritation. “I was just—”
“And if you could have Mr. Kincaid go over the statement he gave to uniform last night and sign it. I believe Mr. Kincaid and Mr. Talbot have places to be.”
“Sir.” The look Booth gave Kincaid said that he had places to be as well, and that he was not the least bit amused by his ACC’s request. But he said, “Why don’t you step into my office, Superintendent?” and turned on his heel.
Kincaid followed Booth into a much smaller office. Booth waved him into a visitor’s chair, then sat behind his desk with an exasperated thump. “What’s all this bollocks, then?” he said without preamble. “That’s Ivan Talbot, the newspaper baron. Must be nice to have him throwing his weight round on your behalf.”
“Not on my behalf, no. Read the report and you can decide if it’s bollocks or not. And I’m sorry to muck up your Saturday.”
Booth shrugged, his expression softening a little. “Kid has a football match at one. I’m in trouble if I miss it.”
“I know what you mean.” Kincaid cocked his head, replaying what he’d heard. “You’re from Manchester.”
“My northern vowels give me away?”
“I grew up in Cheshire, in Nantwich.”
“Ah. Close enough.” Booth looked at him with more interest. “Man U or City?”
“Liverpool.”
“Bugger.” Booth shook his head. “That’s too bad. I thought we might be long-lost brothers.” There was a hint of a smile on his dark face. “Except you’re all citified now. How long have you been in the Met?”
“More than twenty years. But I have a good friend in Cheshire, Ronnie Babcock.”
Booth’s eyebrows went up. “DCI Babcock? Bloke looks like he’s had his face smashed in once too often?”
Kincaid grinned. “That’s the one.” He thought mentioning that Ronnie Babcock was his sister’s boyfriend might be gilding the lily.
“He’s one of the good ones, Babcock.” Booth considered Kincaid a moment, then said, “In which case maybe you should just bugger the report and tell me what happened.”
“A nice, middle-aged divorcée, who was not drinking, plowed straight through a T-junction and hit me broadside,” Kincaid said. “My car rolled. The front end of hers was crushed. She was trapped. I held her hand as she died.” Why he was prompted to tell Booth this, when he hadn’t even told Gemma, Kincaid didn’t know. He cleared his throat and went on. “The thing is, there was an unidentified passenger, a man, also dead. But the medics think he died before the crash.”
“Got your copper’s instincts going, I take it?” Booth said, frowning.
“I’d just like to know what happened.”
Booth sighed. “I get that, mate. I really do. But—”
There was a rap on the door and ACC Shelton came in. “Sorry to interrupt. Sir Ivan just got a call from his wife. Someone has identified the man in the car. His name is Fergus O’Reilly.”
“Fergus O’Reilly? Not Fergus O’Reilly the chef?” said Booth. “Oh, bloody hell.”