Ivan dropped Kincaid at the elegant detached house in St. George’s Road near the hospital, where Dr. Greene had his practice. Booth was already waiting for him in the parking area, leaning on his Volvo while checking his mobile.
“Going to live?” Booth called as Kincaid got out.
“Hopefully.” Kincaid lifted a hand to Ivan as he drove away. “Nice place,” he said, indicating the surgery. He’d seen other surgeries in similar properties along the road, as well as a day nursery and a care home. A few of the houses still seemed to be family homes, but Kincaid imagined the soaring cost of real estate had driven these large places above most family budgets.
“The practice has a good reputation,” said Booth, pocketing his phone. “My wife has a friend who sees one of the doctors here. This interview is really just ticking the boxes, making sure that Nell Greene didn’t have some connection with O’Reilly that hasn’t yet come to light. Dr. Greene’s agreed to see us between appointments.”
As Kincaid followed Booth into the building, he wondered if Dr. Abbott had practiced from this house as well. A plump, middle-aged receptionist greeted them and took them immediately into Dr. Greene’s office.
Even if he’d passed him in the street, Kincaid would have recognized Dr. Bruce Greene from the wedding photo Nell kept in her bedside table. The man was still trim and youthful looking, and would, Kincaid thought, have been handsome if his face had not been lined with shock.
When they’d introduced themselves and taken the visitors’ seats, Dr. Greene sank heavily into the leather chair behind his desk. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I was away at the weekend—a cottage in the Lake District with no mobile reception. It wasn’t until we started home yesterday afternoon that I got the messages. Everyone at the hospital knew before me. I feel as though I should have been here, that Nell had no one—” He broke off, blinking. “I don’t understand what Nell was doing with that man in her car.”
“We were hoping you might tell us,” said Booth. “Do you know of any previous connection your wife might have had with Mr. O’Reilly?”
“That chef? Why would Nell have known a London chef?” Greene seemed affronted by the very idea. Kincaid wondered if he’d have been just as incensed at the idea of any man with his ex-wife.
“Was your wife not interested in cooking, then?” asked Booth.
“Nell was always very career oriented. That was one of the reasons I—” Greene seemed to think better of what he’d been about to say. “Nell’s idea of dinner was a ready meal, I’m afraid. And the occasional Sunday roast. I couldn’t imagine what she meant to do with herself when she took early retirement.” There was definite disapproval in his tone now, and Kincaid felt a bit less favorably disposed towards him. The man had thought his wife should be more of a homemaker, but hadn’t liked her leaving her job when she was no longer married to him.
“I take it you two were still . . . cordial?” Kincaid asked.
The bristle seemed to go out of Dr. Greene. “Well, we weren’t in each other’s pockets, but I’d say we were on friendly enough terms.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve just had a call from Nell’s solicitor. This is very awkward. It seems I was still the designated beneficiary of Nell’s estate. And her executor. I never thought—” Closing his eyes, he steepled his fingers beneath his nose for a moment.
“Does that estate include Nell’s cottage?”
“Yes. And her savings and investments, which were not inconsiderable. I don’t want— Well, I shall have to see what’s to be done.”
“And the dog?”
“It will have to go back to the breeder. I’m allergic, I’m afraid.” Greene brushed his hands together, as if disposing of a problem. “I’ve spoken to the vicar,” he went on. “I’m to meet with her in the morning about arrangements, and then I suppose I’ll have a look at the cottage.”
“Dr. Greene,” put in Booth, glancing at his notebook, “is there anyone who can confirm that you were away the entire weekend?”
Greene frowned. “Well, my wife, of course. And I suppose the owner of the cottage where we stayed in the Lakes. What sort of a question is that?”
“Just part of our inquiries. There were some irregularities in the death of your ex-wife’s passenger.”
“Irregularities? What are you talking about? And what can that possibly have to do with our weekend away?”
“Nothing, I’m sure. It’s just that it appears Mr. O’Reilly died prior to the accident.”
“What?” Greene stared at him. Kincaid thought his skin looked suddenly papery against his dark hair—and that the hair was perhaps a bit too evenly brown to be natural for a man in his fifties.
“His heart, apparently,” Booth said. “The Mercedes coupe parked out front, the E-Class? Is that yours?”
“Well, yes.” Pride replaced some of Greene’s irritation, although he still looked at them suspiciously. “It’s quite new. That’s one of the reasons we took the weekend in the Lakes. I wanted to try it on a long drive.”
Booth closed his notebook with a snap and slipped it back in his pocket. “Thank you, Dr. Greene. We won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sorry for your loss.”
As Booth started to stand, Kincaid said, “One more thing, Doctor. I understand that at one time you shared your practice with a Dr. Abbott.”
Greene seemed suddenly wary. “What of it? That was years ago.”
“Would you mind telling me why you dissolved the partnership?”
“I don’t see—” Greene gave an impatient glance at his watch, then sighed. “Well, if you must know, there had been issues . . . I’d long worried that George was a bit too free with his prescriptions. On top of that, Nell and I disliked the way he treated his wife. Frankly, he was a bully. Then, when Laura died—” His gaze grew distant with the recollection. “It was a terrible time. She—” Greene cleared his throat before going on. “She cut her wrists in the shower. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they found medications in her system, things George had prescribed. Rumors were flying. It was all just too . . . awkward. I felt I couldn’t continue to associate with him.”
“Is George Abbott still practicing?” Kincaid asked.
“No. He retired a few years ago. Rather reduced circumstances, I believe.”
“Did you know that George Abbott’s daughter lived in the same village as your ex-wife?”
Booth gave Kincaid a sharp glance as Greene’s eyes widened. “No,” said Greene. “I had no idea.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Well, small world, I’m sure.” He knew he was going to have to answer to Booth for throwing the Abbott thing out without filling him in first, and he wanted time to think about it. “My condolences, Dr. Gre—”
“Did you say you were a superintendent?” Greene broke in, rising from his chair, the bristles back in full force. “What is a superintendent doing asking questions about my wife, and my practice? You’d better tell me what’s going on here.”
“I’m not with the local force, Dr. Greene. My interest is personal. I was in the other car.”
Melody saw that both garage spaces were empty, but her little Clio still sat pulled to one side, so Gemma hadn’t taken it. When she went inside, she found the house silent, the kitchen post-breakfast tidy. It still smelled faintly of coffee and bacon.
Both Gemma’s and her mother’s handbags were missing from the hall bench, and her father’s Barbour was gone from its hook. Melody stood in the hall, listening. From the sitting room came the faint click of a keyboard.
Well, there was nothing for it. She walked quietly across the hall and stopped at the sitting room door. He was sitting on the sofa, turned away from her. Light from the end-table lamp glinted on his fair hair.
“Doug.”
He gasped and stood, just catching the laptop before it crashed to the floor. His eyes looked enormous behind the round lenses of his glasses. “Melody! What the— You scared the crap—” He stopped, and she saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed hard. Clutching the laptop to his chest, he said, “Listen, Melody, I want to talk to you—”
“Not now, Doug.” She took a step farther in. “Something’s happened. I’ve got to ring Duncan, and then I need your help.”
The bird park in Bourton-on-the-Water turned out to be much more enjoyable than Gemma had anticipated. It was well-planned and in a lovely setting, along the River Windrush and within walking distance of the village center. All three children enjoyed the exhibits, especially the penguins and the dinosaur trail, although Charlotte had got a bit whiny by the end. To keep the peace, Gemma bought her a stuffed flamingo in the gift shop, as well as books and puzzles for the boys.
Afterwards, they walked back along the Windrush to the town center, where Addie chose a café on the river called the Rose Tree for their lunch. After Addie had a friendly word with the hostess, they were given a table in the front window, with a view of the riverside.
“Go on, have a glass of wine, Gemma,” Addie encouraged when they placed their orders. “You’re not driving, and you’ve had quite the weekend.”
“You’ve been too generous, looking after us all,” Gemma responded, but she took Addie’s advice and ordered a glass of white wine to go with the grilled aubergine salad Addie had recommended. The menu had a special gin section, and reading through it had made Gemma think of Jack Doyle with a pang, remembering the Cotswolds Dry Gin he’d insisted she try.
“Have you heard from Duncan?” Addie asked. The children were occupied, Toby reading aloud to Charlotte from the book on penguins Gemma had bought him, Kit engrossed in something on his mobile even though electronics at the table were against their usual family rules.
Gemma had repeatedly checked for messages while they’d been at the bird park, and again just as they’d walked in. “No, nothing,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s fine. I have every confidence in Dr. Saunders.”
“Yes, and Duncan did seem a bit brighter this morning. But—” Gemma struggled to put her worries into words. “I think he somehow feels responsible for what happened—not at fault, just responsible. A sort of debt, because he lived and they didn’t, Nell and Fergus O’Reilly. I hate for him to go home with that weighing on him.”
“Are the police no further forward? With either matter,” Addie added circumspectly, with a glance at the children.
“I’ve not heard anything, but then I’m not exactly in the loop.”
When their food arrived, it was as good as Addie had promised, and Gemma was soon busy with making sure the younger two children minded their manners.
“Can we look at the ducks, Mummy?” Charlotte asked when the children had finished.
“If Kit goes with you,” Gemma said, lingering over her last sip of wine while Addie signaled for the check—which she refused to let Gemma pay. “Addie, really,” Gemma protested, “that’s too much, after everything you’ve done.”
“I’ve enjoyed every bit of it,” Addie told her firmly. “It’s been too long since we’ve had children in the house—or a houseful at all—and I’m glad we’ve had a chance to get to know you and your family.” With a sigh, she slipped her bank card back into her purse. “Melody never brings anyone home, you know. She thinks we disapprove of her job, but that’s not true at all. We were afraid she was putting herself in an untenable position, because of her connection with the paper. What we didn’t expect”—Addie stopped, a frown barely crinkling the corners of her blue eyes—“was the young man who turned up at the house yesterday. I recognized him, you know. He was there at St. Pancras, when the bomb went off. We’ve watched the videos from that day, over and over. But I had no idea he and Melody were—whatever they are. Why didn’t she tell us?” The slightest catch in Addie’s voice betrayed, for once, her polished exterior.
“Oh, you know Melody,” Gemma said, perhaps too breezily. “She’s very good at compartmentalizing things. It’s only the past few months that she’s even had any of us round to her flat. I think that was a big step for her—she’s been so determined to separate work from her personal life.”
Addie was not to be deflected. “Is she serious about him?”
“I’d have thought so, yes. He’s a nice bloke, Andy. I hope she hasn’t—” Gemma realized her tongue was running away with her. She gave Addie an apologetic smile and reached for her handbag. A glance out the window told her that Toby was leaning too far over the water. “Well, anyway, we should probably be going before Toby falls in with the ducks.”
As they left the restaurant, Addie took a phone call while Gemma went to join the children. The wind had risen, lifting Charlotte’s hair into a dandelion puff, and the sky had gone milkily opaque. Gemma shivered.
Having shooed the little ones back from the river’s edge, Kit came over to stand beside her. “Weather’s changing,” Gemma said. “I’m glad we had a nice morning.” When Kit didn’t respond, she looked at him more closely. “What is it, love? If you’re worried about your dad, I’m su—”
“No. I mean, yes, of course, I hope he’s okay, but that’s not what— I was wondering what was going to happen to Bella.”
“The collie?”
Kit nodded. “Grace was texting me. I gave her my mobile number. I mean, she’s nice, but she keeps asking me all these weird questions.”
“What sort of weird questions?”
Scuffing his shoe against the verdant green of the riverside grass, Kit looked into the middle distance. “Like, what it’s like, living in London.”
“I don’t think that’s so weird.”
“Yeah, but she wanted to know if I knew Dad before my mom—before I came to live with him. And she kept trying to prove something with the dog. It was like she had to make Bella love her more than she loved the lady who died, Nell, and that’s just”—he shrugged his thin shoulders—“well, wrong. It’s not fair to Bella.”
Gemma considered this. “But that’s understandable, don’t you think? Grace is still a child after all.” An oddly self-centered child, Gemma had to admit.
“Yes, but—” Kit turned to her, serious and intent. “I like Viv,” he went on. “I think she’s really cool. And nice, you know, a nice person. But Grace keeps saying her mother is mean to her, like deliberately. That her mum hates her and doesn’t want her to be happy.”
“But all kids go throu—”
Kit was shaking his head. “This isn’t like griping ’cause you’re grounded or you’ve lost your mobile privileges. This is like she really believes this stuff and it’s just . . . weird. She seems to think her mum deliberately kept her from seeing her dad.”
Gemma slipped her arm round his shoulders in a quick hug. “I’ll have a word with Viv, okay? See if I can sort out what’s going on.” She gave him what she meant to be a reassuring smile. Kit might be overly sensitive, but she’d learned to trust his instincts. Something was not right between Viv Holland and her daughter.
Back in the surgery car park, Kincaid had just begun to explain to Booth about his conversation with Dr. Saunders when Melody rang. He listened, alarm growing, as Melody filled him in on what she’d learned from Joe about Roz Dunning. “Wait, wait, slow down,” he told her. “He’s sure this was three weeks ago? Why didn’t he tell us this before now?”
“I don’t believe anyone asked him, for starters,” Melody responded with a hint of sarcasm. “And . . . he, well, she was holding something over him, but I don’t think it has any bearing on this.”
Kincaid decided to pursue this point later. “Is Doug with you?” When she said he was, he said, “Can you keep an eye on Dunning until we get there? Assuming she’s at home. But don’t approach her, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He and Booth had stopped, by chance, beside Dr. Greene’s white Mercedes. Booth ran a hand over its bonnet rather covetously as he listened to Kincaid’s side of the conversation. “How long will it take us to get to Upper Slaughter?” Kincaid asked him.
“Not long.” With a wicked grin, Booth popped the door locks on his Volvo. “You can tell me what this is all about on the way.”
Kincaid should have known from Booth’s smile that he’d be gripping the Volvo’s door handle the entire way. He recognized nothing as the rolling blue-tinted hills sped by, punctuated only by the occasional glimpse of a few houses clustered in a hamlet, and a few sheep. “Where the hell are we?”
“Back roads,” Booth answered, gearing up again as the car zoomed out of a hollow, climbing steadily. Kincaid’s stomach lurched. “Almost there,” Booth added, with another grin.
A signpost for Upper Slaughter appeared and was gone in a blink. Then Booth slowed and made a sharp downhill left turn into what appeared to be a driveway, but was, Kincaid realized, a lane. Tucked into the side of the hill, the village had been invisible from the road. Slowing to a sedate ten miles per hour, Booth checked the sat nav for the address Melody had given Kincaid. “It should be just to the left here, near the church.”
A few cars were parked on one side of the tiny triangle of a green. Among them was Melody’s blue Clio, but Booth carried on a bit farther until they spotted the name of the cottage. The silver Mercedes SUV Melody had described was parked in front.
As Booth pulled up, Melody and Doug emerged from behind a parked van. “Is she still inside?” Kincaid asked quietly as he climbed from the car.
“As far as we can tell without announcing ourselves.” Melody still sounded out of sorts.
Booth was examining the gleaming paintwork on the SUV. “You could eat off this thing.” He bent over to scrutinize the front bumper. “No visible damage here.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Roz Dunning stood in the open door to her cottage. In jeans and a flax-colored baggy jumper that fell off one shoulder, she looked nothing like the polished and efficient personal assistant Kincaid remembered from Saturday. Her hair was loose and unbrushed and her mouth was tight with anger.
Kincaid sensed Melody take a breath, but before she could speak, Booth stepped in front of her and held out his warrant card. “Mrs. Dunning, we’d like a word.”
Roz had admitted them with ill grace and an uneasy glance at Melody.
The cottage, which had been gutted and renovated as open plan, was a study in expensive neutrals unbroken by color—rather, Kincaid thought, like its owner. She didn’t invite them to sit, but stood with her back to the kitchen island, so that she seemed to be presiding from in front of the bench.
“Yes, I knew Fergus,” she said in response to Booth’s question. “I met him when he came to the house trying to cadge a ticket for the luncheon. But I didn’t see that it was anyone else’s business. There was no official inquiry.”
“He came to the house and you slept with him in my parents’ bed,” Melody blurted out, as if she couldn’t restrain herself.
“And what little bird told you that?” Roz gave her a sly glance. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Joe? He was jealous, you know, so I wouldn’t put too much stock in what he says. And even if it was true, it’s not a crime.”
Melody gaped at her, turning pink, and Kincaid stepped in. “This was three weeks ago, that O’Reilly first came to the house?”
“Something like that,” Roz admitted with a nonchalant shrug.
“Did he see anyone else on that visit?”
Roz appeared to give the question consideration. “I think he meant to talk to Viv. But he must have changed his mind, because he asked me not to tell anyone that he’d been here.”
“Not that you would have mentioned it, under the circumstances,” said Melody, and Kincaid shot her a quelling look.
“I’d merely have told Addie that the quite delicious chef turned up, hoping his celebrity would get him a ticket to the sold-out luncheon. Anything else that passed between us was, as I said, no one else’s business. We were both single and certainly consenting adults.”
Kincaid was trying to fill in a time line. “That Monday, O’Reilly checked into the manor house and then came to Beck House.”
“And what if he did?” Roz said in the same dismissive tone.
“And the next day?”
“He said he had to see to some things. Late in the afternoon, he came here and I ran him to the station in Moreton.”
“He didn’t tell you what he’d been doing?”
“No. But he was, I don’t know, preoccupied. Less charming.” She shrugged again, but she might, Kincaid thought, have been a little offended. “I didn’t think I’d see him again until he rang me the night before he died. I said I’d meet him in the hotel bar for a drink, but he was still being secretive.”
“So he met you in the manor gardens instead?” Kincaid hadn’t thought of her as a blonde when he’d seen her on Saturday, but now, with her hair loose, he could see how she might give that impression if caught in a certain light.
Roz looked surprised, but nodded. “I gave him a lift up here. But he was a bit disappointing, if you must know,” she added, with a look that intimated she was assessing the three men in the room as potential replacements.
This was a woman to be avoided like the plague, but there was a certain rawness to the unfettered side of her that appealed to baser instincts. “And then?” Kincaid asked.
Roz shifted restlessly and the loose top slid a little farther down her shoulder. “Then, nothing. He left after a coffee the next morning. I never saw him again. I was as shocked as anyone when the police came on Saturday and said he was dead.”
“He didn’t tell you what else he meant to do that day?”
“No.” Absently, Roz pulled her hair back into a knot. “But . . . he got a text, early. And I’d say that after that, he had an . . . agenda.”
Booth asked if she could account for her movements on Friday.
“I was with Addie all day at Beck House. I only came home just before the Talbots’ guests arrived.”
“And you didn’t see O’Reilly after that?”
“No. I told you, I didn’t see him again after that morning.”
“Did he ever say anything to you about Nell Greene?” Kincaid put in.
“No. As I said, he only mentioned knowing Viv, because they’d worked together. That was his whole thing, supposedly, with the luncheon ticket, to surprise his old friend.” Roz straightened. “Now, really, are we quite fin —”
Booth interrupted her. “What about Saturday night, Mrs. Dunning? Can you account for your movements then?”
She frowned at him. “Why should I?”
“Because we’re looking into the circumstances of Jack Doyle’s death.”
“What?” Roz gaped at him in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. “What has that to do with me? I didn’t even know the man.”
“You must have had drinks at the pub.”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I knew him. And he certainly wasn’t my type.”
“Then you won’t mind telling us what you were doing on Saturday night.”
“I do mind, actually,” she snapped, folding her arms. “I will tell you that it had nothing whatsoever to do with that bartender, and that’s all I’m going to say.”
It was almost a challenge. If Booth had been prepared to take it, he was interrupted by a phone call. He excused himself, and when he returned a few moments later, he thanked Roz for her time.
“Don’t worry, Detective Inspector,” she said, with a tight little smile. “I’m not planning to abscond to South America. Although”—she directed this at Melody—“I was planning to resign from your lady mother’s employ, so you needn’t worry your little head about my corrupt morals.”
Before Melody could respond, Booth motioned them all outside.
“That was forensics,” Booth said. “They’ve managed to unlock O’Reilly’s mobile.”
December 2007
Viv had managed to hold her tongue through the remainder of service, but as soon as the door closed behind the last of the staff, she turned on Fergus. “How could you? How could you do that to Ibby? Danny was his friend.”
Fergus didn’t raise his eyes from the griddle he was scrubbing. “How could I do what?”
“For God’s sake, Fergus. How could you be so bloody callous?” Viv found she was shaking with exhaustion and outrage. Not only had she had to cover Ibby’s station, the tension in the kitchen and in front of house had made the rest of the evening a nightmare. She was surprised they’d made it all the way through service without a disaster—although she couldn’t imagine worse than what had already happened.
“What did you expect me to do?” asked Fergus, finally glancing up at her, his expression cold. “Close down the kitchen and hold a prayer service? Danny was a fecking bomb waiting to go off and Ibby was the only one who couldn’t see it.”
“If you knew he was using last night, why didn’t you do something?” Viv had given up any pretense of working and stood with her fists clenched as tightly as Ibby’s had been.
For a few weeks after the Michelin star, she’d thought things might go back to the way they’d been in the summer between her and Fergus. But the attention and the notoriety had been siren songs to him, and soon there were more nights spent partying and fewer and fewer with her. The last few weeks she had barely seen him outside the kitchen.
“What is it you think I should have done? Sent him home to his mam?”
His mockery made her even more furious. “You are such a shit, Fergus. You should have done what any friend would do—looked after him. We’re more than friends here, we’re family. You know that. You have a responsibility.” She took a gulping breath and tried to bring her voice down from a shriek. “And not only were you cruel to Ibby, you’ve left us a cook short and I can’t manage—” The nausea hit her suddenly, twisting her gut without warning. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she ran for the staff toilet and vomited nothing but bile. The sickness had been so persistent the last few days that she hadn’t been able to keep anything down. She’d managed to wipe her mouth, flush, and take a shaky seat on the toilet lid when Fergus appeared in the doorway, looming over her.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Viv? You’ve been heaving your guts up for days, so you can’t blame that on me.”
She started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “I can blame it on you, Fergus. At least partly. I’m pregnant.”
If Viv had ever wanted to see him gobsmacked, she had her wish. He gaped at her. “But . . . you . . . you can’t be.”
“What we’ve been doing, Fergus, is generally how babies are made.” Even though she knew it wasn’t the least bit funny, she was still stifling giggles, so light-headed she might have been drunk.
“You were on the pill,” he protested.
“Yeah, well, when I went to Evesham, I didn’t take any of my things, remember? And after that, I didn’t see much point continuing.”
He backed up a step, as if it might be catching. “Of all the bloody stupid things to do, Viv—”
“I thought my mum was dying.” She stood, all the urge to laugh gone. “And I wasn’t exactly planning to sleep with you again, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”
His face had gone the color of clotted cream, the dimples marking his cheeks like tiny craters. “Well, you can’t have it,” he said. “You’ll have to get rid of it.”
“What?” She stared at him. “What are you talking about? This is your child, too, Fergus!”
“It’s my fecking restaurant! I can’t have a pregnant cook in my kitchen. And you—how exactly do you plan to be a chef with a bloody baby to take care of?” He’d made baby sound like a dirty word. “Don’t be daft. You get this taken care of and then we’ll—”
“No.” It wasn’t until the word left Viv’s lips that she realized she had made a decision. “I won’t do it, Fergus. I can’t.” She tried to shove her way past him but he caught her arm.
“Let me go.”
“Viv, you can’t mean it.” His fingers were pinching her. “I can’t manage— You can’t leave this. You can’t leave me.”
She saw it then, the fear in his eyes, and for just an instant she felt sorry for him.
It didn’t last. “Let me go, Fergus,” she said again, and this time there was something in her tone that made him release her as if he’d been burned. “Find yourself another chef.”
Forgoing Ibby’s grand gestures, she carefully hung up her apron, put her jacket on over her whites, and walked out.
After her talk with Kit, Gemma had wanted to have a chat with Viv, but the phone call a few minutes later from Kerry Boatman made a visit to Viv seem even more urgent.
As much as she hated to ask another favor of Addie, she couldn’t discuss things with Viv with the children in tow. She had Addie drop her at the Lamb in Lower Slaughter. It was well after lunch by this time and the car park was nearly empty. A small Volkswagen pulling out beeped its horn at her and, seeing that it was Angelica, Gemma waved back.
There was a mud-spattered Land Rover parked near the archway that Gemma didn’t recognize. Hoping for a private word with Viv, Gemma slipped into the hallway. She was about to enter the kitchen when she heard a man’s voice. Mark Cain.
Taking a step forward, she peered into the kitchen. Viv stood at the central hob, stirring something, with Mark beside her. “I’ve got to finish unloading the hay,” he was saying. “But I’ll be back. Try not to worry, love.” Gently, he pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head.
Gemma had seen him comfort Viv before, but there was a tenderness in this gesture that made her heart contract. And when Viv looked up at him, Gemma felt the intensity all the way to her toes. This was more than a dalliance.
She was trying to back up gracefully when a voice in her ear said, “Gemma, whatever are you doing here?” Startled, she stepped back and trod on Bea Abbott’s toes.
“Oh, Bea, I’m so sorry. I was just going to have a word with Viv, but I didn’t want to intrude—” she began, but when she looked back into the kitchen, Mark was gone and Viv was stirring her pot with great concentration.
“Well, don’t mind me,” said Bea briskly. “Viv, I’m just off to the bank with the cash receipts from the weekend.”
“Okay, see you later,” Viv replied, then smiled at Gemma. “Come in, Gemma, do. I’ve sent Ibby and Angelica for a break. Tonight will be slow and we all needed a bit of a breather.”
“I was hoping we might have a chat.”
Viv’s eyes widened. “Has something happened?”
“No, no, I just wanted to talk.”
“Let me finish seasoning this soup, then, and I’ll make us a cuppa.”
“What is it? It smells divine.”
“Cream of mushroom. Come and taste.” When Gemma came to stand beside her, Viv dipped some soup into a tasting spoon and handed it to her. “We’ve a local farmer growing mushrooms for the markets, so I buy whatever he has on hand. This has brown mushrooms, shiitake, and some dried porcini, for depth of flavor.”
Gemma took a little sip from the spoon. “Oh, I see what you mean,” she said in surprise. “It’s delicious, but it’s somehow more—mushroomy.”
“It’s not balanced yet. It needs more salt.” Viv added a generous palmful from a dish by the hob and stirred the pot thoroughly. Grabbing two more spoons, she tasted it herself, then handed a spoonful to Gemma. “Now try.”
Obediently, Gemma tasted. This time the flavors seemed to pop on her tongue. “Oh, my goodness. It’s not salty—it just tastes . . . I don’t know . . . brighter?”
“That’s what salt does. It’s a flavor enhancer. You have a good palate.” Viv turned the flame down to a low simmer and fetched cups from the crockery shelf. Plopping a few Yorkshire teabags into the old Brown Betty pot that Gemma had used so diligently yesterday, she filled the pot from the already steaming kettle. “Maybe Kit has inherited that from you.”
“I’m afraid not,” Gemma said a little ruefully. “I’m his stepmother, you see.”
“Oh.” Viv looked startled. “I’m so sorry. He never said. I just assumed . . .”
“No need to be sorry. I couldn’t love him more or be more proud of him.” Gemma decided to take advantage of the opening. “Speaking of Kit, he’s a little concerned about Grace. She was asking him all sorts of questions about going to live in London with his dad. She wanted to know if he knew his dad before that.”
Viv, filling Gemma’s cup, sloshed scalding tea on her hand. “Shit!” Setting the cup down, she stuck her hand under the cold tap, her back to Gemma.
“Viv, are you all right?”
“It’s nothing.” Viv turned off the water and patted her hand with a towel, her expression tense. “What else did she say to Kit?”
Gemma wasn’t sure how to put it delicately. “This is like she really believes this stuff and it’s just . . . weird. She seems to think you deliberately kept her from seeing her dad.”
The color drained from Viv’s face. “Oh, Christ. The bastard. The absolute bastard.”
Her reaction took Gemma by surprise. “Who, Viv? What are you talking about?”
“Fergus, of course. Bloody Fergus. He swore not to tell her. I should have known he wouldn’t keep a promise.”
“Dear God,” said Gemma as realization dawned. “Fergus was Grace’s father?” She’d only seen the mortuary photo of the man, and she hadn’t caught a resemblance. “I knew you used to work for him, but—”
“That’s why I left O’Reilly’s. He never wanted her, you know. And, then, to show up here, demanding to see her, after all this time—” Viv wiped at tears.
Giving Viv a moment, Gemma finished pouring the tea while she thought it through. “Viv, a friend in the London police talked to Colm Finlay this morning. You said that Fergus had offered you a job working for him in a new restaurant in London. Colm Finlay said that Fergus’s job was dependent on you taking that offer.”
Viv stared at her. “Oh, the idiot,” she breathed. “I should have known. Did he think I wouldn’t find out? That Colm wouldn’t eventually tell me? That’s why he was so determined I should do it.” With shaking hands, Viv reached for the cup of tea Gemma brought her.
“Here, your fingers are like ice,” said Gemma. “Wrap your hands around that and tell me exactly what happened.”
“I told the truth. Just not all of it,” Viv admitted after a moment, with a sigh. “Fergus showed up here on Friday morning, out of the blue, telling me he had this great opportunity, that Colm was setting him up in a place and he wanted me in on it. I hadn’t seen him in nearly twelve years. It was . . . a bit of a shock, I can tell you. And he still— I was still— Fergus could be so bloody charming, even after everything that happened between us.” Viv sipped at the tea, wincing. “But I said no, I’d made a life for myself here. Then, he said it was our chance to be a family, the three of us. He’d seen Grace, I don’t know how. He seemed obsessed with her, with wanting to be a father. Or so I thought,” she added with a grimace. “How could I have been so stupid? He needed me to get the job. And he needed Grace to get me.”
“What happened when you told him no?”
“I thought it might be okay, that he might leave it. But he came back in the afternoon, and this time he told me that if I didn’t agree, he would sue me for partial custody. He said he could have the court order a paternity test, that I couldn’t deprive him of his rights as a father. I told him to get stuffed.
“But he wouldn’t let it go—I’d forgot how persistent Fergus could be when he set his mind to something—he kept pushing me. Hanging about in the courtyard, talking to Grace. And then later, coming in the dining room, ordering food, then sending it back, with the chef’s compliments.”
A horrible thought occurred to Gemma. She’d never seriously considered the possibility that Viv had poisoned Fergus. What chef in her right mind would poison someone in her own restaurant? But it sounded more and more as if Viv had good reason to want rid of Fergus—and quickly, before he made further inroads with Grace.
Viv had known exactly which plates were going out to Fergus. But, still, even if she’d had the intent, would she have had digitalis on hand? Or foxglove itself? The plant was common enough, but certainly no part of it would be kept in a kitchen, and Gemma hadn’t seen it growing in the pub garden.
Unaware of Gemma’s ruminations, Viv continued, “When he came into the kitchen during service that night, I just lost it. I shouted at him to get out and not to bloody come back. I never thought . . .” She looked stricken. “I never thought he would die!”
Viv Holland had still loved Fergus O’Reilly, Gemma realized, in spite of his faults.
She didn’t believe Viv could have harmed him, and certainly not through the very thing that was the touchstone of her life—her food. “Viv,” she said slowly, “who else knew about Fergus and Grace? Or Fergus’s offer, for that matter?”
“Well, Bea knew about the offer. It was only fair to tell her, even though I didn’t mean to take it. And of course Ibby knew about Fergus and Grace. Ibby was—” Viv’s expression softened. “Ibby was the only one who was there for me when Grace was born. He’s known Grace her whole life.”
Once they’d left Roz Dunning’s house, Booth told them that he’d asked a uniformed officer to meet him with O’Reilly’s mobile. “I’m all for the glories of fingerprint recognition,” Booth said. “But I don’t want some anorak in forensics texting me what he thinks is important. And”—he nodded at the cottage they’d just left—“I want to keep an eye on this nice lady for a bit, see if she rabbits. She’s a right piece of work, that one. Your mother,” he added to Melody, “had better hope she hasn’t hijacked the family silver.”
“They’re bringing the mobile here?” Doug looked as eager as a puppy promised a treat.
“To the green. I’d better move my car, though, someplace a bit less conspicuous, so Ms. Dunning won’t see us. We can sit in yours.”
“Mine, actually.” Melody sounded thoroughly irritated. “The Clio.”
Booth’s raised eyebrows conveyed his opinion of her automotive judgment. “Well, you all pile in, then. I’m going to move my car to the hotel down the road.”
“You know this village?” Kincaid asked.
“Michelin-rosette restaurant in the hotel. Anniversary date last year.”
When the panda car arrived a few minutes later, there’d been no sign of activity in Roz Dunning’s cottage. Doug had rather grudgingly ceded the Clio’s front-passenger seat to Booth, which left him and Kincaid crammed into the back. Now Doug leaned forward, breathing down Booth’s neck as Booth scrolled through the phone.
“He didn’t use it much,” said Booth. “Limited data plan?”
“Or it’s new and he didn’t transfer anything,” Doug suggested. “Or maybe he was just a Luddite. Sad tosser.”
Booth flicked his finger down the screen. “There’s a Colm in the contacts. That would be the restaurateur, I think. Along with some missed calls from the same number.” He went to the texts, holding the mobile up so that they could all see the screen. “Somebody named Abby wants to buy him a drink. But that was a month ago. Not much social life, poor bugger. Colm wants to know why he’s not returning his calls; O’Reilly says he’ll be in touch soon.” Booth frowned. “Wait. Here’s a text thread from an untagged number, just a couple of messages. He—or she—says, ‘When are you coming back? Please please come soon.’ He says, ‘Don’t worry, everything will work out and we’ll be together, I promise.’” Booth swiped again. “Then, he says, ‘PS remember DONT tell your mum!’”
“The guy was a pedophile,” Doug said, with disgust. “Christ. But how does—”
“No,” Kincaid broke in. “I don’t think so.” He was remembering the child who’d played with his own children at the luncheon, with the same pinched and angry look she’d worn when she’d come tearing into the pub yesterday to shout at her mother. “I don’t think that’s what this is about at all. We need to talk to Viv Holland.”