On Monday morning, Kincaid’s right hand was so stiff and swollen that he couldn’t move his fingers. What he didn’t tell Gemma was that the redness and swelling was also moving from his hand into his arm—she’d been worried enough as it was.
Gemma had meant to borrow Melody’s car to take him to the A and E in Cheltenham, but Melody didn’t come down to breakfast. It was Ivan who’d rung his GP for an appointment for Kincaid, and Ivan who’d insisted on driving him to Cheltenham. Addie, not to be outdone, had planned an outing for Gemma and the kids to the bird park in Bourton-on-the-Water while the fine weather held.
“I can’t keep you from work,” Kincaid protested to Ivan. “You’ve put up with enough trouble from us as it is.”
“I’ve been working since five this morning,” Ivan said with a chuckle. Having seen the array of computer screens in Ivan’s home office, Kincaid hadn’t doubted him. “I could use a break,” Ivan added. “And I have an ulterior motive. A friend of mine has found a car you might want to look at.”
Kincaid had checked in with his team at Holborn Station, then left Doug, who was ensconced once again with his laptop in the sitting room, to manage the bulk of the case management with their Holborn DI, Jasmine Sidana.
It wasn’t until he was on the way to Cheltenham with Ivan that Kincaid suddenly realized his head felt clearer. While that was encouraging, it made him wonder just how muddled he’d been yesterday.
When they reached Dr. Saunders’s surgery, however, she gave him a very critical eye. “Do you mind if Ivan comes in with you?” she asked, before ushering him into her consulting room.
“So I need a responsible adult?” Kincaid joked, but the sharp look she gave him said that was exactly what she meant.
“I feel much better,” he protested as he sat on the exam table. “Really. It’s just my hand that’s playing up.”
“Well, let’s have a look at you,” Dr. Saunders said briskly. She shone her pencil light in his eyes, checking his pupils. “Still equal and reactive, so that’s a good sign. Headaches?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“Taking it easy?”
“Um, more or less.” Ivan’s presence in the room made it impossible for Kincaid to tell an outright lie.
“Ribs?”
Kincaid grimaced. “Still pretty sore.”
The doctor took the small pillow from the exam table and positioned it against his right side. “Press this to you, bend over it, and cough.”
“Ouch. That hurts like hell.”
“I want you to do that two or three times every couple of hours. It’s to keep you from getting pneumonia, so no slacking. Now, let’s have a look at that hand.” It was all Kincaid could do not to grit his teeth as she gently removed the dressing.
Shaking her head, Dr. Saunders clucked disapprovingly as she examined the spreading redness. “Cellulitis.” When Kincaid looked blank, she added, “Bacterial skin infection. I’m going to clean and dress your hand again, but you’ll need to start on antibiotic tablets straightaway. No missing a dose, mind. This can be dangerous if not treated, besides being bloody uncomfortable.”
Dr. Saunders glanced at Ivan as she worked. “I heard about the poor fellow hit by the car Saturday night.”
“That news traveled fast,” Ivan said, quirking an eyebrow.
“Pathologist is a friend. We had drinks last night.”
He grinned. “Is there anyone you don’t know, Carol?”
“Small world, the medical community. As is your village, apparently. What a shame for Bea Abbott, all this. That young woman has had more than her fair share of tragedy.”
“I seem to remember hearing something about her family,” said Ivan, frowning. “When she and Viv Holland first bought the pub. Didn’t her mother commit suicide? But that must have happened years ago.”
“Bea was a teenager. A year or two above my daughter in school.” She shook her head, her expression grim. “How someone can leave a child to live with that, I’ll never understand.”
A mobile phone rang. It was a moment before Kincaid realized it was his, still in the pocket of the jacket he’d left draped over a chair. “Sorry,” he said, but he was held captive by Dr. Saunders’s ministrations to his hand. Ivan obligingly handed him the mobile.
Kincaid had meant to decline the call, but when he saw it was Colin Booth, he murmured, “I’d better get this.”
“Kincaid here,” he answered, then listened, frowning. “Let me call you back,” he said, and rang off.
“That was Booth,” he told Ivan, adding for the doctor’s benefit, “the DI investigating the Lower Slaughter deaths. He’s going to interview Nell Greene’s ex-husband and wants to know if we can meet him.”
“Bruce Greene?” said Dr. Saunders, finishing Kincaid’s new dressing.
“You know him, too?” asked Ivan.
“Yes, of course. I send my patients to him if they need a more thorough internal medicine workup than I can provide. He’s not a bad sort, Bruce, aside from the fooling-around business.”
Kincaid frowned as he rolled his shirtsleeve down. “You mean when he was married to Nell?”
Dr. Saunders sighed. “With one of his nurses, yes. But, as she’s the second Mrs. Greene now, and we see them socially, I suppose I can’t be too critical.”
Taking a packet of tablets from the cupboard near the exam table, she handed them to Kincaid. “I want you to start these now. Take one three times a day, and I’ll write you a prescription for more.” As she fetched him a paper cup of water from a standing dispenser, she added thoughtfully, “You did know that Bruce Greene used to be partners with George Abbott, Bea’s father?”
Kincaid stopped in the midst of buttoning his shirt cuff, an act he’d learned was quite difficult single-handed. “What? When was this?”
“Oh, it was years ago. Bruce dissolved the partnership after George’s wife’s suicide.”
“Do you know why?” Kincaid asked.
“I have an idea, but it’s not for me to tell you. You’ll have to ask Bruce Greene.”
“Oh, God.” Melody managed to peel one eye open, then shut it again. Why was it so bloody bright? She rolled away from the light and the room swayed alarmingly. With the rush of nausea came a flash of memory, and that made her feel even more ill.
What on earth had she done? And just how big a fool had she made of herself?
“Oh, God,” she said again, this time a moan, but she managed to open both eyes. Familiar ceiling. Familiar window. The guest room at Beck House. That at least was some comfort. She recalled now, in a jumble of images, waking in Joe’s narrow bed before dawn, leaving him sleeping as she stumbled back to the house, quaking with cold.
Joe. She sat up, head pounding, and fumbled for her mobile, left last night on her bedside table. A glance at the time readout brought another unpleasant jolt—it was after ten. There were no texts from Andy. And there had only been one missed call, at half past eight, from Gemma, wanting to know if she could borrow her car.
Shit. What must Gemma be thinking? What must everyone be thinking?
Swinging her legs off the bed, she listened. The house was completely silent. Had they all packed up and gone back to London without her? Surely not. But that meant she was going to have to face everyone, and she was going to have to make up some excuse for lying in this morning. And she was going to have to apologize to Gemma.
But there was something she had to do first.
A shower and clean clothes having made her feel marginally better, she crept through the house, determined to avoid speaking to anyone, especially Doug, until she’d set things straight with Joe about last night.
She slipped out the front door and walked round the garage towards the kitchen gardens, hoping to find Joe somewhere out of sight of the house. She’d reached the glasshouse when she saw him coming towards her up the path from the kitchen garden.
“Melody,” he called, hurrying to her. “Are you okay? I was worried sick about you. I couldn’t ring you because I don’t have your number, and I didn’t want to come up to the house—I just wanted to say I was sorry about—”
“Yes, me, too,” Melody broke in with a rush of relief. When he looked a bit hurt, she added, “Oh, I don’t mean— Oh, this is awkward.” Parts of the night came back vividly now and she flushed. “But we shouldn’t have—”
“No, I shouldn’t,” Joe broke in with touching earnestness. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your, um, of the situation—of you—”
“I was royally pissed, if that’s what you’re trying to say. And I put you in a terrible position. I wouldn’t want anything we did to affect your job, or to embarrass you—”
The look he gave her was searching. “I thought maybe you were embarrassed about being with me—the gardener.”
Melody shook her head. “Oh, Joe. Don’t be daft. Of course I’m not embarrassed about you. But we can’t— I mean I have—” She swallowed. “I guess you could call it unfinished business.”
“The ex-boyfriend?” Joe said, and she could see the disappointment, quickly masked.
“Yes. That’s why I was— Anyway, I need to try, at least, to sort things out. Things ended rather badly.” An understatement, she thought, if ever there was one.
Joe nodded, his shoulders slumping. “I understand, but if things change . . .” He hesitated, his rueful smile vanishing. “Look, Melody, there’s something else. Can we talk?”
“We are talking,” she said, perplexed.
But Joe gave an anxious glance round, as if someone might be lurking in the shrubbery. “No, I mean—” He gestured toward the glasshouse. “Can we talk in there? It’s sort of personal. There’s something I need to tell you.”
In her experience, those words never presaged good news. With a little cold lump of dread in her stomach, Melody followed him into the glasshouse. What, she wondered, could be more personal than apologizing for drunken shagging?
For once, the warm, earthy atmosphere in the glasshouse did not feel comforting. In its close confines, she could smell the wood smoke on Joe’s clothes, and the scent of his soap.
Turning away from her, Joe gazed down at the neat rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden. “I’m not sure where to start.”
Melody began making a mental list of dread diseases. “Look, Joe, if this is about—you know—what we did last night, you’d better tell me and get it ov—”
He swung round to face her again, looking shocked. “No, it’s not about that at all. It’s about that chef. The one who died in the car crash with Nell Greene.”
“What?” Melody was completely blindsided. “You mean Fergus O’Reilly? What does he have to do with—”
“He was here. In the house.”
It was a moment before Melody could do anything but stare. “You mean in my house?”
“Well, yeah, your parents’ house, anyway.”
“But surely not,” Melody protested, frowning. “My parents didn’t even know him. You must be mistaken.”
Joe gave her a half smile. “Not likely. His wasn’t a face you’d forget. Not that his face was the first part of him I saw.”
Taking a step back, Melody connected with a pile of bagged mulch and inadvertently sat. “You’d better explain.”
“It was maybe three weeks ago—”
“Then my parents wouldn’t have been here. They only came down the beginning of last week.”
“No, they weren’t here,” Joe agreed. “Roz was.”
“Roz Dunning?” Now Melody was really baffled. “But she never said she knew O’Reilly.”
“Well, I can tell you that she did know him—at least in the biblical sense.” Joe sounded surprisingly snappish. “I came up to do my washing. I didn’t know Roz was here that day. So when I walked into the house and heard thumping noises coming from upstairs, I thought the house was being burgled. I grabbed the emergency torch and crept upstairs as quietly as I could. By the time I’d reached the top I was pretty certain it wasn’t burglars, but I kept going to your parents’ bedroom.” Joe winced. “That was a sight I wish I could un-see. But, then, they weren’t best pleased to see me, either.”
“Roz was with Fergus O’Reilly? They were . . . having sex? In my parents’ room?”
“They certainly weren’t playing charades.”
“But—” Melody tried to wrap her mind round this. She wished her head would stop pounding. “This was three weeks ago?”
“Yeah. I usually do my washing on a Monday, so it was three weeks today.”
According to what Melody had heard from the others, Fergus O’Reilly had checked into the manor house in Lower Slaughter three weeks ago, but hadn’t spent the night in his hotel room. Had he been with Roz Dunning? “But if she knew Fergus, why see him here? She lives alone, right?”
“Roz says she didn’t know him. He came to see your mother. He was hoping for an in with Viv, and a ticket to the luncheon. But of course your mother wasn’t here, and Roz just—fancied him, I take it. I gather he was willing.”
“But she—but he was a complete stranger? How could she—” Melody was appalled. But she couldn’t pass judgment.
“Okay,” she said. “So Roz was shagging Fergus O’Reilly, at least once that we know of. But after Fergus died, why on earth didn’t she say she knew him? She was here when the police came to notify Viv.”
“Maybe she didn’t want your mum to think badly of her. Then, when there were rumors about his death, she didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been honest in the first place.”
Melody frowned, thinking things through. Something didn’t add up. “Joe, what I don’t understand is why you didn’t say anything before now.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and prodded a bag of mulch with the toe of his boot. “Because I’ve been an idiot. At first, I thought that Roz lying didn’t matter, that the car crash was just an unfortunate accident. But then yesterday, when I heard Jack Doyle had been killed, I started to wonder. And I couldn’t figure out why Roz was so determined no one find out about her and O’Reilly.”
Melody remembered how hostile Roz had been yesterday when she’d happened on her washing her car. Washing her car. Christ. “Oh, God, Joe. You don’t think Roz could have run down Jack Doyle? But—”
“Melody. Listen. There’s more.” He took a deep breath and she saw that he’d clenched his hands into fists. “I didn’t say anything because Roz was blackmailing me,” Joe blurted out. “You know she trained as an accountant, right? And that she keeps the business books as well as your mum’s personal accounts?” He looked away. “Well, she found . . . discrepancies . . . in the business account. She threatened to tell your mother if I said anything about her and O’Reilly.”
“But—” Melody could only stare at him. “Joe, are you telling me that you took money from the account?”
“I was going to pay it back.” His gaze was pleading.
Melody had never known anyone who lived a more frugal life—not even Andy in his pre-fame days. “I can’t believe that. Why would you do such a thing? Why not just tell my mother if you needed money for something?”
“Because I was ashamed. It’s my stupid youngest brother. He’s got himself in trouble for serious drugs, and my parents needed the money for the lawyer’s fees. I didn’t want your mum and dad to think badly of my family.”
“Oh, Joe.” Melody shook her head in exasperation. “You’ve been a bloody idiot. Listen to me. You are not responsible for your brother’s actions. Neither are your parents. But this— You are going to have to deal with this.”
“I know. And I know I have to tell Addie, but I had to tell you first. After last night, I didn’t want you thinking I’d . . . Oh, God—that there were any false pretenses in what we . . . that I’d used you in any way. Christ, I’ve made a balls-up of things.”
Melody remembered something. “Was that Roz who called you last night, when I was there?”
Joe nodded. “She was getting more and more . . . um, aggressive . . . in her threats.”
“Have you spoken to her since?”
“No. I’ve blocked her number. She’ll be livid.”
“Don’t speak to her, Joe. Not under any circumstances. You know I have to inform the police straightaway?”
He nodded. “I know.”
Melody made an effort to pull herself together. “Okay. I don’t think anyone’s at home right now. But as soon as my mum comes back, you’ll have to speak to her. You don’t want her to hear about this from someone else.” Melody hesitated, then added, “And, Joe, after what happened to Jack Doyle, just be careful, okay?”
Kerry Boatman reached Colm Finlay through his restaurant group’s corporate offices first thing on Monday morning. To her surprise, he’d been eager to talk to her. He’d set up an appointment to meet with her at eleven o’clock at his Kensington restaurant, Pomme. The place was on Abingdon Road, just off Kensington High Street, a few minutes’ walk from the police station.
When she reached the address, she found an unassuming shop front occupying the ground floor of a bland postwar, three-story building. She knocked as Finlay had directed.
A moment later he opened the door, introduced himself, and ushered her in. “I had to meet with some suppliers here this morning,” he said, “and I thought it would be easier for you than coming into the West End.”
Finlay’s corporation, Kerry had learned, owned several successful London restaurants, including one in a renowned Mayfair hotel. Finlay himself was short and sturdily built, with wavy dark hair going gray, a close-trimmed gray beard, and alert blue eyes. “If you’ll just follow me back, we can chat in the chef’s office.” Even after years in London, Finlay’s Belfast accent was still pronounced.
The interior of the restaurant surprised Kerry. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of a Michelin-starred venue, but the dining room was casual, wood floored, with square wooden tables, simple black-and-white chairs, and glossy white subway-tiled walls. A sleek black-framed gas fireplace anchored the dining room’s far end.
As he led her past the gleaming bar, she had only a quick glimpse into the kitchen, where chefs were already at work, prepping for that night’s service. Something already smelled fabulous.
Finlay led her into a small office behind the bar and seated her in front of a paper-strewn desk. “Can I get you anything? A coffee? Some tea?”
When she demurred, he got right down to business. “I only heard about Fergus yesterday. Jesus, I still can’t believe it. I’d been trying to reach him for days, but I never imagined something like this . . .”
No one, Kerry thought, ever did.
“The newspaper said he was killed in a car accident in the Cotswolds,” Finlay went on, “and I thought it must be a mistake. Fergus didn’t drive, you know. Is it true, then?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Kerry. “I’m very sorry. I understand you were friends. Can you tell me why you were trying to reach Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Because I’d made him a job offer. But there were conditions, and there was a time limit on his acceptance.” Finlay leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I hope I’m not in some way responsible for what happened to Fergus, because I was the one who sent him haring off to the bloody Cotswolds. The restaurant group had recently acquired a new property in the West End, but the chef who was to take on the place had to renege at the last minute. Fergus had been in touch with me, looking for a job. We started in the same hotel in Belfast, you know, and we had a brief partnership after O’Reilly’s went under. Before he came to me a couple of months ago, I’d never have considered working with him again.”
“Why was that?” she asked.
Rocking forward again, Finlay picked up a pencil and tapped it on the nearest stack of papers. Kerry got an impression, not of nerves, but of the suppressed energy in the man. “Because Fergus snorted our profits up his nose. I’d heard rumors, of course, about O’Reilly’s, but I thought he was good enough to compensate for the bad habits. Turned out I was wrong.
“But then Fergus turned up on my doorstep last summer, swearing he was clean, had been for more than a year. I even let him stay in my flat, because I wanted to see for myself. I’d been toying with the idea of giving Irish fine dining another try.” He flashed a suddenly mischievous grin. “Not that I’d attempt to give Dickie Corrigan a run for his money, mind you. There’s only a limited market for three-star dining, while restaurants like this one”—he waved an expansive hand— “have a very good chance of succeeding with the right formula. And Fergus—a sober Fergus—seemed like a godsend.”
“Then why send him to the Cotswolds?” Kerry asked, not quite following the logic.
“Because of Viv Holland. She was the condition. I’d heard about this luncheon she was catering from my reviewer friend at the Chronicle, and I wanted her on board. The thing is, Fergus is—Fergus was—brilliant. But Viv was pure bloody genius.” Finlay’s tone was reverent. “She was the secret ingredient in the sauce, if you’ll forgive me the cliché. Together, they were dynamite.”
“So Fergus went to the Cotswolds to make Viv an offer?”
“One she surely couldn’t refuse. Viv Holland, cooking in a bloody pub kitchen.” Finlay grimaced. “Sweet Jesus, what a waste.”
“Did she accept?”
“The thing is, I don’t know.” Finlay tapped his pencil again. “Fergus kept putting me off, said they were still ironing things out and he needed to go down there again. That was last week. That was why I’d been ringing him. His time was up as of today. I had to make a decision.”
Kerry made a few quick notes, then looked back at Finlay with a frown. “You mentioned rumors about O’Reilly’s. What were you referring to?”
“Ah, well, that’s ancient history. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. One of the staff died suddenly. The story was that it was a cocaine overdose.”
December 2007
Viv had already thrown up three times that night when they got the news, halfway through service.
Danny, their maître d’, hadn’t shown up for work and hadn’t answered his mobile. One of the servers had gone to his flat to check on him, but that had been hours ago. When the girl finally stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, her face chalky, Viv felt the sickness rise again. “What’s happened?” she said.
The girl stifled a sob. “He’s dead. Danny’s dead. I got his neighbor to let me in. He was slumped on his sofa. He’d been ill— Oh, God, it was awful.”
They had all stopped in midtask. Ibby came up to her, his face drawn in shock. “No, that’s bullshit. Danny can’t be dead.”
“I swear it’s true. I called an ambulance. The paramedics said he’d been gone for, like, hours. Maybe a stroke or a heart attack. And he had”—she touched her nose—“you know, all down his front and on the coffee table—”
Fergus was shaking his head. “No, he was okay when I left him last night. He was fine.”
Ibby rounded on him, crossing the kitchen in two strides. “You! You bastard, Fergus. You were with him. You must have seen he was doing too much—”
“Bloody shut up, Ibby,” Fergus spat back at him. “We had a couple of drinks, that’s all, then he went home. He was fine.” They were almost nose to nose, with Ibby standing on his toes to get right in Fergus’s face.
Ibby shook his finger at him, poking Fergus in the chest. “Don’t give me that bullshit. If he’s dead, it’s your fucking fault, Fergus.”
“Fuck off, Ibby.” Fergus knocked his hand away. “It’s too bad about Danny, but we’ve got a service to finish.” He turned away, reaching for a squeeze bottle.
But Ibby lunged, grabbing him by the throat. Fergus had the advantage of height, but Ibby’s hands were strong and Fergus struggled to loosen his grip.
Viv was nearest. She bolted towards them, grasping Ibby round the waist with one arm while she tried to break his grip on Fergus’s throat with the other. The rest of the cooks piled on and after a few seconds of straining and a flurry of blows and swearing, they managed to drag the two apart.
Fergus, panting with fury, shook off their restraining hands and faced Ibby. “Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen,” he bit out. “I’ll see you never work in this city again, you little shite.”
Viv still had a hand twisted in the back of Ibby’s white jacket. She could feel him breathing, short and sharp, until he jerked out of her hold. But he didn’t go for Fergus again.
Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled the ties on his apron and let it drop to the floor. Then he unbuttoned his white jacket and shrugged out of it, all the while never taking his eyes from Fergus. When the jacket had joined the apron, he spoke with deadly calm. “You can keep your bloody kitchen, Fergus O’Reilly. But I’m going to make you pay for this, you wait and see if I don’t.”