A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  “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 han
d 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.”

  Chapter Six

  Addie had excused herself for a moment, whispering to Gemma that she was ringing Ivan. When she returned, seeing that PC Murray had her pencil poised
over her little notebook, she said, “Let’s move to the terrace, shall we? And give Chef Holland a moment.” Gemma helped her encourage Viv from the folding chair on the lawn to a proper chair on the terrace.

  “I’m fine, really,” Viv protested. “It’s just—it’s just a shock, that’s all.” But Gemma thought she still looked shaky, and her voice was high and breathless.

  The kitchen door opened and Roz came out bearing not a glass of water, but a tray with a teapot and a half a dozen mismatched mugs. “I thought we could all use some fortifying,” Roz said, setting out the mugs on a table. When Gemma stood to help, Roz added to her quietly, “Sorry we weren’t properly introduced. I’m Rosalind Dunning. You must be Melody’s friend.”

  “Gemma James. I work with Melody.”

  As Roz poured the tea, Gemma caught the strong, malty scent on the warm air. She gave the first two mugs to Viv and Addie, the second two to the uniformed officers, while taking the opportunity to examine her companion. Roz Dunning was an attractive woman, perhaps a bit older than Gemma had first thought—up close, the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth were visible.

  By the time Roz had offered milk and sugar, Gemma was glad to see that Viv had regained a little color. A good thing, too, as PC Murray had opened her notebook again.

  “Ms. Holland,” said Murray, “can you tell us how you knew Mr. O’Reilly?”

  Viv swallowed. “I used to work for him in London, a long time ago. In his restaurant. But I hadn’t seen him since then, until yesterday.”

  “Do you know what he was doing in Lower Slaughter?”

  “No. He just showed up at my pub. Said he wanted to catch up, for old time’s sake.” Viv shot Addie a glance that might have been accusing. “He’d heard something about the luncheon today. He—he stayed for dinner at the pub,” she added, looking at her hands.

  PC Murray made a note, then asked, “Do you know where Mr. O’Reilly was staying?”

  “Not a clue,” Viv said more firmly. “But it can’t have been far if he left his coat.”