A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  Viv rocked back in her chair as if she’d been slapped, then stood and went towards her daughter with her hands outstretched. “Grace, love, I didn’t want you to be upset. There’s been an accident.”

  Grace stepped backwards, away from Viv, almost treading on Kit, who was trying to quiet the panting dog. Catching Gemma’s eye, Kit mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “What do you mean, an accident?” Grace seemed to take in the presence of the others, and of Booth, in his official-looking dark suit, and she suddenly looked more frightened than angry.

  “It’s Jack, love,” said Viv. “He was hit by a car last night. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “You mean he’s . . . dead?” Grace must have seen the answer in all their expressions. Her face crumpled and she began to cry, little hiccupping sobs. “It’s your fault,” she managed to gasp at Viv, then the sobs grew to a keening wail.

  Gemma was on her feet, but Bea was quicker. She reached the girl in two strides, wrapping her arms round her and turning her towards the door. “Let’s get you home,” she murmured to Grace. “You’ll be all right, love.” Kit, who’d managed to calm the dog, stepped out of their way as they went out.

  Viv sank back into her chair, looking utterly defeated.

  July 2007

  “Irish?” Fergus had said when she’d put it to him. “You have got to be taking the mickey. No decent chef does Irish. It’s all pubs with Guinness and bloody leprechauns.”

  “So, we can do Irish fine dining. Call it British-Irish if that helps. You can’t tell me there’s not cooking being done in Ireland at that level,” Viv insisted. They were sitting in Fergus’s tiny office, having been the last to finish scrubbing down the kitchen after that night’s service. She’d been doing her homework the last few weeks, studying recipes, checking sourcing, wanting to have all her ducks in a row before she suggested this.

  “Well, no, but . . .” He stretched his long legs out under the two-top from the dining room that passed for his desk, seemingly unaware that his feet were touching hers.

  Sensing him wavering, she’d gone on, trying to keep her excitement in check. “We can get wild Irish venison. I’ve checked. We can get Irish beef, Irish fish and scallops. And we could source the very best veg locally, but add an Irish twist to the recipe. Why couldn’t we make the most divine potato and leek soup that anyone’s ever tasted? Why not make soda bread the house bread? We could make lamb sausages, smoke Irish trout. All with gorgeous presentation.”

  “Mmm.” Fergus still hadn’t been convinced. “But why should we do this? The kitchen is clicking. We’ve got a reputation to maintain now. Why should we take that sort of risk?”

  He was right about the kitchen, Viv knew. They’d found their rhythm over the last couple of months. They were turning out better food, and doing it consistently. But all that made her more determined. Sweating a little because she was still in her whites and it was stifling in the little room, she said, “So how many restaurants in London are doing a menu like ours and doing it well?” When Fergus frowned, she went on, encouraged. “A dozen, at least. If we want to stand out, we’ve got to be just that bit different.”

  The frown was still there—it still surprised her that frowning made his dimples deeper. “Not sure I want to be reminded of Ireland every day of my life,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly fun and games, you know, in those days.” He seldom talked about his boyhood in Belfast.

  “You must have some good memories of food, though, growing up,” Viv ventured, hoping to bring him back from whatever he was seeing.

  “Baked beans on toast for tea every night?” Fergus countered, focusing on her, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice now.

  “What about Belfast? There must have been something good in the restaurant there. It held a Michelin star for years.” She knew he’d started as a kitchen boy in the best restaurant in Belfast, before he moved to London.

  “Family meal,” Fergus said, grinning now. “I didn’t care what it was as long as there was plenty of it. Growing boy.” He studied her. “You’re not going to give this up, are you, darlin’?”

  Viv shrugged, pressing her lips down on a smile and suspecting that just made her look prissy.

  “I can see it now. You’ll give me no peace, woman. We’ll start with one thing, and we’ll see where that takes us. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Viv did her best to sound casual, then ran into the staff toilet and did a fist pump. It was going to be brilliant. She knew it.

  The weeks flew by. They tested recipes at night, after service, staggering into work hollow-eyed in the mornings. They worked all day in the kitchen on Sundays, when the restaurant was closed.

  They made Caesar salad with Cashel Blue cheese. They made Irish lobster confit in Kerrygold butter. They made black pudding the way Fergus remembered it from his childhood, and lamb sausages so delicate they almost melted in your mouth. Everything they put on the menu got raves.

  The leggy models grew few and far between, as Fergus had no time to accommodate them. Viv would never have admitted to jealousy, although she did allow herself to think that in spite of the workload, Fergus seemed healthier. There’d been no more episodes like the night he’d walked out in the middle of service, although she suspected he was still doing coke on the nights he managed to go out with the boys.

  When they’d refined a new recipe enough to put it on the menu, they’d repair to the little flat Fergus was renting off Old Church Street, not far from the restaurant. There, they pored over cookery books and scribbled endless notes on scraps of paper.

  It was a Sunday night, and after working all day in the kitchen, trying to perfect a foie gras and apple stuffed chicken, they’d walked up to the King’s Road in the warm summer evening and bought fish and chips to carry back to the flat. Fergus filled her kitchen tumbler with a second glass of expensive white Burgundy and raised his own glass in a toast.

  “Have I told you lately that you’re brilliant?” he said, plopping down on the tattered sofa beside her as he crumpled his empty chips paper. Fergus might like his designer clothes and handmade shoes, but he cared nothing about decor and the flat looked as if it had been furnished from a charity shop. Which it had. The thought made Viv giggle. “That’s funny?” Fergus asked, giving her a look of mock offense.

  “No,” Viv said hastily, eating a last chip. “I was just thinking we should do pork belly. Maybe with parsnips.”

  “Peasant food. Poor Irish peasant food,” Fergus said, but without heat.

  “Uh-huh,” she agreed. “Good peasant food, though. And cheap is good for the balance sheet.”

  They sat, tired feet propped on the onion-crate coffee table, sipping their wine in companionable silence, both in the Sunday jeans and T-shirts they’d worn under their whites. Viv felt her breathing take on the rhythm of his. They’d worked side by side for months, touching, bumping, synchronized in the intimate dance of the kitchen. He had never flirted with her, other than his occasional lapse into broad Irish teasing when something was going particularly well. Although there were times she’d caught him looking at her intently, his brow furrowed, as if something about her puzzled him.

  Her eyes drifted closed. “Citrus-smoked salmon,” she murmured. “With avocado crème fraîche.”

  “They don’t have avocados in Ireland, darlin’.”

  “I never meant we should put ourselves in a box,” Viv said, trying to blink herself awake. “No need to be rigid about the Irish thing.”

  “No?” Fergus took the tilting wineglass from her hand and set it on the crate. “Woman, do you never think about anything but food?”

  “Sometimes.” She was suddenly aware of the warmth of his thigh against hers, but she felt as if she were mired in treacle, powerless to move.

  “Good.” Fergus reached over and touched her chin, tilting her face up so that he could meet her eyes. “Come to bed,” he said, and there was no hint of Irish brogue, and no laughter now in his voice.

>   She went, as if her life had never held any other possibility, and when she kissed his scarred fingers, they tasted of vinegar and salt.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As soon as Bea and Grace had left the room, Gemma went to Kit. “What happened?” she asked quietly, moving him away from the others.

  “I don’t know. She seemed okay with what you said—I told her you’d invited her to lunch and that the kids would like to meet Bella. But we had to walk back through the center of the village and she saw something. Maybe it was the closed sign still out in front of the pub. Then she started yelling at me and ran straight across the road. I couldn’t stop her.”

  “I know, love. Thank you for trying.” Gemma gave his shoulders a squeeze, then bent to stroke the dog’s silky head. “I’m sure Grace will calm down. But in the meantime, what are we going to do with this lovely girl?”

  “I don’t want to give her back to Grace.”

  Gemma looked up, surprised. “Why ever not?”

  “Grace isn’t responsible. She’s a baby. She doesn’t understand that what’s good for the dog comes first, not what she wants.”

  What exactly had Grace done? Gemma wondered. But before she could ask, her mobile vibrated in her pocket. When she saw that it was Melody, she realized she hadn’t even had a chance to ask Kincaid what on earth he’d done with the children. “Just hang on to Bella for a bit,” she told Kit. “We’ll work something out. I’ve got to get this.”

  She stepped into the lounge bar and answered the call. “Melody, are the kids okay?”

  “That depends on whether you call playing croquet with Doug ‘okay,’” said Melody. “But other than that, they’re fine.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Gemma puffed out a breath of relief. “I didn’t mean for you to be landed as a babysitter. I left them with Duncan. He’s here at the pub now with DI Booth, but I haven’t had a chance to ask him what happened.”

  “Doug says Booth got a heads-up from the pathologist and picked Duncan up on the way to the scene. I came back to find Doug and both kids glued to Frozen and made them go outside.”

  “Where were you, anyway?” Gemma asked.

  “Having an interesting visit with Joe.”

  “The gardener?”

  “One and the same. I’ll tell you about it later. Listen, boss, Dougie did actually make himself useful this morning, other than child minding—which was probably good for his constitution. He did some research on Fergus O’Reilly.”

  As Melody started telling her what Doug had learned, Gemma said, “Hang on,” and looked round for something to write on. Yesterday’s newspapers were still on the reading shelf by the bar, but there was no pen. Ducking behind the bar, she seized on an order pad and a pencil and began making notes. “Colm Finlay?” she repeated, and double-checked the spelling. She took down the name of the deceased ex-wife, and the approximate dates of Fergus’s different restaurant ventures. “So Fergus was in bad shape financially?” she said, tapping the pencil on the pad.

  “Certainly looks that way. What’s going on with the bartender?”

  Gemma stepped into the empty dining room on the other side of the lounge. “All I know is that Booth and the pathologist don’t think the hit-and-run was an accident.” Frowning, she added, “Melody, can you and Doug manage the kids just a bit longer? And please apologize to your mum and dad if we don’t make lunch? I’ll ring you back in just a few.”

  Ringing off, she crossed the lounge again and stood in the doorway of the smaller dining room. Kit, the dog at his side, had joined the chefs, who seemed to be arguing. Viv was shaking her head as Ibby spoke to her urgently. Kincaid was huddled with Booth, discussing something Booth had pulled up on his phone. Watching her husband, she noticed how drawn his face had become over the last two days. There were hollows under his eyes and the lines between his nose and mouth seemed etched more deeply. He was still cradling his right hand and wincing when he moved. Could she be certain that he’d see the doctor again tomorrow if she left this afternoon?

  She was worried about Viv Holland, but it was concern for Kincaid that tipped the balance. Crossing the room, she touched him gently on the arm and whispered, “Need a word.” When he’d excused himself to Booth, she led him back into the empty lounge and urged him to sit down with her at the table by the cold hearth.

  “I don’t think we can just leave this,” she said quietly. “Not that I don’t think DI Booth can do a good job, but there’s a lot going on here that he may not have access to. And I think Viv Holland needs some serious support. I want to stay on at least another day. We can all go back to London together, tomorrow or the next day.”

  Kincaid frowned. “What about the kids? They have to be back in school tomorrow. And work? I’ve let my team know I’ll be held up, dealing with the car, but you’re due back at Brixton in the morning.”

  “I’ll ring the kids’ schools first thing and get them excused. I don’t think the boys have anything they can’t make up. And you know I’ve got leave due—I worked straight through the last two weekends because other people were out.”

  Kincaid nodded, and she thought he looked relieved not to be left on his own. “Won’t we be making a nuisance of ourselves with Ivan and Addie?”

  “I’ll speak to Addie as soon as I get back up to the house. She said they were here until midweek and we were welcome to stay as long as we needed.” Leaning closer, Gemma said, “So tell me about the hit-and-run.”

  “No visible skid marks. Which doesn’t rule out an accident, but the pathologist thinks someone hit him over the head once he was down.”

  “Oh, bugger,” whispered Gemma. She considered this for a moment. “I don’t think it can possibly be coincidence, the deaths of Nell Greene and Fergus O’Reilly, then this. And it all starts with O’Reilly. What was he really doing here? Why was he here three weeks ago? If Viv spent years hiding from him, which is certainly what it looks like, why? Was he violent?” She relayed what Melody had told her about O’Reilly’s restaurants. “I’d start with the London address you and Booth got from the hotel here. And the name Doug found of his former partner in London.”

  “Someone will have to follow up on those leads,” Kincaid agreed. “But Booth will have to liaise with the Met and that may take some time.”

  “I have an idea,” Gemma said, and smiled for the first time since Viv had called Beck House.

  Seeing that Doug and the kids were still occupied with their croquet game, which looked as though it was becoming a bit Alice-esque, Melody went back into the house.

  She found Addie in the kitchen, arranging sliced ham and tomatoes on a platter. “I just spoke to Gemma,” Melody told her. “She and Duncan are still at the Lamb. She said to apologize if they didn’t make it back for lunch.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Addie said. “I’m just putting out some ham for sandwiches. There will be plenty left for them whenever they get back. Your dad told me about the bartender.” She shook her head. “What a shame. Poor Viv.”

  “It’s worse than that. Gemma says they don’t think it was an accident.”

  Addie stopped, hands arrested over the ham. “Oh, no. That’s dreadful. Surely, they’re wrong.”

  “I don’t get the impression that DI Booth makes a habit of being wrong.” Melody helped herself to a slice of tomato—delicious, and undoubtedly from their garden.

  “No.” Addie went back to her task, adding farmhouse bread to the platter. “I’d agree with you on that. But I can’t imagine that anyone would want to hurt poor Jack Doyle. Such a nice man. This will be horrible for Viv and Bea. I must see what I can do for them.”

  “It sounds like a zoo at the moment, with Gemma and Duncan at the pub as well as DI Booth. I’d go down myself except I promised Gemma I’d look after Toby and Charlotte.” Melody leaned back against the work top. “Mum, what do you know about Joe?”

  Addie looked up, surprised. “Joe? Why do you want to know?”

  “We were just chatting a bit ago
. I was curious why a good-looking young guy would want to live like a monk.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that.” The corner of Addie’s mouth turned up. “He does go down to the pub as well as into town, regularly, and there have been quite a few times when I’ve seen him coming back early in the morning. Where he chooses to spend the night is certainly none of my business—although I do like having him here on the property when we’re in London.”

  “He wanted to know what I knew about Viv and Fergus O’Reilly, but then he didn’t want me to tell Viv he’d asked. I just thought it was odd.”

  “Oh.” Addie considered this. “Well, as far as I know, they’re just friends. Of course he would be concerned. Roz,” she called out, “has Joe spoken to you about Viv?”

  “I didn’t realize Roz was here,” said Melody.

  “She was just finishing up some correspondence that needed to be done by tomorrow. We got a bit behind, with the luncheon.”

  A moment later, Roz Dunning came in from the hall. “Did you call me, Addie? I was just on my way out.” She added, “Oh, hi, Melody. I thought you were out in the garden with your friend. He seems to be getting on famously with the little ones.”

  “It’s not important,” said Addie. “Don’t let us keep you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure. Bye now.” Roz gave them a little wave and a moment later they heard the front door open and close.

  “I do hope my luncheon idea wasn’t responsible for bringing O’Reilly here,” said Addie, looking down at her finished platter with an unexpected expression of regret. “If he hadn’t come, neither he nor Nell might have died. And now this, with Jack Doyle . . .”

  “Mum.” Melody put her arm round her mother’s slender shoulders. The silk of Addie’s blouse felt cool under her fingers. “Whatever happened to Nell and Fergus O’Reilly, it was not your fault. Now, what about these sandwiches?”

  “Right.” Addie smiled, but Melody wasn’t entirely convinced. “If you’ll fetch Doug and the children,” Addie said, “I’ll just tell your father. He’s been on the phone all morning trying to find a good car for Duncan.” She looked at Melody. “If Duncan had been hurt very badly—or died—I don’t know how I would—”