A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  “Nevertheless, Ms. Holland, I’ll need to ask you some ques—”

  Booth broke off as tires squealed on the car park tarmac, then a vehicle flashed by, visible for only an instant through the courtyard archway. A car door slammed, and Ibby came charging through the arch. Without the cheerful bandanna tied over his hair, he looked older, and far more menacing. Kincaid tensed, but Ibby came to a stop a few feet from them, his hands on his hips.

  “Who the hell has been messing with my truck?” he said, glaring at them.

  “What are you talking about?” Booth asked. “What truck?”

  “My four-by-four. I was going to run into town to buy some”—Ibby broke off, shooting a guilty glance at Viv— “I mean I had an errand to do. But my seat and my mirrors are off. I hate anyone—”

  “You never said you had a four-by-four,” broke in Booth.

  “You never asked. I said I didn’t drink-drive, not that I didn’t drive.”

  That much was true, Kincaid remembered. And he knew Booth had checked Ibby’s and Angelica’s alibis for Saturday night—they were both confirmed to have been at a pub lock-in from eleven o’clock until two in Moreton-on-Marsh. “When did you last drive?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Last week. I rode with Angie on the Saturday and yesterday morning—as you bloody well know. And I hadn’t needed to go anywhere until just now.”

  With a scowl, Booth strode across the courtyard and through the arch, the rest of them following. A battered and muddy red Toyota RAV4 stood alone and slightly askew in the car park. “This is it?”

  “I didn’t come in a bloody pumpkin.”

  Booth walked round it and, squatting, examined the front fender. The others followed and peered over his shoulder. “It’s about the right height. And it’s pretty dinged up, but I can’t tell if the damage is old or new.”

  “What do you mean, dinged up?” Sounding even more incensed, Ibby pushed through the group to stand beside him.

  “Look, here, just left of center. There’s a crack in the grill.”

  “That wasn’t there. I’m sure that wasn’t there. What the hell is going—”

  Booth stood. “Who else has access to your car?”

  “What?” Ibby stared at him. “Well, Bea, of course, but I thought—”

  “What do you mean, of course?”

  Ibby seemed just as baffled. “Because I lodge in her house. Just at the top of the village. You took our details. You must know—”

  “Wait. Just wait a minute.” Viv slipped past Ibby to stand in front of Booth. “Are you saying that it might have been Ibby’s car that hit Jack? Is that what you’re talking about? Ibby wasn’t even here when Jack was run down!”

  “We know that, Miss Holland.” Booth sounded as if his patience was strained. “But Mr. Azoulay here seems to think that someone else has driven his car. And his car fits the profile of the vehicle involved in Jack Doyle’s death.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. That means Bea— You can’t think Bea had anything to do with— Someone must have stolen Ibby’s keys—”

  “They were right where I normally keep them,” protested Ibby. “But someone drove my car. I’m not imagining it. Everything is just a bit off-kilter. Not to mention, the seat lever is jammed, and when I went to take a look at it, my bloody torch was missing.”

  Kincaid heard a quick indrawn breath from Gemma. The blow to Jack Doyle’s head was knowledge the detectives had kept to themselves. A torch would have made a handy and effective blunt instrument.

  “You kept it in your car?” asked Booth.

  “Well, yeah, in the glove compartment. Where else would I keep it? Look, this is bonkers. Bea’s never driven my car—why would she do that?”

  “Because,” Kincaid said slowly, thinking it through, “if you had the idea to run someone down, it would be wise not to do it in your own vehicle. Especially in a smaller car that might be less effective and sustain more damage. And just say it was a last-minute decision, and there was another vehicle, readily available, but not likely to be associated with you.”

  They all stared at him. “But why?” whispered Viv. “I don’t believe it. Why would Bea do such a thing?”

  “Because Jack Doyle knew something about what happened to Fergus O’Reilly—something that would have proved dangerous for him to share,” Gemma said with sudden certainty. “Jack was not himself that night—you told me that, Viv. He was upset. He was drinking, which was unusual. You thought it was because he was grieving for Nell. But what if it was more than that? What if he’d seen something, something that only had significance when he learned that Fergus might have been poisoned? Who besides Jack would have served Fergus in the bar that night?”

  Frowning, Gemma fished in her jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled note and smoothing it with her fingers. “I needed to write something down yesterday. I grabbed an order pad from the bar, but first I tore off the top page.” She held it up. Scrawled across the sheet was the word COFFEE followed by a question mark.

  “That’s Jack’s writing,” said Viv, with obvious reluctance.

  “Wasn’t Fergus drinking coffee?”

  “Yes, but—” Viv bit at her fingernail, then said, “Okay. Bea was helping Jack in the bar. You think Jack saw her put something in Fergus’s coffee?”

  Glancing at Booth, Kincaid guessed they were thinking the same thing. Bea Abbott’s father was a doctor with a reputation for being a bit free with his prescription pad. What might Bea have had access to?

  “But even if she did,” Viv went on, “why? Why would she do something like that?”

  “You told her about the job offer. Who had the most to lose if you changed your mind and accepted Fergus’s offer?” asked Gemma.

  “But I wouldn’t have. And she didn’t know he was Grace’s—”

  “Viv,” broke in Ibby, her name a plea. “I told her about Fergus and Grace. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was so pissed off when he showed up that afternoon. He was chatting Grace up in the courtyard, making her laugh, wearing that stupid hat like he was freaking Gandalf or something. Bea saw them together, too.”

  A sudden gust of wind swirled round the car park, raising little eddies of fallen leaves. Just as Kincaid looked up and realized that heavy clouds were massing in the western sky, Gemma said, alarm in her voice, “Where is Bea? She said she was going to the bank ages ago.”

  “Oh my God.” Viv gripped Gemma’s arm. “Grace. Grace should be home from school by now. Where the hell is she?”

  “Right here is fine, Mrs. Johnson.” Grace bared her teeth in a big fake smile as she got out of the car in front of St. Mary’s Church. “I can walk across the road,” she said, adding under her breath as Mrs. Johnson waved and drove off, “I’m not two, you know.” She could even walk home from school if her mum would let her, along the river path. It was only a couple of miles. She knew the way, but of course her mum said she was too young and what if it was muddy or something stupid like that.

  Usually Bea alternated picking her and Alesha up from school with Mrs. Johnson, because her mum, of course, was always too busy. Grace wished it had been Bea today, but then Bea had been short with her that morning, so maybe it was just as well.

  Just thinking about going home gave Grace a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Everybody was whispering round her, like she didn’t know there was something weird about Jack being hit by the car. She couldn’t bear to go in the bar because it made her think about him.

  And she really couldn’t bear to think about Fergus. She didn’t want to believe he was dead. Maybe he’d just gone away and her mum was only telling her that because she didn’t want them to be together. He’d been fine on Friday—he’d whispered to her that he was going to make her mum see sense and that they would all go to London to live.

  Maybe her mum had made him go away. Maybe Fergus would come back and take her to London and it would be just the two of them.

  But that thought made her feel funn
y, too. As much as she hated her mum, she didn’t want to think that something bad might happen to her, like what had happened to Kit’s mum. Or to Nell.

  She shivered. Alesha said that meant someone was walking over your grave, but that was stupid. She was just cold, that was all. The sky had gone a weird sort of muddy purple and the rising wind tugged at her hair and rustled in the leaves of the trees in the churchyard. A storm was coming.

  She wondered if Mark had left Bella out in the farmyard. Bella didn’t like storms. Would she be scared if it thundered? Coming to a sudden decision, Grace slipped her backpack over the churchyard wall. Nobody would steal it from out of the churchyard, and she wouldn’t be gone long. And it wasn’t like her mum would notice if she didn’t come home right on time.

  It occurred to her too late that Mark might tell her mum that she’d come without permission. They were always talking and sometimes she thought that Mark actually liked her mum in that way, which was gross. But Bea said not to be silly, that her mum couldn’t manage things as it was and she certainly had no business having a relationship. Besides, her mum had to have loved Fergus, hadn’t she, if Fergus was her dad?

  Well, she would just check on the dogs, in case Mark wasn’t at home. The farmhouse door was always left off the latch, and she could just put the dogs inside. Carefully, she opened and closed the gate, aware of the too-loud sound of her trainers crunching on the leaves that lay like a gold blanket over the drive. But there was no sound from the dogs.

  She walked on. When she came out into the open field, she saw that the sky to the west was almost black and it had grown twilight dark. There was still no sign of the dogs. But there was Mark’s Land Rover, in the yard, so he must be inside with them. The back was down on the trailer and all the hay was gone.

  Grace was about to turn back to the gate when she saw there was another car pulled behind Mark’s, invisible until she’d turned the curve in the drive. It was Bea’s little Fiat. What was she doing here? Bea didn’t even like Mark.

  Curious, Grace crept closer, afraid that the dogs would sense her, even from inside the house. When the wind dropped, she heard voices coming from the barn. Tiptoeing now, she crossed the farmyard, keeping out of sight of the door. She knew there was a crack where the frame of the door didn’t quite fit the old wall of the barn, and she thought she could peek through it.

  One voice grew louder. Mark’s. “I’m sick and tired of you interfering in Viv’s business, Bea.”

  Grace edged closer until she could put her eye to the gap. Mark and Bea were facing each other. Mark had been stacking hay bales and his face was red.

  “I’m only saying what’s best for Viv and for the child,” Bea said, sounding bossy and just as cross. “I saw you today with Viv, carrying on. What do you think that would do to—”

  “For Christ’s sake. We were not carrying on. And the child is nearly twelve and needs to grow up.”

  Grace felt a little flush of pleasure at the nearly twelve. But then Mark said, “And it’s about time she had a man in her life. You’re warping that child, Bea. Viv is the only one who can’t see it. Even Jack thought so, and he had a soft spot for you.”

  “Jack? What did Jack tell you?” There was something in Bea’s voice that Grace didn’t like. She almost bolted, but she was afraid if she moved they would hear her and then Bea would be really, really cross.

  Mark shoved the hay fork into a bale and left it sticking there. “He saw you with Grace’s mobile on Friday afternoon. She’d left her backpack in the bar. You were spying on the kid.”

  “So what if I was?” Bea said, and Grace frowned in surprise, wondering if she’d heard wrong. “It was for her own good,” Bea went on. “She should learn not to put in her pass code where people can see it. She was texting O’Reilly— Did you know that? He told her he was her father.”

  Mark’s face went blank. “What?”

  “Oh, Viv didn’t tell you that either, did she?” Bea said, in a nasty, baiting voice.

  But Mark shook his head. “Don’t try that shit on with me, Bea. You’re not turning me against Viv. She did tell me. But she didn’t know that Grace knew.”

  “O’Reilly told Grace her mum was going to take the job in London and they would all play happy families together.” Bea snorted. “And Grace believed him, the little ninny. He needed Viv for his restaurant, and Grace was a way of getting to her.”

  Grace clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself crying out. It couldn’t be true. Fergus had wanted to be her dad, she knew he had. Now she just wanted to go home, but the stunned look on Mark’s face kept her rooted to the spot.

  “You believed it, didn’t you?” he told Bea. “You thought Viv would really take the job. And where would that have left you? Out in the cold?” Mark took a step towards Bea and Grace shrank back.

  Bea laughed but there was nothing funny about the sound. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “You were there, in the bar that night,” Mark said slowly. “You must have been panicked after you saw those texts on Grace’s mobile. Maybe you decided to take matters into your own hands. Did you give him something, Bea?” He must have seen an answer in Bea’s face because his eyes went wide. “You did, didn’t you?” He sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t quite believed it until then. “What about Jack? Did he see you do it?”

  “Nobody will believe you, you know.” Bea’s quiet voice was somehow scarier than her shouty one.

  But Mark just shrugged, and Grace suddenly wanted to call out to him, but she didn’t. “I’m going to tell the police what I think, regardless. And I’m going to tell Viv. You can deal with the consequences.” Turning his back, he reached for his hay fork.

  Quick as lightning, Bea grabbed the manure shovel that was propped against one of the sheep pens. She swung it high with both hands, like a cartoon warrior, cracking it against the back of Mark’s head with a sound like a ripe melon hitting the tarmac.

  Grace doubled over, stifling a moan of terror.

  When she could bring herself to look again, Mark was in a heap on the ground, and Bea was stooping over the emergency lantern Mark used when there was a power outage. Bea tipped it over, spilling the white petrol into the loose straw on the floor of the barn. Her back was to Grace now, but when Grace heard the flicking sound she knew instantly what it was—the little butane lighter Bea used to light the table candles in the pub. A wisp of smoke rose from the floor.

  Grace could just make out Mark’s body slumped against the hay bale. He wasn’t moving.

  She had to get help.

  Hardly daring to breathe, she backed up a step, then another one. Dark clouds now blotted out the sky, leaving the farmyard in a weird gray-green twilight. Grace turned, but she’d misjudged her step and she bumped against the empty trailer, making the tow bar clank. Inside the house, the dogs began to bark.

  “Who’s there?” called Bea.

  Grace froze, praying that Bea wouldn’t come to see. But a moment later, Bea appeared in the barn door, peering out.

  “Who’s there?” she said again, a little uncertainly. Then she caught sight of Grace on the far side of the trailer. Taking a step farther into the yard, she called, “Grace! What are you doing here?”

  Grace turned and ran.

  Gemma and the others followed Viv as she looked in the cottage, then in the restaurant. As they were searching, Angelica arrived with the two evening servers, and then a couple of early customers came into the bar. Ibby quickly began making drinks while the rest of them crowded into the kitchen after Viv, who grabbed the mobile she’d left on the work top.

  “I think she’s overreacting,” Gemma heard Doug mutter to Melody as Viv dialed Grace’s mobile number. But Gemma knew that if it were any of her children, she’d be panicked, too.

  “She’s not answering,” said Viv, turning a stricken face to them. “She keeps her phone switched off at school, but she’s supposed to turn it on again as soon as school’s out.”

  “Have you tried the fr
iend who was giving her a lift home?” asked Gemma. “Maybe she was delayed.”

  Scrolling through her contacts, Viv rang another number, while Angelica, filling orders, tried to maneuver round all the bodies taking up the kitchen work space. After a moment’s murmured conversation, Viv rang off, shaking her head. “She dropped her off an hour ago,” she said, her voice rising.

  Gemma glanced out the kitchen door. Dusk had come early with the heavy clouds, and out in the courtyard she’d felt the prickle that presaged a thunderstorm.

  “Where exactly did your friend drop her off?” asked Booth. “There are enough of us to organize a search. Where else do you think she might go?”

  “Lizzy Johnson says she dropped her right in front of the pub, on the churchyard side of the road. I don’t know where she might go. She doesn’t have any friends in the village. Before, she might have gone to Nell’s, but now . . .”

  “We’ll start at the last-seen point and work outwards, then. Ms. Holland, you had better stay here in case she comes back. Keep trying to ring her.”

  “But what about Bea? What if she comes back?”

  “I’ll stay here with Viv,” Kincaid said.

  Gemma didn’t like that idea at all. “I don’t think you ought—” she’d begun, when Viv’s mobile rang.

  “It’s Grace!”

  “Put her on speaker,” Gemma said hurriedly as Viv swiped the screen.

  Then Grace’s terrified whisper filled the kitchen. “Mummy, she hurt Mark. You have to do something. She set the barn on fire!”

  “Grace, where are you? Who hurt Mark?”

  “Mummy, I’m scared. She saw me. I have to—” There was a gasp, then a thud, then silence.

  “Grace!” Viv shouted, but the call had failed. When she tried to ring back, the mobile went unanswered. Turning to them, Viv said, “She has to be at Mark’s farm. I’m going—”

  Booth interrupted her. “You and Gemma take the van. Duncan and I will come in my car.” He turned to Doug and Melody. “You two, call it in, all services. Then stay here. Deal with Bea Abbott if she shows up.”