Leave The Grave Green

by Deborah Crombie

  “But Con kept betting.”

  “Of course we had rows. ‘A harmless pastime’ he called it. One he deserved after the pressures at work. But it was only toward the end that it became really frightening.”

  “Did you bail him out, pay his debts?”

  Julia looked away from him, resting her chin on her hand. “For a long time, yes. It was my reputation, too, after all.”

  “So this row you had last Thursday was old business, in a sense?”

  She managed a small smile. “Put that way, yes, I suppose it was. It’s so frustrating when you hear yourself saying things you’ve said a hundred times before-you know it’s useless but you can’t seem to stop.”

  “Did he say anything different when he left you? Anything that varied from the normal pattern of these arguments?”

  “No, not that I can remember.”

  And yet he had gone straight to Kenneth. Had he meant to borrow the money for the mortgage? “Did he say anything to you about going to London that afternoon, to the Coliseum?”

  Julia lifted her head from her hand, her dark eyes widening in surprise. “London? No. No, I’m sure he didn’t. Why should he have gone to the Coli? He’d just seen Mummy and Daddy.”

  The childish diminutives sounded odd on her lips, and she seemed suddenly young and very vulnerable. “I’d hoped you might tell me,” he said softly. “Did you ever hear Connor mention someone called Hicks? Kenneth Hicks?” He watched her carefully, but she only shook her head, looking genuinely puzzled.

  “No. Why? Is he a friend?”

  “He works for a local bookie, does some collecting for him, among other things. He’s also a nasty piece of work, and Connor paid him large amounts of money on a regular basis. That’s why I came back, to have another look at Connor’s checkbook.”

  “I never thought of looking through Con’s things,” Julia said slowly. “I’ve not even been in the study.” She dropped her head in both hands and said through her splayed fingers, “I suppose I was putting off the inevitable.” After a moment she raised her head and looked at him, her lips twisting with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado. “I did find some woman’s things in the bedroom and in the bath. I’ve packed them up in a box-I didn’t know what else to do with them.”

  So Sharon had not come back. “Give them to me. I think I can return them to their rightful owner.” Although he read the question in her expression, she didn’t speak, and they regarded one another in silence. He sat near enough to touch her, and the desire came to him to raise his hand and lay the backs of his fingers against the hollow of her cheek.

  Instead, he said gently, “He was seeing someone, you know. A quite steady arrangement, from the sound of it. She has a four-year-old daughter, and Con told her that he would marry her and look after them both, just as soon as you’d let him have a divorce.”

  For a long moment Julia’s face went blank, wiped as clean of expression as a mannequin’s, then she gave a strangled laugh. “Oh, poor Con,” she said. “The poor, silly bastard.”

  For the first time since Kincaid had met her, he saw her eyes film with tears.

  Gemma finished her second packet of peanuts and licked the salt from the tips of her fingers. Looking up, she saw Tony watching her and smiled a little shamefacedly. “Starving,” she said by way of apology.

  “Let me have the kitchen fix you something.” Tony seemed to have adopted her as his own personal responsibility and was even more solicitous than usual. “We’ve got lovely pork chops tonight, and a vegetarian lasagna.”

  Surreptitiously, Gemma glanced at her watch beneath the level of the bar. “I’ll wait a bit longer. Thanks, Tony.” After leaving Dame Caroline, she had driven to the pub and carried her case upstairs. Suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion, she’d stretched out on top of the duvet in her good clothes and slept deeply and dreamlessly for an hour. She’d awakened feeling cold and a little stiff, but refreshed. After a good wash and brush, she’d changed into her favorite jeans and sweater and gone down to wait for Kincaid.

  Tony, polishing glasses at the far end of the bar, still kept an anxious eye on the level of cider in her glass. She had almost decided to let him refill it when he looked toward the door and said, “There’s your boss now, love.”

  Kincaid slid onto the stool beside her. “Has Tony been plying you with drink?” He went on without waiting for an answer, “Good, because I’m going to ply you with food. Sharon Doyle told me that Connor favored the Red Lion in Wargrave-only place the food was up to his standards. I think we should suss it out for ourselves.”

  “Will you be having a drink before you go, Mr. Kincaid?” asked Tony.

  Kincaid looked at Gemma. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Then we had better go straight on, Tony.”

  Tony flapped his dishcloth at them. “Cheerio. Though if you don’t mind my saying so,” he added in a slightly affronted tone, “their food’s no better than ours.”

  Having lavished reassurances upon Tony, they escaped to the car and drove to Wargrave in silence.

  Only when they had settled at a table in the cheerful atmosphere of the Red Lion did Gemma say, “Tony said you had a message from Sergeant Makepeace. What did he want? Where have you been?”

  Kincaid, intent on his menu, said, “Let’s order first. Then I’ll tell you. See anything you fancy? Gratin of haddock and smoked salmon? Prawns in garlic sauce? Chicken breast with red and green peppercorns?” He looked up at her, grinning, and she thought his eyes looked unusually bright. “Con had it right-no shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash to be found here.”

  “Are you sure our expenses will run to this?” Gemma asked.

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” he said with exaggerated authority. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Unconvinced, Gemma gave him a doubtful glance, but said, “I’ll have the chicken, then. And the tomato and basil soup for starters.”

  “Going the whole hog?”

  “Pudding, too, if I can find room for it.” She closed her menu and propped her chin on her hands. He had seated her with her back to the crackling fire and the warmth began to penetrate her sweater. “I feel I deserve it.”

  The barman came round to them, his pad ready. He had a dishcloth tucked into his belt, dark, curling hair restrained in a pony-tail, and an engaging smile. “What will you have?”

  Kincaid ordered the gratin for himself and added a bottle of American Fume Blanc. When they had finished the young man said, “Right, then. I’ll just turn this in to the kitchen.” As he slipped back behind the bar, he added, “My name’s David, by the way. Just give me a shout if you need anything else.”

  Gemma and Kincaid looked at each other, brows raised, then she said, “Do you suppose the service is always this good, or is it just because it’s slow tonight?” She looked around the room. Only one other table was occupied-in the far corner a couple sat, heads bent close together.

  “I’ll bet he has a good memory for customers. After we eat, we’ll give it a go.”

  When David had returned and filled their glasses with chilled wine, Kincaid said, “Tell me.”

  Gemma related her interview with Tommy Godwin, omitting her rather inglorious arrival. “I’m not sure I buy the bit about his coming into the theater from the front and standing up at the back of the stalls. Doesn’t feel quite right.”

  Their starters came, and as Kincaid tucked into his pate, he said, “And what about Dame Caroline? Any joy there?”

  “It seems their lunch didn’t go quite as smoothly as they claimed at first. Connor excused himself to help with the washing up, but Plummy says he never came in the kitchen, and he left without saying good-bye to Gerald and Caroline.” She scraped the last bit of soup from the cup. “I think he must have gone upstairs to Julia.”

  “He did, and they had a nasty row.”

  Gemma felt her mouth drop open. She closed it with a snap, then said, “How could you possibly know that?”


  “Kenneth Hicks told me, then Julia herself.”

  “All right, guv,” Gemma said, exasperated. “You’ve got that cat-in-the-cream look. Give.”

  By the time he’d recounted his day, their main courses had come and they both ate quietly for a few minutes. “What I can’t understand,” he said as he finished a bite of fish and sipped his wine, “is how a yobbo like Kenneth Hicks managed to hook Connor so thoroughly.”

  “Money can be a powerful incentive.” Gemma deliberated between more braised leeks or more roasted potatoes, then took both. “Why did Julia lie about the row with Connor? It seems innocent enough.”

  Kincaid hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose she didn’t think it significant. It certainly wasn’t a new argument.”

  Fork halfway to her mouth, Gemma said hotly, “But this wasn’t a case of failing to mention something that might or might not have been significant. She deliberately lied. And she lied about leaving the gallery as well.” She returned her fork with its speared chicken to her plate, and leaned toward Kincaid. “It’s not right the way she’s behaved, refusing to take care of the funeral arrangements. What would she have done, let the county bury him?”

  “I doubt that very much.” Kincaid pushed his plate aside and leaned back a little in his chair.

  Although his tone had been mild enough, Gemma felt rebuked. Feeling a flush begin to stain her cheeks, she retrieved her fork, then set it down again as she realized she’d lost her appetite.

  Watching her, Kincaid said, “Finished already? What about that pudding?”

  “I don’t think I can possibly manage it.”

  “Drink your wine, then,” he said, topping up her glass, “and we’ll have a word with David.”

  Gemma bristled at this avuncular instruction, but before she could respond he caught the barman’s eye.

  “Ready for your sweets?” David said as he reached their table. “The chocolate roulade is heavenly-” As they both shook their heads he continued with hardly a break in stride, “No takers. Cheese, then? The cheese selection is quite good.”

  “A question or two, actually.” Kincaid had opened his wallet. First he showed David his warrant card, then a snapshot of Connor he had begged from Julia. “We understand this fellow was a regular customer of yours. Do you recognize him?”

  “Of course I do,” answered David, puzzled. “It’s Mr. Swann. What do you mean, ‘was’?”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” Kincaid said, using the standard formula. “We’re looking into the circumstances of his death.”

  “Mr. Swann-dead?” For a moment the young man looked so pale that Kincaid reached out and pulled up a chair from the next table.

  “Sit down,” said Kincaid. “The mob is not exactly queuing up for service at the bar.”

  “What?” David folded into the proffered chair as if legless. “Oh, I see what you mean.” He gave a wan attempt at a smile. “It’s just a bit of a shock, is all. Seems like just the other night he was here, and he was always so… larger-than-life. Vital.” Reaching out, he touched the surface of the photograph with a tentative fingertip.

  “Can you remember what night it was you saw him last?” Kincaid asked quietly, but Gemma could sense his concentrated attention.

  David drew his brows together, but said quickly enough, “My girlfriend, Kelly, was working late checkout at the Tesco, didn’t finish till half-past nine or thereabouts… Thursday. It must have been Thursday.” He glanced at them both, expecting approbation.

  Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes across the table and she saw the flash of victory, but he only said, “Good man. Do you remember what time he came in on Thursday?”

  “Late-ish. Must have been after eight.” Warming up to his tale, David continued, “Sometimes he came in by himself, but usually he was with people I thought must be clients of some sort. Not that I eavesdropped on purpose, mind you,” he added, looking a bit uncomfortable, “but when you’re waiting tables sometimes you can’t help but overhear, and they seemed to be talking business.”

  “And that night?” Gemma prompted.

  “I remember it particularly because it was different. He came in alone, and even then he didn’t seem his usual self. He was short with me, for one thing. ‘Something’s really got on his wick,’ I thought.” Remembering Gemma, he added, “Sorry, miss.”

  She smiled at him. “Don’t mind me.”

  “Mr. Swann, now, he could put it away with the best of them, but he was always jolly with it. Not like some.” David made a face and Gemma nodded sympathetically. As if that had reminded him of his other customers, he glanced at the table in the back, but its occupants were still too engrossed in one another to notice his lack of attention. “Then this other bloke came in, and they took a table for dinner.”

  “Did they know each other?” Kincaid asked.

  “What did-” Gemma interjected, but Kincaid stopped her with a quickly lifted hand.

  “Oh, I’m sure they must have done. Mr. Swann stood up as soon as the other bloke came in the door. They went straight to their table after that, so I didn’t hear what they said-custom was fairly good that night-but things seemed friendly enough at first.”

  “And then?” Kincaid said into the moment’s pause.

  David looked from one to the other, less comfortable now. “I guess you could say they had a heated discussion. Not a shouting match-they didn’t really raise their voices, but you could tell they were arguing. And Mr. Swann, well, he always enjoyed the food here, made a point to compliment the cook, that sort of thing.” He paused, as if making sure they fully understood the import of what he was about to say. “He didn’t even finish his dinner.”

  “Do you remember what he had?” Kincaid asked, and Gemma knew he was thinking of the still incomplete lab report on the contents of Connor’s stomach.

  “Steak. Washed down with a good part of a bottle of Burgundy.”

  Kincaid considered this, then asked, “What happened after that?”

  David shifted in his chair and scratched his nose. “They paid their bills-separately-and left.”

  “They left together?” Gemma asked, clarifying the point.

  Nodding, David said, “Still arguing, as far as I could tell.” He was fidgeting more obviously now, turning around in his chair to glance at the bar.

  Gemma looked at Kincaid, and receiving an almost imperceptible nod, said, “Just one more thing, David. The other man, what did he look like?”

  David’s smile lit his face. “Very elegant, nice dresser, if you know what I mean. Tall, thin, fairish-”he puckered his brow and thought for a moment-“in his fifties, I should think, but he’d kept himself well.”

  “Did he pay by credit card?” Kincaid asked hopefully.

  Shaking his head and looking genuinely regretful, David said, “Sorry. Cash.”

  Making an effort to keep the excitement out of her voice, Gemma congratulated him. “You’re very observant, David. We seldom get a description half as good.”

  “It’s the job,” he said, smiling. “You get in the habit. I put names with the faces when I can. People like to be recognized.” Pushing back his chair, he looked questioningly from one to the other. “All right if I clear up now?”

  Kincaid nodded and handed him a business card. “You can ring us if you think of anything else.”

  David had stood and deftly stacked their dirty dishes on his arm when he stopped and seemed to hesitate. “What happened to him? Mr. Swann. You never said.”

  “To tell you the truth, we’re not quite sure, but we are treating it as a suspicious death,” said Gemma. “His body was found in the Thames.”

  The plates rattled and David steadied them with his other hand. “Not along here, surely?”

  “No, at Hambleden Lock.” Gemma fancied she saw a shadow of relief cross the young man’s face, but put it down to the normal human tendency to want trouble kept off one’s own patch.

  David reached for another dish, balancing it with nonchalant ea
se. “When? When did it happen?”

  “His body was found early Friday morning,” Kincaid said, watching David with a pleasant expression that Gemma recognized as meaning his interest was fully engaged.

  “Friday morning?” David froze, and although Gemma couldn’t be sure in the flickering reflection from the fire, she thought his face paled. “You mean Thursday night…”

  The front door opened and a large and fairly well-heeled party came in, faces rosy with the cold. David looked from them to the couple in the back, who were finally showing signs of restiveness. “I’ll have to go. Sorry.” With a flash of an apologetic smile and a rattle of crockery, he hurried to the bar.

  Kincaid watched him for a moment, then shrugged and smiled at Gemma. “Nice lad. Might make a good copper. Has the memory for it.”

  “Listen.” Gemma leaned toward him, her voice urgent.

  At that moment the two rosy-faced couples, having ordered drinks at the bar, sat down at the next table. They smiled at Gemma and Kincaid in a neighborly fashion, then began a clearly audible conversation among themselves. “Here, David’s left us a bill,” said Kincaid. “Let’s settle up and be on our way.”

  Not until they had stepped out into the street again was Gemma able to hiss at him, “That was Tommy Godwin.” Seeing Kincaid’s blank expression, she said, “The man with Connor that night. I’m sure it was Tommy Godwin. That’s what I kept trying to tell you,” she added testily.

  They had stopped on the pavement just outside the pub and stood holding their coat collars up around their throats, a defense against the fog that had crept up from the river. “How can you be certain?”

  “I’m telling you, it had to be him.” She heard her voice rise in exasperation and made an attempt to level it. “You said yourself that David was observant. His description was too accurate for it to be anyone but Tommy. It’s beyond the bounds of probability.”

  “Okay, okay.” Kincaid held up a hand in mock surrender. “But what about the theater? You’ll have to recheck-”

  The pub door flew open and David almost catapulted into them. “Oh, sorry. I thought I might catch you. Look-” He stopped, as if his impetus had vanished. Still in shirtsleeves, he folded his arms across his torso and stamped his feet a little. “Look-I had no way of knowing, did I? I thought it was just a bit of argy-bargy. I’d have felt a right prat interfering…”