“Did you follow him?” Kincaid asked when she lapsed into silence.
“I didn’t know what to do. I’d started up the stairs when I heard him talking-he must have rung someone.” She looked at Kincaid and even in the dim reflected light he could see her distress. “He was laughing. That’s what I couldn’t understand. Why would he laugh when he’d hardly said boo to me?
“When he came downstairs again, he said, ‘I’m going out, Shar. Lock up when you leave.’ Well, I’d had enough by that time, I can tell you. I told him to lock his own bloody door-I wasn’t hanging about to be treated like a bloody tart, was I? I told him if he wanted to see me he could pick up the sodding phone and ring me, and I’d think about it if I hadn’t anything better to do.”
“What did Connor say to that?”
“’E just stood there, his face all blank, like he hadn’t heard a word I said.”
Kincaid had heard Sharon in full fury, and he thought Connor must have been very preoccupied indeed. “And did you? Leave, I mean?”
“Well, I had to, hadn’t I? What else was I to do?”
“The scene definitely called for a grand exit,” said Kincaid, smiling.
Sharon smiled back a little reluctantly. “I slammed the bloody door so hard I ripped my nail right off. Hurt like hell, too.”
“So you didn’t actually see him leave the flat?”
“No. I stood about for a minute. I guess I still hoped he’d come after me, say he was sorry. Silly cow,” she added bitterly.
“You weren’t silly at all. You had no way of explaining Con’s behavior-in your place I think I’d have done exactly the same.”
She took a moment to absorb this, then said haltingly, “Mr. Kincaid, do you know why Con said those things… why he treated me like that?”
Wishing he had some comfort to give her, he said, “No,” then added with more certainty than he felt, “but I’m going to find out. Come on, let’s get you inside. Your gran’ll have the police out after you.”
Her smile was as weak as his little joke, and manufactured simply to please him, he felt sure. As they reached the cottage door, he asked, “What time was it when you left Con, Sharon? Do you remember?”
She nodded at the massive tower behind them. “Church clock struck eleven just as I came round the Angel.”
After he left Sharon, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to Kincaid that he should continue down the hill and along the river to Julia’s flat. He would collect Sharon’s things while he was thinking of it, and while he was there he’d question Julia again about her movements after the gallery closed that night.
Or so said the rational, logical part of his mind. Some other part stood back and watched the machinations of the first, an amused and taunting spectator. Why didn’t he admit he hoped he might sit with her, watching the warm lamplight reflect from the shining curve of her hair? Or admit that he wanted to see again the way her lips curved up at the corners when she found something he said amusing? Or that his skin still remembered the touch of her fingers against his face?
“Bollocks!” Kincaid said aloud, banishing the spectator to the recesses of his mind. He needed to clear up a few points, that was all, and his interest in Julia Swann was purely professional.
The wind that earlier cleared the sky had died at sunset, leaving the evening still and hushed, waiting expectantly. Lights reflecting on the water’s surface made it look ice-solid, and as he passed the Angel pub and walked along the embankment, he felt the chill air hovering over the river like a cloud.
As he came opposite Trevor Simons’s gallery, he saw Simons come out the door. Hurriedly crossing the street, Kincaid found him still bent over the latch. He touched his arm. “Mr. Simons. Having a bit of trouble with your lock?”
Simons jumped, dropping the heavy key ring he’d held in his hand. “Christ, Superintendent, but you gave me a fright.” He stooped to retrieve the keys and added, “It does stick a bit, I’m afraid, but I’ve got it now.”
“On your way home?” Kincaid said pleasantly, wondering even as he asked if Simons’s itinerary included a visit to Julia. Now that she was reinstalled in the flat just down the road, they would have no more need of furtive meetings in the workshop behind the gallery.
Simons stood a little awkwardly, holding his keys in one hand and a portfolio in the other. “Yes, actually. Did you need to see me?”
“There were one or two things,” Kincaid answered, making a decision as he spoke. “Why don’t we go across the road and have a drink?”
“It won’t take more than half an hour?” Simons looked at his watch. “We’re going out for a meal tonight. My wife’s sent the children to friends-it’s more than my life’s worth to be late.”
Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “We’ll just nip across to the Angel. I promise we won’t be long.”
They found the pub busy, but it was a sedate crowd-made up, judged Kincaid, mostly of professional people having a quick drink before making their way home after work.
“Nice place,” Kincaid said as they settled comfortably at a table by one of the windows overlooking the river. “Cheers. I admit I’ve developed rather a taste for Brakspear’s Special.” Tasting his beer, he watched his companion curiously. Simons had sounded a bit embarrassed about his dinner engagement, yet it had the ring of truth. “Sounds as though you and your wife have quite a romantic evening planned,” Kincaid said, fishing.
Simons looked away, his earlier discomfort more evident. The silver in his thick brown hair caught the light as he ran a hand through it. “Well, Superintendent, you know what women are like. She’ll be very disappointed if I don’t participate with enthusiasm.”
A boat motored slowly under the Henley Bridge, its port and starboard lights gleaming steadily. Kincaid idly pushed his beer mat back and forth with one finger, then looked up at Simons. “Did you know that Julia’s moved back into her flat?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. She rang me yesterday.” Before Kincaid could respond, Simons said more forcefully, “Look, Superintendent. I took your advice the other day. I told my wife about… what happened with Julia.” Simons’s fine-boned face looked drawn with exhaustion, and as he sipped from his whiskey and water, his hand trembled slightly.
“And?” Kincaid said when he didn’t continue.
“She was shocked. And hurt, as you can imagine,” Simons said quietly. “I think that the damage won’t be easy to repair. We’ve had a good marriage, probably better than most. I should never have been so careless of it.”
“You sound as though you don’t mean to continue things with Julia,” Kincaid said, knowing it was none of his business, and that his investigation hardly justified crossing the boundary of good manners.
Simons shook his head. “I can’t. Not if I mean to mend things with my wife. I’ve told Julia.”
“How did she take it?”
“Oh, she’ll be all right.” Simons smiled with the same gentle, self-deprecating humor Kincaid had seen before. “I was never more than a passing fancy to Julia, I’m afraid. I’ve probably saved her the bother of having to say, ‘Sorry, old dear, but it was only a bit of a lark.’”
It occurred to Kincaid that Simons, like Sharon Doyle, was probably glad of a nonpartisan ear, and he pushed his advantage. “Were you in love with her?”
“I’m not sure ‘love’ and ‘Julia’ exist in the same vocabulary, Mr. Kincaid. I’ve been married almost twenty years-to me love means darned socks and ‘whose turn is it to take out the rubbish, darling?’” Grinning, he drank a little more of his whiskey. “It may not be exciting, but you know where you are-” He sobered suddenly. “Or at least you should, unless one of you behaves like an ass.
“I was infatuated with Julia, fascinated, entranced; but I’m not sure one could ever get close enough to love her.”
As much as Kincaid disliked the necessity, he dug in, his voice suddenly harsh. “Were you infatuated enough to lie for her? Are you sure she didn’t leave the gall
ery when the party finished that night? Did she tell you that she had to see someone? That she’d be back in an hour or two?”
The pleasant humor vanished from Trevor Simons’s face. He finished his whiskey and set his glass down deliberately, carefully, in the exact center of its mat. “She did not.
“I may be an adulterer, Superintendent, but I’m not a liar. And if you think Julia had anything to do with Connor’s death, I can tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. She was with me from the time we closed up the gallery until daybreak. And having burned my bridges, so to speak, by confessing to my wife, I’ll testify to that in court if I must.”
CHAPTER 13
Kincaid rang the bell and waited. He rang again, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot and whistling under his breath. No sound came from inside the flat, and he turned away, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment.
The sound of the door opening stopped him. When he turned back he found Julia looking at him silently, registering neither pleasure nor dismay at his presence. She lifted the wineglass she held in a mock salute. “Superintendent. Is this a social call? You can’t join me if you’re going to play the heavy.”
“My, my,” he said, taking in the faded red jersey she wore over black leggings, “an outbreak of color. Is this significant?”
“Sometimes one has to abandon one’s principles when one hasn’t done laundry,” she answered rather owlishly. “Do come in-what will you think of my manners? Of course,” she added as she stepped back into the sitting room, “it might be my concession to mourning.”
“A reverse statement?” Kincaid asked, following her into the kitchen.
“Something like that. I’ll get you a glass. The wine’s upstairs.” She opened a cupboard and stood up on her toes, stretching to reach a shelf. Kincaid noticed that she wore thick socks but no shoes, and her feet looked small and unprotected. “Con arranged everything in the kitchen to suit himself,” she said, snagging a glass. “And it seems whenever I want anything it’s always just out of reach.”
Kincaid felt as if he’d barged in on a party in progress. “Were you expecting someone? There’s no need for me to interrupt-I only wanted a quick word with you, and I thought I’d pick up Sharon Doyle’s things as well.”
Julia turned around and stood with her back against the counter, looking up at him, holding both glasses against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting a soul, Superintendent. There’s not a soul to expect.” She chuckled a little at her own humor. “Come on. We had graduated from ‘Superintendent,’ hadn’t we?” she added over her shoulder as she led him back through the sitting room. “I suppose I’m the one backsliding.”
She wasn’t more than a bit tipsy, Kincaid decided as he climbed the stairs after her. Her balance and coordination were still good, although she moved a little more carefully than usual. As they passed the first landing he glimpsed the tumbled, unmade bed through the bedroom’s open doorway, but the study door still stood tightly shut.
When they reached the studio he saw that the lamps were lit and the blinds drawn, and it seemed to him that the room had acquired another layer of Julia’s personality in the twenty-four hours since he’d seen it last. She had been working and a partially finished painting was pinned to the board on her worktable. Kincaid recognized the plant from the rambles of his Cheshire boyhood-speedwell, the gentian-blue flowers along the pathside that were said to “speed you well” upon your journey. He also remembered his dismay in discovering that its beauty could not be held captive-the delicate blooms wilted and died within minutes of picking.
The rest of the table’s surface held open botanical texts, crumpled papers and several used glasses. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, and very faintly of Julia’s perfume.
She padded across the Persian carpet and sank to the floor in front of the armchair, which she used as a backrest. Beside the chair were Julia’s ashtray, close to overflowing, and an ice bucket holding a bottle of white wine. She filled Kincaid’s glass. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Duncan. You can’t hold a funeral celebration standing up.”
Kincaid lowered himself to the floor and accepted his drink. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“With a bloody good Cap d’Antibes, too. Con would have liked a wake, don’t you think? He was all for Irish tradition.” Tasting what remained of her wine, she made a face. “Warm.” She refilled her glass, then lit a cigarette. “I’m going to cut down, I promise,” she said in anticipation of Kincaid’s protest, smiling.
“What are you doing, barricading yourself up here like this, Julia? The rest of the house doesn’t look like anyone’s been in it.” He examined her face, deciding that the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than they had been the day before. “Have you eaten anything?”
Shrugging, she said, “There were still some bits and pieces in the fridge. Con’s sort of bits, of course. I would have settled for bread and jam. I suppose I hadn’t realized,” she paused to draw on her cigarette, “that it would have become Con’s house. Not mine. Yesterday I spent most of the day cleaning, but it didn’t seem to make any difference-he’s everywhere.” She made a circular gesture with her head, indicating the studio. “Except here. If he ever came up here, he left no traces.”
“What makes you want to eradicate him so thoroughly?”
“I told you before, didn’t I?” She knitted her brow and gazed at him over the rim of her glass, as if she couldn’t quite remember. “Con was a first-class shit,” she said without heat. “A drinker, a gambler, a womanizer, a lout with a load of Irish blarney that he thought would get him anything he wanted-why would I want to be reminded of him?”
Kincaid raised a skeptical eyebrow and sipped his wine. “Can we attribute this to Con, too?” he asked, tasting its crisp delicacy against the roof of his mouth.
“He had good taste, and he was surprisingly adept at finding a bargain,” Julia admitted. “A legacy of his upbringing, I would imagine.”
Kincaid wondered if Connor’s attraction to Sharon Doyle stemmed from his upbringing as well-a spoiled only son of a doting mum might have considered devotion his due. He hoped that Con had also seen her value.
Uncannily echoing his thoughts, Julia said, “The mistress-what did you say she’s called?”
“Sharon. Sharon Doyle.”
Julia nodded, as if it fit an image in her mind. “Blond and a little plump, young, not very sophisticated?”
“Have you seen her?” Kincaid asked, surprised.
“Didn’t need to.” Julia’s smile was rueful. “I only imagined my antithesis,” she said, having a little difficulty with the consonants. “Look at me.”
Kincaid found it all too easy to oblige. Framed in the dark bell of her hair, her face revealed humor and intelligence in equal measure. He said, teasing her, “I’ll only follow your hypothesis so far. Are you suggesting I should regard you as ancient and world-weary?”
“Well, not quite.” This time she gave him the full benefit of her grin, and Kincaid thought again how odd it seemed to see Sir Gerald’s smile translated so directly onto her thin face. “But you do see what I mean?”
“Why should Connor have wanted someone as unlike you as he could find?”
She hesitated a moment, then shook her head, shying away from it. “This girl-Sharon-how is she taking it?”
“I’d say she’s coping, just.”
“Do you think it would help if I spoke to her?” She ground out her cigarette and added more lightly, “I’ve never quite been sure of the proper protocol in these situations.”
Kincaid sensed how vulnerable Sharon would feel in Julia’s presence, and yet she had no one with whom she could share her grief. He had seen stranger alliances formed. “I don’t know, Julia. I think she’d like to attend Connor’s funeral. I’ll tell her she’s welcome, if you like. But I wouldn’t expect too much.”
“Con will have told her horror tales about me, I’m sure,” Julia said, nodding. “It’s only natural.”
Regarding her quizzically, Kincaid said, “You’re certainly feeling magnanimous tonight. Is it something in the air? I just had a word with Trevor Simons and he was in the same frame of mind.” He paused, swallowing a little more of his wine, and when Julia didn’t respond, he went on, “He’s says he’s willing to swear under oath that you were together the entire night, regardless of the damage to his marriage.”
She sighed. “Trev’s a decent sort. Surely it won’t come to that?” Wrapping her arms around her calves, she rested her chin on her knees and looked at Kincaid steadily. “You can’t really think I killed poor Con, can you?” When Kincaid didn’t answer she lifted her head and said, “You don’t think that, do you, Duncan?”
Kincaid ran the evidence through his mind. Connor had died between the closing of the gallery show and the very early hours of the morning, the time for which Trevor Simons had given Julia a cast-iron alibi. Simons was a decent sort, as Julia had so aptly put it, and Kincaid had disliked goading him, but he felt more certain now than ever that he would not have compromised himself by lying for Julia.
But even as he set out these facts, he knew that they had little to do with what he felt. He studied her face. Could one see guilt, if one had the right skills, the right information? He had sensed it often enough, and his rational mind told him the assessment must be based on a combination of subliminal cues-body language, smell, shadings in the voice. But he also knew that there was an element to it that transcended the rational-call it a hunch, or a feeling, it didn’t matter. It was based on an innate and inexplicable knowledge of another human being, and his knowledge of Julia went bone-deep. He was as certain of her innocence as his own.
Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I don’t think you killed Connor. But someone did, and I’m not sure we’re getting any closer to it.” His back had begun to ache and he stretched, recrossing his legs. “Do you know why Connor would have had dinner with Tommy Godwin the night he died?”
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