A Bitter Feast(19)
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 hand 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.