A Bitter Feast(20)

“Sir,” said Booth, with ill-concealed irritation. “I was just—”

“And if you could have Mr. Kincaid go over the statement he gave to uniform last night and sign it. I believe Mr. Kincaid and Mr. Talbot have places to be.”

“Sir.” The look Booth gave Kincaid said that he had places to be as well, and that he was not the least bit amused by his ACC’s request. But he said, “Why don’t you step into my office, Superintendent?” and turned on his heel.

Kincaid followed Booth into a much smaller office. Booth waved him into a visitor’s chair, then sat behind his desk with an exasperated thump. “What’s all this bollocks, then?” he said without preamble. “That’s Ivan Talbot, the newspaper baron. Must be nice to have him throwing his weight round on your behalf.”

“Not on my behalf, no. Read the report and you can decide if it’s bollocks or not. And I’m sorry to muck up your Saturday.”

Booth shrugged, his expression softening a little. “Kid has a football match at one. I’m in trouble if I miss it.”

“I know what you mean.” Kincaid cocked his head, replaying what he’d heard. “You’re from Manchester.”

“My northern vowels give me away?”

“I grew up in Cheshire, in Nantwich.”

“Ah. Close enough.” Booth looked at him with more interest. “Man U or City?”

“Liverpool.”

“Bugger.” Booth shook his head. “That’s too bad. I thought we might be long-lost brothers.” There was a hint of a smile on his dark face. “Except you’re all citified now. How long have you been in the Met?”

“More than twenty years. But I have a good friend in Cheshire, Ronnie Babcock.”

Booth’s eyebrows went up. “DCI Babcock? Bloke looks like he’s had his face smashed in once too often?”

Kincaid grinned. “That’s the one.” He thought mentioning that Ronnie Babcock was his sister’s boyfriend might be gilding the lily.

“He’s one of the good ones, Babcock.” Booth considered Kincaid a moment, then said, “In which case maybe you should just bugger the report and tell me what happened.”

“A nice, middle-aged divorcée, who was not drinking, plowed straight through a T-junction and hit me broadside,” Kincaid said. “My car rolled. The front end of hers was crushed. She was trapped. I held her hand as she died.” Why he was prompted to tell Booth this, when he hadn’t even told Gemma, Kincaid didn’t know. He cleared his throat and went on. “The thing is, there was an unidentified passenger, a man, also dead. But the medics think he died before the crash.”

“Got your copper’s instincts going, I take it?” Booth said, frowning.

“I’d just like to know what happened.”

Booth sighed. “I get that, mate. I really do. But—”

There was a rap on the door and ACC Shelton came in. “Sorry to interrupt. Sir Ivan just got a call from his wife. Someone has identified the man in the car. His name is Fergus O’Reilly.”

“Fergus O’Reilly? Not Fergus O’Reilly the chef?” said Booth. “Oh, bloody hell.”





Chapter Six

Addie had excused herself for a moment, whispering to Gemma that she was ringing Ivan. When she returned, seeing that PC Murray had her pencil poised over her little notebook, she said, “Let’s move to the terrace, shall we? And give Chef Holland a moment.” Gemma helped her encourage Viv from the folding chair on the lawn to a proper chair on the terrace.

“I’m fine, really,” Viv protested. “It’s just—it’s just a shock, that’s all.” But Gemma thought she still looked shaky, and her voice was high and breathless.

The kitchen door opened and Roz came out bearing not a glass of water, but a tray with a teapot and a half a dozen mismatched mugs. “I thought we could all use some fortifying,” Roz said, setting out the mugs on a table. When Gemma stood to help, Roz added to her quietly, “Sorry we weren’t properly introduced. I’m Rosalind Dunning. You must be Melody’s friend.”

“Gemma James. I work with Melody.”

As Roz poured the tea, Gemma caught the strong, malty scent on the warm air. She gave the first two mugs to Viv and Addie, the second two to the uniformed officers, while taking the opportunity to examine her companion. Roz Dunning was an attractive woman, perhaps a bit older than Gemma had first thought—up close, the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth were visible.

By the time Roz had offered milk and sugar, Gemma was glad to see that Viv had regained a little color. A good thing, too, as PC Murray had opened her notebook again.

“Ms. Holland,” said Murray, “can you tell us how you knew Mr. O’Reilly?”

Viv swallowed. “I used to work for him in London, a long time ago. In his restaurant. But I hadn’t seen him since then, until yesterday.”

“Do you know what he was doing in Lower Slaughter?”

“No. He just showed up at my pub. Said he wanted to catch up, for old time’s sake.” Viv shot Addie a glance that might have been accusing. “He’d heard something about the luncheon today. He—he stayed for dinner at the pub,” she added, looking at her hands.