A Bitter Feast(38)

Viv didn’t answer until she’d fastened her seat belt. “Addie had a marquee on hold until midmorning. But, yeah, we scraped by.” She fell silent as he drove, her face half turned away from him.

She looked, Booth realized, exhausted. When, after a moment, he said, “I am sorry about your friend,” she started as if she’d been miles away.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Fergus a friend.”

“Former employer, then. In any case, I know that what you’ve just done is very difficult.”

Viv just nodded.

Booth tried another tack. “You’re not in touch with anyone else who knew him?”

“Well, of course, there’s Ibby—” she began, then, on a rising note of distress, “Oh, dear God, I’ll have to tell Ibby. I didn’t even think about him— How could I be so—”

“Who’s Ibby?” broke in Booth.

“My sous-chef.” Viv took a breath. “We both used to work for Fergus.”

“Did he still keep in contact with O’Reilly?”

“Christ, no,” she said, then shot him an abashed glance. “I mean, no, I doubt it. I’m sure Ibby would have mentioned it,” she added, but she sounded a little uncertain. She was silent again, her hands, which had been open in her lap, were now tightly clasped.

But when Booth glanced at her a few moments later, her eyes were closed and her face had relaxed. He thought she might have actually fallen asleep. He didn’t disturb her, glad of the time to think about what he should do.

He was certain that there were things Viv Holland was not telling him. What he didn’t know was whether or not those things had any bearing on the deaths of Fergus O’Reilly and Nell Greene. He sensed that Viv was an intensely private person, and that even the little she’d shared with him had been under duress.

As for now, he only had a suspicious death, not a crime. Was he justified in pulling in more manpower, from either uniform or CID, until he knew if O’Reilly had been taking prescribed medication that might have killed him?

He could, he thought, do a little digging himself. His curiosity was aroused, he had to admit. How often did he have a celebrity death on his doorstep—much less the death of a celebrity he had admired and had actually met?

And, having had a word with Doug Cullen—make that Metropolitan Police Detective Sergeant Doug Cullen—while Viv was speaking to her daughter, he now knew he had an entire contingent of coppers at hand.



Kincaid woke to the touch of a cool hand on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he found Gemma sitting on the edge of the bed, studying him, her brow creased in a frown. “What is it?” he managed to mumble, his mouth dry from the pain pill he’d swallowed when he came upstairs.

“You were dreaming again, muttering in your sleep.”

“Was I?” He tried to hang on to a fragment from the jumbled images that teased at his consciousness, but it was gone. “I can’t remember.”

“I thought you might have a fever, but you’re cool.”

“I know I am,” he replied, summoning a grin. Sitting up a bit, he was glad to find that his head didn’t swim. He slipped his good arm round her waist. “Come to bed.”

“I think you must have a concussion,” said Gemma. “It’s the middle of the afternoon in someone else’s house, and the children will pop in any minute. Besides, I’d hurt you.” She smiled and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth very gently.

“Ow.”

“See? I told you so.”

Pushing himself farther up in the bed, he flexed his right arm and hand gingerly, then moved his head. Nothing spun. “I feel better. Those pills must be magic.” He released Gemma and reached for the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table. “What’s going on?”

“DI Booth took Viv to make the identification. We have all of her things packed into her van. Melody’s going to drive the van to the pub and I’m going to take the kids to the village in Melody’s car. They want to get ice creams at the mill.”

“Melody must have told them about the ice creams.”

Laughing, Gemma said, “I’m not taking responsibility. But they could use an outing and I want to see the village—and the pub. I’ll help Melody and Doug unload the van. I’m not sure who’s on hand at the pub if Viv’s not back.”

Kincaid swung his legs off the bed. So far so good. “I’m coming, too.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“If I managed to keep up with Ivan this morning, I could probably run a marathon.”

Gemma started to speak, then hesitated.

“What is it, love?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were feeling up to it. But Melody got the key to Nell Greene’s cottage from Mark Cain. I thought you might like to be the one to give it to DI Booth.”



Joe had loaded all Viv’s equipment into her van, helped by the tall, lanky kid who was visiting—Kit, he thought the boy was called—and Melody, and Melody’s friend from London, the one who was mad on gardening. He hadn’t needed to be told that the friend was a cop. With his round glasses and neatly pressed chinos, the guy looked more like a programmer, but he had that quiet, watchful air all cops seemed to acquire, natural as breathing.