A Bitter Feast(40)
“Then why not tell Addie? What did you need the money for, anyway, Joe? Some problem with your pack of relatives?”
“None of your damned business,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Well, whatever it was, I doubt it will make a difference to Addie.” Her smile was vicious.
“Damn you, Roz. Get out.” He crossed the room in one long stride and yanked her up by her arm. The remains of her whisky splashed over them both, the fumes filling his nose like brimstone. He shoved her towards the door. “And don’t come down here again. I swear I’ll hurt you if you do.”
Chapter Eleven
A glance to her left showed Gemma that there were still people on the small terrace of the Old Mill, on the other side of the river. Slowing, she said, “Looks like they’re still open.” A couple with a spaniel on a lead appeared round the corner of the building, licking ice cream cones. “And still serving ice cream,” Gemma added. Checking that there was no traffic coming, she pulled onto the tiny bit of verge at the edge of the small roundabout and stopped. They could cross the stone footbridge to the mill. “Hop out, you lot.”
Toby was first out, of course, whooping. Kit took the time to unbuckle Charlotte from her booster seat and help her from the car.
“Mummy.” Charlotte stood at her window. “You need an ice cream, too.” Her little face puckered with the gravity of this announcement.
Gemma laughed, thinking of the state of her waistband after Viv’s lunch. “Not today, love. How about you taste it for me and tell me which one is best. Maybe I’ll have one tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” asked Kincaid, leaning back into the car.
For a moment she was tempted. Tempted to hold Charlotte on her lap while she dripped ice cream, tempted to listen to Kit explain the mechanics of the water mill. Tempted to scold Toby for trying to climb the terrace railing. Tempted, most of all, to take in the sight of Kincaid, bruised but whole. She sighed. “No. I promised I’d help. And you are not lifting boxes, so don’t even think about it.” Wagging a finger at him, she gave him her most severe frown.
Seeing Kit hesitate, gazing in the direction the van had taken, she wondered if he was worried about Viv. Toby was already on the bridge, tightrope-walking on the low stone parapet. “Go,” she told Kincaid and Kit. “Before Toby falls in the river. I’ll be at the pub.” She pointed down the road. “You can’t miss it, on the left after the big bridge and the main roundabout, across from the church. You can find me when you’re finished.” Waving at them, she drove on before she could change her mind.
The village glowed in the afternoon light, golden stone buildings festooned with the brilliant scarlet of creeper, the pathways busy with families, dogs, and cyclists. She passed the well and crossed the river, and there was the long, low pub as she remembered it from the previous evening, when lights had been aglow in the windows. Today she drove past, making a sharp left into the car park. She found an empty space easily—it was the lull between afternoon tea and happy-hour drinks. Looking round for the van, she saw that Melody had pulled it through an arch into an inner courtyard.
The van’s rear doors were open. Melody and Doug and a wiry, olive-skinned man in a cook’s apron were sliding crates from the back. Grace stood to one side, hands in her anorak pockets, watching them. “Grace,” called Gemma. “Are you sure you don’t want an ice cream? The kids are all at the Old Mill with their dad and they’d love you to join them.”
Grace shook her head and disappeared into the building across the courtyard from the pub.
“Viv not back yet?” Gemma asked as she reached the van. “Grace has a bee in her bonnet about something. And I thought all the kids were getting on well.”
Melody balanced a crate of jam jars on her hip. “Gemma, this is Ibby, Viv’s sous-chef.” She nodded towards the man in the apron.
He put out a hand. “Hiya.” Gemma had a glimpse of the colorful tattoos on his forearm, vegetables twining round a chef’s knife, and the words mise en place in flowing script.
Bea Abbott, whom Gemma had met very briefly in the kitchen at Beck House, came out from the pub’s service entrance. When she saw Gemma, her face fell. “Oh. I thought you were Viv. What on earth is keeping her?” Apparently, she hadn’t expected an answer because she immediately turned to Ibby and added, “Hurry up, can’t you? Evening rush is going to start any minute, and we’ve got full bookings. Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be Saturday.”
Gemma had to bite her tongue to keep from saying she doubted Nell Greene and Fergus O’Reilly had died just to inconvenience Bea. She was saved by the crunch of tires on gravel as a black Volvo pulled into the car park. Viv got out and came towards them, followed by Detective Inspector Booth.
Bea greeted them with her hands outstretched. “Viv, what’s kept you? I was so worried—”
But Viv walked past her and stopped in front of Ibby. She looked at him and simply nodded.
“Oh, man.” Ibby shook his head. “The bugger. God damn him.”
Viv took his arm and turned him away. “Come on. Let’s see what state the kitchen’s in.”
“It’s a positive ID, then?” Melody asked Booth quietly.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Booth turned to Bea. “Colin Booth, Gloucester CID. And you are?” Gemma noticed that he hadn’t used his rank, and that in the few moments since he’d arrived he had very unobtrusively loosened the knot in his tie. She was beginning to like Colin Booth.