A Bitter Feast(42)

“I’m so sorry,” Gemma hastened to say. “I’m sure this has all been a dreadful shock. We were pretty shaken up, too.”

Realization flooded Bea’s face. “Oh, God. I’m an idiot. It was your husband in the other car, wasn’t it? Viv told me. I’m so sorry. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Just a bit banged up. We were very lucky.” Just talking about it made Gemma feel a little weak-kneed, but Bea looked so distressed that she added, “You can see for yourself. He’s meeting me here in just a bit.”

Before Bea could respond, a plump woman in a server’s apron appeared from the other dining area. “Bea,” she called, “we’ve got an eight-top booked for six o’clock. Could you help me shift the tables and set up?”

“Don’t mind me,” Gemma said to Bea. “I’ll just have a seat in the bar.” She could have gone outside to look for the others—she had Melody’s keys, after all—but the bartender was still giving her darting little glances.

“Have something on the house, do,” Bea insisted, looking harried again as she hurried off to help.

Smiling at the couple with the dogs, who had been served their drinks and had settled at a table with their newspapers, the dogs under their feet, Gemma made her way to the bar.

“What will it be, then?” asked the bartender, who had obviously been listening to her conversation.

“What do you suggest?”

“Do you fancy gin?”

“Oh, yes. I do.” Gemma glanced at her watch. It had gone five, and after the day she’d had, she certainly thought she could justify a little tipple. “A G and T?”

“If I could suggest . . .” He pulled a smart-looking black bottle from the shelf behind the bar. “Our local Cotswolds Dry Gin, on ice with a twist of grapefruit.”

“Grapefruit? Really?”

“Trust me on this one.” If not for the local accent, he might have been an East End bouncer, but a smile transformed his broad face.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll give it a try.”

She watched as he put a few ice cubes in a heavy glass, then expertly curled a strip of grapefruit rind from one of the fruits in a bowl on the bar top. “This must be a favorite,” she commented, nodding at the supply of grapefruit nestled in the bowl along with the usual lemons and limes.

He poured a generous measure from the black bottle and handed it to her with a cocktail napkin. “See for yourself.”

Gemma wasn’t in the habit of drinking gin neat, so she sniffed, then took a tentative sip. The flavors exploded in her mouth—coriander and juniper and lavender and lime and . . . grapefruit. “Oh, wow,” she said, when her eyes stopped watering. “That is amazing. I’m converted.” She held out a hand. “I’m Gemma, by the way.”

“Jack.” His grip was quick and firm and her hand felt delicate in his grasp. Studying him, Gemma wondered if he might be ex-military. “You’re a cop,” he said, as if he’d been reading her signals, too.

“Detective in the Met,” she agreed. “My husband, too.”

“Ah.” Jack polished a glass. “That I didn’t know.”

“I work with Melody Talbot. She invited us for the weekend.” Gemma took another appreciative sip of the gin.

“Good lass, Melody. But not the best weekend for your husband.” Jack nodded towards Bea’s office. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I take it you weren’t in the car with him last night, then.”

“No. I came down with Melody and our little daughter earlier in the afternoon.”

“Well, I’m glad for that. And glad your husband is all right. It’s just”—the wineglass gleamed in Jack’s hand but he gave the rim another rub—“it’s just that I wondered—I liked Nell, you see. She was a nice woman. Wouldn’t have hurt a hair on anyone’s head. It’s bad enough that she’s dead, but I don’t like thinking she was responsible for such a thing.”

Gemma didn’t want to steal a march on DI Booth, but her pulse quickened as she realized Jack might have been one of the last people to have seen the crash victims alive. “I understand she was here last night?”

Jack nodded. “She had dinner in the bar. She didn’t like to eat in the dining room on her own, said she felt more comfortable in here,” he added, with what sounded like proprietary pride.

“Did you notice anything unusual about her last night?”

His broad forehead creased. “I’ve been over and over it since we heard the news. She was quiet, maybe not as chatty as usual, and she didn’t eat much. She stayed for a good long while, too, after she’d finished her chicken pie and her coffee. I wondered that she didn’t bring Bella—that’s her dog—but she might have come straight to the pub from somewhere other than home.”

Gemma was now casting anxious glances towards the kitchen, where she could pick out the occasional rumble of Booth’s voice among the others. Smells were beginning to percolate into the bar as well—roasting meat and frying potatoes, she thought. Her stomach rumbled, in spite of her earlier protestations about the ice cream.

Crossing her fingers for a few more uninterrupted minutes, she said, “And did you see her speaking with Mr. O’Reilly?”