A Bitter Feast(46)

“You didn’t recognize her?”

“No, it was just an impression, really. A woman’s shape, a flash of light on her hair. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Booth said. “Can you tell us what time this was?”

“It was after he’d been in the bar. Half eight, maybe? I came back inside and I didn’t see him again.” Coming round the desk, she said, “If you’ll follow me,” and led them up the wide central staircase to a room on the first floor. She unlocked the door and stood aside, then hesitated. “Are you certain this is all right? I feel I should stay, but I can’t leave the desk unattended . . .”

“We won’t be long,” Booth assured her, and closed the door firmly. “I suspect she thinks you look disreputable,” he said to Kincaid, grinning. “But I thought she’d have doubted me if I’d told her you were a detective superintendent.”

Kincaid grimaced. “Ouch. That does nothing for my confidence.” Looking round the room, he saw that the bed had been turned down by housekeeping, but not slept in. A partially open duffel bag sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, and one of the bedside tables held a dog-eared paperback thriller.

“Somehow I’d have expected better literary taste,” Booth commented. “Something on food, or at least an Irish noir detective novel.”

While Booth looked through the duffel, Kincaid opened the wardrobe. Hanging in it were a sports jacket, a couple of cotton button-down shirts, and a pair of wool trousers. The clothes were expensive brands, but he noticed that the shirts were beginning to wear at the collars and cuffs. The pair of lace-up dress shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe looked bespoke, but when he examined them more closely, he saw that the heels were wearing. “He liked his clothes, but they were getting a bit shabby. Anything in the duffel?” he asked as he checked the pockets of the jacket and the trousers.

“Socks and underwear. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt.”

“No medication?”

Booth shook his head. “I’ll check the bathroom.”

Following him, Kincaid watched as he went through the shaving kit by the sink. O’Reilly had left out on the dressing table a bottle of Tom Ford cologne. The kit held nothing but ordinary toiletries, a razor, and a travel-size bottle of aspirin. “No prescription medications, no alcohol stash,” said Booth. “The barman at the pub said he had nothing but coffee with his dinner.”

Kincaid frowned. “Would he have taken aspirin if he had a heart condition?”

“I’ll ask the pathologist. But if he took some form of digoxin, it’s not here.”

There was something about the paucity of possessions and the worn clothing that struck Kincaid as a little sad, and certainly did not fit his idea of a successful chef.

When they went downstairs, the receptionist had printed out O’Reilly’s address for them. “Chelsea,” Booth said, scanning it. “Viv Holland said he used to live in Chelsea.”

Jane had gone back to scrolling down her computer screen. “Our register shows Mr. O’Reilly as a returning guest. I didn’t realize he’d stayed here before. Ah.” Her frown cleared. “That explains it. I work Wednesday through Sunday. It was a Monday night, almost three weeks ago.”



“What the bleeding hell,” Booth said as he and Kincaid walked back towards the pub. “No one I spoke to said anything about O’Reilly being here three weeks ago.”

Kincaid was thinking it out. “So, are Viv Holland and her staff lying, or did they not see him?”

“Well, I intend to ask them. But one person at a time, and not until I know more.”

The sun had set, leaving a lingering rose stain on the underside of the clouds. The lights in the pub shone like beacons in the gloom. When they reached the roundabout and Booth turned towards the pub, Kincaid said, “I thought Nell’s cottage was to the left.”

“Yes, but I know that road and I don’t fancy walking that lane in the dark. I’ll drop you at the Talbots’ after.” Booth had glanced at him as he said it and Kincaid suspected that the detective, like Melody, was coddling him. But if he was honest, he had to admit that the doctor’s pain pill had worn off some time ago. He wasn’t, however, going to pass up his chance to learn more about Nell Greene. And he was glad enough to settle into the leather seat of Booth’s Volvo.

“Nice car.”

“What will you do about yours?” Booth asked.

Kincaid shrugged. “No idea. It will have to be something that will hold kids and dogs.”

“That’s called the wife’s.”

Kincaid thought he saw Booth smile in the dark.

Booth drove through the center of the village, then took the road that branched off by the mill. Hedges flashed by in the glare of the headlamps, and once he had to brake sharply when a rabbit darted across the road. When he slowed for Nell’s cottage, Kincaid saw why he had missed it when he and Ivan had driven by that morning.

A long, low building in the ubiquitous Cotswold stone with a neatly thatched roof, it was set back from the road and faced north, towards the village, so that the front entrance was hidden from the lane. The dark bulk of the rising hill loomed behind it, and only one faint light shone from a window by the front door. Booth stopped the car in the drive and they got out without speaking. The air felt still and heavy and the only sound was the distant call of a bird.