A Bitter Feast(54)

“I’m sure DI Booth will appreciate the suggestion.” Melody’s slight irony was lost on Doug, as she had thought it would be. “What’s Finlay doing now?”

“He has a couple of successful West End restaurants.” Doug named one in Kensington where they’d both eaten.

“So he’s the real deal,” said Melody, impressed, then added thoughtfully, “So in all this research you’ve been doing, have you come up with anything about Viv Holland?”

“Only connected to the original O’Reilly’s. After that, nothing. No news items, no social media, not even a listing on LinkedIn.”

“The pub must have some kind of Internet presence.”

“Yes. And nicely done, too.” Doug pulled up a page displaying the pub’s flower-decked exterior, then clicked over to a dinner menu, presented against a background photo of the bar area, complete with sparkling glassware and its welcoming fire. “But Viv’s name is nowhere on it.”

Melody’s coffee sat forgotten on the side table. “No one disappears that thoroughly unless they mean to. So, what—or whom—was Viv hiding from? O’Reilly? And if it was O’Reilly, how did he find her here? She—” The light dawned and Melody swore. “My mother. My lovely, interfering mother. I remember her saying Viv was reluctant to do the luncheon, but Mum thought her talent was unappreciated—obviously, we know now, as she was good enough to be cooking in a Michelin-starred restaurant. The invitation list wasn’t public, but what if one of the guests knew O’Reilly and just happened to mention it, or mentioned it to someone who passed it on to O’Reilly . . .”

“Duncan told me last night that the hotel receptionist said O’Reilly was here three weeks earlier, just for one night. What if he came to see for himself?”

“That it was really Viv?” Melody stared out into the bright, sun-washed garden, visualizing it as it had been yesterday, full of guests and the buzz of conversation. “In which case, why wait until the day before the luncheon to turn up again? What if— You said his career had taken a dive. What if it wasn’t Viv he came back to see? What if it was someone who was coming to the luncheon? Someone important. Maybe—”

“That’s all very well, but—” Doug jabbed a finger at the screen. “You’ve just skipped over the big question. Assuming Viv was hiding from O’Reilly—and that’s a big if at this point, but if that’s the case—why?”

Melody stared at him. “Oh, well. Maybe he was violent. Maybe she owed him money. Maybe—”

Doug’s mobile pinged with a text. “Bugger.” He sounded annoyed, but pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. His eyes widened as he read the message. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. Then, with a glance at Melody, he hastily put the mobile away.

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing. Um . . .” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Bloke at the rowing club broke his ankle.”

“There must be a lot of that going round, then.” She gave a pointed glance at the ankle he had torn so badly when he fell off the ladder in his sitting room.

What on earth was he up to? she wondered. Doug Cullen couldn’t tell a decent lie to save his life.

Doug looked mulish. “It happens.” He closed the laptop with a snap. “Come on, let’s go outside. Do your hostess duties and give me a proper tour of the garden.”



“You look much better this morning,” said Gemma as she and Kincaid stood at the end of the pergola, looking down on the lawns and gardens spread below them.

“Even with the shiner?” He touched a fingertip to his cheekbone, tentatively.

“It’s not too bad. You could do the dissolute rock star thing and wear sunglasses to cover it up.”

“Our friend Andy might not appreciate the ‘dissolute rock star’ description,” Kincaid said with a grin.

Gemma squeezed his arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

A gust of breeze sent a flurry of pink rose petals swirling down upon them. “Look, Mummy,” called Charlotte, who had been skipping back and forth on the gravel path, singing to herself. “It’s con-fitti.”

“Confetti,” Gemma corrected absently, still admiring the view. The rain had given everything a new-minted brightness and the air seemed suddenly ripe with autumn. The trees across the river seemed to have been brushed with gold and russet just since yesterday.

Toby and Kit had found a football somewhere and were kicking it about on the bottom lawn, watched by the two dogs, who looked like referees on the sidelines.

Squatting, Charlotte began gathering the petals. “I’m going to make you a present, Mummy. You can take it home.” It was the first time they’d taken Charlotte to stay with strangers and she’d done remarkably well. Perhaps her separation anxiety was abating.

Gemma bent down to examine the petals filling Charlotte’s small hand. “That’s lovely, darling. We can make a sachet. But we’ll need something to put your petals in.” Fishing in her jacket pocket, she found a clean tissue. “How about this? We can wrap them up.”

Kincaid had moved to the edge of the terrace. He stood, his hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze abstracted.

Going to him, Gemma said softly, “It is lovely here, isn’t it? I didn’t think I’d like it quite so much.”