A Bitter Feast(63)
“Because.” Stopping on the narrow track, Grace bent down and picked up a flat stone. “My mum isn’t.” She threw the stone at the water so hard that the splash sprayed them both.
When the accident-investigation team arrived, Kincaid, Booth, and Dr. Mason left them to their measuring and photographing and walked back to Mason’s Jeep.
“So, what are we looking for in terms of a vehicle?” Booth asked the doctor as they started peeling off their paper suits.
“Well, obviously I’ll have to do some measuring as well. But from initial observation, I’d say something with a fairly high clearance—an SUV or a four-by-four, or possibly even a van. I’ll know more when I’ve got him on the table, so don’t quote me on that.”
“That’s three-quarters of the county right there,” Booth muttered.
“And the blow to the head?” Kincaid asked, making an effort not to touch his bandaged forehead.
“There, you’ve got your classic blunt object, I’m afraid.” Dr. Mason took their paper overalls and booties and wadded them up in a ball, which she stuffed in a rubbish bag in the back of the Jeep. “Again, I’ll know more when I get some measurements from the impact site on his skull. I do have something for you, though, Colin. Your female victim in Friday night’s accident, Nell Greene, did not have any digitalis in her system. Or anything else toxic that I can find.”
“Then what—”
“She had a ruptured aorta from the collision. Nothing could have saved her. Until she ran into your car, Mr. Kincaid, she was a remarkably healthy woman.”
Nell Greene’s imploring face, in those moments as her life slipped away, was imprinted in Kincaid’s memory. She’d had a new home, a dog, friends, and an expectation of a long and productive life. He realized that he had to know if all that had been taken from her by anything other than the purest chance.
“I’ll ring you, Colin,” Dr. Mason continued, “just as soon as I can get to this one. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kincaid. If I were you, I’d have those injuries looked at.” She nodded briskly at them and climbed into her Jeep.
Booth and Kincaid watched as she backed skillfully up, made a U-turn in the narrow road, and drove off towards Lower Slaughter.
Gemma poured boiling water into an ancient Brown Betty teapot that Angelica had rooted out of a cupboard for her. This was the second—or was it the third?—pot she’d filled in the last hour. The capacity of people in a crisis for hot tea never failed to amaze her, but she was happy to oblige. She’d been the one to break the news to Ibby and Angelica. Viv hadn’t managed to get out more than Jack’s name before she’d pressed her hands to her mouth again, shaking her head.
Ibby, after a shocked “You’re shitting me,” had sunk down in the chair next to Viv. It had been Angelica who’d rallied and organized more tea, even though she was red-eyed and sniffing.
Putting the kettle back on the cooker, Gemma touched Angelica on the shoulder. “Are you all right? I can manage here if you want to go have a sit-down.”
“No. No, I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine, but it’s not often I have a chance to see Ibby speechless.” Her laugh turned into a half-choked sob. “Jack would have thought that was bloody hysterical.” She pulled a sheet off the kitchen roll and blew her nose before refilling the milk jug. “I just can’t believe he could be so stubborn or so stupid.” Turning a red-rimmed gaze to Gemma, she said, “If there was one thing Jack wasn’t, it was careless.”
“Do you have any idea what was bothering him yesterday? Viv said he seemed distracted.”
Angelica shook her head again. “No. He liked Nell. Of course he was upset, wasn’t he? We all were.”
“When I spoke to him yesterday, he said something about a row.”
“Oh, that.” Angelica picked up the steeping pot. “Fergus bloody O’Reilly. I cannot believe I’ve worked here for going on three years, and Viv never said a word about working with him. I mean, I knew she and Ibby had worked together in London, but anything more you asked either of them, they just clammed up.”
She set the pot down again and looked at Gemma, her face pink with emotion. “Honestly, sometimes I wondered if it had been a really crap restaurant, something they were ashamed of. Except that they’re both too good. In which case, why the hell are they working here?”
That, thought Gemma, was a very good question. But before she could say so, her phone rang. Excusing herself when she saw it was Kincaid, she stepped out into the yard to answer.
“We’re on our way to the pub,” he said without preamble. “Or we will be, as soon as Booth finishes organizing uniform. The pathologist says the hit-and-run was deliberate. And that someone then bashed the victim over the head to make doubly sure he died. I thought you would want to be forewarned—but probably better not to steal Booth’s thunder.”
“Right.” Although she couldn’t have said why, Gemma found that she was not all that surprised. And she agreed—she couldn’t break that news to the group assembled in the dining room. Then she thought of Kit, and Grace. “Got to go,” she told Kincaid. “I’ll explain later.”
Ringing off, she punched in Kit’s number and held her breath until he answered. “Listen, love,” she said hurriedly, “I can’t explain right now, but can you keep Grace out with you for a while longer? Maybe take her up to the house?”