A Bitter Feast(65)
Viv answered first. “I was here. After Jack left, I checked on Grace—that’s my daughter—then I went to bed.”
“You live on the premises?”
“In the cottage across the courtyard.”
Booth made a note, then looked up at the other two.
Angelica spoke first. “Ibby and me went to Moreton. Usually on Saturday nights, Ibby stays with my partner and me in town. We go out, have a few drinks. We must have left right before Jack—he was just finishing up in the bar. If we’d given him a lift—”
“What kind of car do you drive, Miss Lockhart?” Booth asked.
“A VW Golf.”
Booth looked at Ibby. “Do you confirm this, Mr. Azoulay?”
“Yeah. I don’t drink-drive. That’s really messed up. Me and Angie had a few beers with one of the chefs there in Moreton, then I kipped on Angie’s sofa.”
Spots of color had appeared in Viv Holland’s cheeks. “You can’t think that Angie or Ibby had anything to do with what happened to Jack. That’s ridiculous—”
“We just have to eliminate them—and you—from our inquiries, Miss Holland,” said Booth. “I take it the van in the courtyard belongs to you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own another vehicle?”
“No,” Viv said, her voice still clipped with anger.
Booth made a notation, then slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “Thank you. I will need to speak to all of your staff when they come in. You must realize this is a very serious mat—”
A car door slammed loudly and a moment later the pub door flew open and Bea Abbott came in. “Viv! What is going on? We should be serving morning coffee—” She stopped, taking in the group huddled in the otherwise empty dining room. Then, as she fixed her gaze on Booth, she paled. “Oh my God. What’s happened now?”
Booth persuaded Bea to sit down while he told her what had happened. She simply stared at him and shook her head. Dressed in a dark skirt and a floral blouse, her hair loose, she looked softer, more vulnerable. Finally, she said, her voice raspy, “You must be mistaken. Everyone loved Jack. I can’t believe someone wanted to hurt him.” When her eyes filled with tears, Gemma went to the kitchen to make yet another pot of tea.
When she returned with the pot and more cups, Booth had his notebook out again.
“A Fiat,” Bea was saying. “I drive a little Fiat runabout.”
“And where were you last night?” Booth asked.
“Home. Jack was still finishing up in the bar, so I left Viv to lock up. If only I’d—”
Whatever she’d meant to say was cut off by loud voices and the excited yipping of a dog coming from the car park.
Grace burst through the door, hair disheveled, glasses askew. Right behind her was Kit, with the collie, Bella, beside him.
“Why are you trying to keep me away?” Grace shouted at her mother. “What have you done now?”
Viv rocked back in her chair as if she’d been slapped, then stood and went towards her daughter with her hands outstretched. “Grace, love, I didn’t want you to be upset. There’s been an accident.”
Grace stepped backwards, away from Viv, almost treading on Kit, who was trying to quiet the panting dog. Catching Gemma’s eye, Kit mouthed, “Sorry.”
“What do you mean, an accident?” Grace seemed to take in the presence of the others, and of Booth, in his official-looking dark suit, and she suddenly looked more frightened than angry.
“It’s Jack, love,” said Viv. “He was hit by a car last night. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you.”
“You mean he’s . . . dead?” Grace must have seen the answer in all their expressions. Her face crumpled and she began to cry, little hiccupping sobs. “It’s your fault,” she managed to gasp at Viv, then the sobs grew to a keening wail.
Gemma was on her feet, but Bea was quicker. She reached the girl in two strides, wrapping her arms round her and turning her towards the door. “Let’s get you home,” she murmured to Grace. “You’ll be all right, love.” Kit, who’d managed to calm the dog, stepped out of their way as they went out.
Viv sank back into her chair, looking utterly defeated.
July 2007
“Irish?” Fergus had said when she’d put it to him. “You have got to be taking the mickey. No decent chef does Irish. It’s all pubs with Guinness and bloody leprechauns.”
“So, we can do Irish fine dining. Call it British-Irish if that helps. You can’t tell me there’s not cooking being done in Ireland at that level,” Viv insisted. They were sitting in Fergus’s tiny office, having been the last to finish scrubbing down the kitchen after that night’s service. She’d been doing her homework the last few weeks, studying recipes, checking sourcing, wanting to have all her ducks in a row before she suggested this.
“Well, no, but . . .” He stretched his long legs out under the two-top from the dining room that passed for his desk, seemingly unaware that his feet were touching hers.
Sensing him wavering, she’d gone on, trying to keep her excitement in check. “We can get wild Irish venison. I’ve checked. We can get Irish beef, Irish fish and scallops. And we could source the very best veg locally, but add an Irish twist to the recipe. Why couldn’t we make the most divine potato and leek soup that anyone’s ever tasted? Why not make soda bread the house bread? We could make lamb sausages, smoke Irish trout. All with gorgeous presentation.”