A Bitter Feast(76)

Kincaid drank. The tart, fresh, green-apple taste seemed to explode in his mouth and made his eyes water. “Bugger, that’s stout stuff,” he said when he’d managed to swallow and blink back the tears.

Cain grinned. “No alcohol percentage regulations on homemade cider. More than two of these will make you sorry the next day.” The smile faded. “What did you want to talk to me about, then?”

Kincaid sipped more gingerly before answering. “I was wondering about Nell, whether there was anyone to make funeral arrangements.”

“Ah. Good question. I had a word with the vicar last night. She was trying to get in touch with Nell’s ex. There is a niece somewhere but I don’t think they were close. I know her sister died a few years ago. If no one steps in, the vicar’s going to organize a service in the church here and a little reception in the village hall. Viv said she’d provide the tea and cakes.”

Kincaid nodded, feeling relieved. “I’m glad she’ll be looked after. Did Nell attend the church?”

“Yes, pretty regularly. I don’t think she was all that religious but she wanted to fit into the community.” Cain shook his head. “It’s a bloody shame. She was a nice woman. And now this business with Jack Doyle. I still can’t believe it.”

“Did Viv tell you?”

“Yes. She rang me not long after I’d dropped Bella here off this morning. But the news will have gone all round the farms by now.” Frowning, he drank some more of his cider. “I don’t understand it. Jack was not a careless fellow. And Viv is punishing herself for not having insisted on driving him home. She told me last night that he was a bit tiddly, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

“You spoke to Viv last night?”

“I went round after she’d locked up.”

“To the cottage?”

“God, no. We had a drink in the bar after she’d made certain Grace was asleep. I don’t know why Viv’s so convinced that Grace would be traumatized if she knew there was anything going on between us.” Cain drank some more cider. “We’ve been sneaking about for months. I mean, Grace and I get on fine. Why should she be horrified for her mum to have a relationship?”

“Maybe Viv thinks it would be hard for Grace if things didn’t work out between you,” Kincaid offered, hoping that sounded sensible. His head was beginning to swim a bit. Setting his half-finished cider down on the work top, he tried to concentrate on the important bit in what Cain had told him. “Mark, how long after Jack left did you arrive at the pub?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Five or ten minutes? Viv said she’d seen him off, then gone in and checked on Grace and changed out of her whites.”

“And Viv hadn’t been anywhere else?”

Cain frowned at him. “No. I just told you. Where the hell would she go? Why are you asking?”

“Did you drive down to the pub?”

“Of course I drove,” said Cain. “It was pouring buckets. Why are you asking me all these questions?” Cain sounded much less friendly now. “I thought you wanted to talk about Nell.”

“Viv didn’t tell you, when you spoke to her about Bella earlier?”

“I didn’t talk to her, I texted her. She was in the middle of service. Tell me what?”

Cain would hear it soon enough, if not from Viv, then from Booth.

“We”—Kincaid corrected himself— “that is, the police, think Jack Doyle was run down deliberately.”



Kerry Boatman had done herself a favor and parked in the Marks & Spencer parking garage on the King’s Road. She quickly finished her shopping. Then, swinging her colorful paper bag, she’d walked west along the King’s Road until she reached Old Church Street. She found the address Gemma had given her halfway down the street, across from the Pig’s Ear, a pub well known as a hangout for coppers.

The buzzer for the second-floor flat was labeled BUSBY. Kerry took out her mobile and checked Gemma’s instructions again. She had the right address. She pushed the buzzer and the front door clicked open before she could identify herself over the intercom.

As she climbed the stairs, a female voice came from above. “Oi, did you forget the blinking wine?” Looking up, Kerry saw a young woman with crayon-red short hair peering down at her. “Ow, sorry,” the young woman said in deepest Estuary. “I thought you was my mate. Who’re you?”

“Police,” answered Kerry, a bit puffed as she reached the top landing. “I’m looking for Fergus O’Reilly’s flat.”

“You’d better come in, then,” said the young woman. She stood back, allowing Kerry to step into a large sitting room, brightly lit by the west-facing bay window. The place seemed to be furnished entirely in Ikea and bean bags, with pride of place given to the monster flat-screen TV on one wall.

Introducing herself, Kerry showed her warrant card even though she hadn’t been asked. People really should be more careful.

The girl, who was wearing leggings and an oversized jumper that would have made Kerry’s daughter swoon, put out a chubby, beringed hand. “Valerie Busby. Yeah, he used to live here, that chef bloke. But he moved out about a year ago—some TV gig in la-la land, according to my landlady, who was right pissed off, I can tell you.”