A Bitter Feast(83)
Joe left her, refilling the kettle and putting it back on the gas. “I’ll keep topping it up for you.” When the water boiled again, he knelt beside the tub and carefully tipped a little more in. “Good?”
“Heaven.” Melody could feel her damp hair curling into her flushed face. She had a sudden vision of Joe naked in the tub, and that made her turn even pinker.
Joe grinned up at her. “Melody Talbot, you are an enigma. Not so prim and proper, after all. Tell me,” he added, suddenly serious, “is there a boyfriend?”
Swallowing hard, Melody said, “No. No, not anymore. But I, um, I think I need to get out now. I should go.” She stood, clutching the rug at her waist, then wobbled as she attempted to step out of the tub. “I’m not sure I can do this gracefully.”
“That’s fixed easy enough.” Standing, Joe simply wrapped both arms round her and lifted her over the lip of the bath. When Melody let go of the rug to put her arms round his neck, neither of them noticed it fall away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
On Monday morning, Kincaid’s right hand was so stiff and swollen that he couldn’t move his fingers. What he didn’t tell Gemma was that the redness and swelling was also moving from his hand into his arm—she’d been worried enough as it was.
Gemma had meant to borrow Melody’s car to take him to the A and E in Cheltenham, but Melody didn’t come down to breakfast. It was Ivan who’d rung his GP for an appointment for Kincaid, and Ivan who’d insisted on driving him to Cheltenham. Addie, not to be outdone, had planned an outing for Gemma and the kids to the bird park in Bourton-on-the-Water while the fine weather held.
“I can’t keep you from work,” Kincaid protested to Ivan. “You’ve put up with enough trouble from us as it is.”
“I’ve been working since five this morning,” Ivan said with a chuckle. Having seen the array of computer screens in Ivan’s home office, Kincaid hadn’t doubted him. “I could use a break,” Ivan added. “And I have an ulterior motive. A friend of mine has found a car you might want to look at.”
Kincaid had checked in with his team at Holborn Station, then left Doug, who was ensconced once again with his laptop in the sitting room, to manage the bulk of the case management with their Holborn DI, Jasmine Sidana.
It wasn’t until he was on the way to Cheltenham with Ivan that Kincaid suddenly realized his head felt clearer. While that was encouraging, it made him wonder just how muddled he’d been yesterday.
When they reached Dr. Saunders’s surgery, however, she gave him a very critical eye. “Do you mind if Ivan comes in with you?” she asked, before ushering him into her consulting room.
“So I need a responsible adult?” Kincaid joked, but the sharp look she gave him said that was exactly what she meant.
“I feel much better,” he protested as he sat on the exam table. “Really. It’s just my hand that’s playing up.”
“Well, let’s have a look at you,” Dr. Saunders said briskly. She shone her pencil light in his eyes, checking his pupils. “Still equal and reactive, so that’s a good sign. Headaches?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“Taking it easy?”
“Um, more or less.” Ivan’s presence in the room made it impossible for Kincaid to tell an outright lie.
“Ribs?”
Kincaid grimaced. “Still pretty sore.”
The doctor took the small pillow from the exam table and positioned it against his right side. “Press this to you, bend over it, and cough.”
“Ouch. That hurts like hell.”
“I want you to do that two or three times every couple of hours. It’s to keep you from getting pneumonia, so no slacking. Now, let’s have a look at that hand.” It was all Kincaid could do not to grit his teeth as she gently removed the dressing.
Shaking her head, Dr. Saunders clucked disapprovingly as she examined the spreading redness. “Cellulitis.” When Kincaid looked blank, she added, “Bacterial skin infection. I’m going to clean and dress your hand again, but you’ll need to start on antibiotic tablets straightaway. No missing a dose, mind. This can be dangerous if not treated, besides being bloody uncomfortable.”
Dr. Saunders glanced at Ivan as she worked. “I heard about the poor fellow hit by the car Saturday night.”
“That news traveled fast,” Ivan said, quirking an eyebrow.
“Pathologist is a friend. We had drinks last night.”
He grinned. “Is there anyone you don’t know, Carol?”
“Small world, the medical community. As is your village, apparently. What a shame for Bea Abbott, all this. That young woman has had more than her fair share of tragedy.”
“I seem to remember hearing something about her family,” said Ivan, frowning. “When she and Viv Holland first bought the pub. Didn’t her mother commit suicide? But that must have happened years ago.”
“Bea was a teenager. A year or two above my daughter in school.” She shook her head, her expression grim. “How someone can leave a child to live with that, I’ll never understand.”
A mobile phone rang. It was a moment before Kincaid realized it was his, still in the pocket of the jacket he’d left draped over a chair. “Sorry,” he said, but he was held captive by Dr. Saunders’s ministrations to his hand. Ivan obligingly handed him the mobile.