A Bitter Feast(88)

“The practice has a good reputation,” said Booth, pocketing his phone. “My wife has a friend who sees one of the doctors here. This interview is really just ticking the boxes, making sure that Nell Greene didn’t have some connection with O’Reilly that hasn’t yet come to light. Dr. Greene’s agreed to see us between appointments.”

As Kincaid followed Booth into the building, he wondered if Dr. Abbott had practiced from this house as well. A plump, middle-aged receptionist greeted them and took them immediately into Dr. Greene’s office.

Even if he’d passed him in the street, Kincaid would have recognized Dr. Bruce Greene from the wedding photo Nell kept in her bedside table. The man was still trim and youthful looking, and would, Kincaid thought, have been handsome if his face had not been lined with shock.

When they’d introduced themselves and taken the visitors’ seats, Dr. Greene sank heavily into the leather chair behind his desk. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I was away at the weekend—a cottage in the Lake District with no mobile reception. It wasn’t until we started home yesterday afternoon that I got the messages. Everyone at the hospital knew before me. I feel as though I should have been here, that Nell had no one—” He broke off, blinking. “I don’t understand what Nell was doing with that man in her car.”

“We were hoping you might tell us,” said Booth. “Do you know of any previous connection your wife might have had with Mr. O’Reilly?”

“That chef? Why would Nell have known a London chef?” Greene seemed affronted by the very idea. Kincaid wondered if he’d have been just as incensed at the idea of any man with his ex-wife.

“Was your wife not interested in cooking, then?” asked Booth.

“Nell was always very career oriented. That was one of the reasons I—” Greene seemed to think better of what he’d been about to say. “Nell’s idea of dinner was a ready meal, I’m afraid. And the occasional Sunday roast. I couldn’t imagine what she meant to do with herself when she took early retirement.” There was definite disapproval in his tone now, and Kincaid felt a bit less favorably disposed towards him. The man had thought his wife should be more of a homemaker, but hadn’t liked her leaving her job when she was no longer married to him.

“I take it you two were still . . . cordial?” Kincaid asked.

The bristle seemed to go out of Dr. Greene. “Well, we weren’t in each other’s pockets, but I’d say we were on friendly enough terms.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve just had a call from Nell’s solicitor. This is very awkward. It seems I was still the designated beneficiary of Nell’s estate. And her executor. I never thought—” Closing his eyes, he steepled his fingers beneath his nose for a moment.

“Does that estate include Nell’s cottage?”

“Yes. And her savings and investments, which were not inconsiderable. I don’t want— Well, I shall have to see what’s to be done.”

“And the dog?”

“It will have to go back to the breeder. I’m allergic, I’m afraid.” Greene brushed his hands together, as if disposing of a problem. “I’ve spoken to the vicar,” he went on. “I’m to meet with her in the morning about arrangements, and then I suppose I’ll have a look at the cottage.”

“Dr. Greene,” put in Booth, glancing at his notebook, “is there anyone who can confirm that you were away the entire weekend?”

Greene frowned. “Well, my wife, of course. And I suppose the owner of the cottage where we stayed in the Lakes. What sort of a question is that?”

“Just part of our inquiries. There were some irregularities in the death of your ex-wife’s passenger.”

“Irregularities? What are you talking about? And what can that possibly have to do with our weekend away?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. It’s just that it appears Mr. O’Reilly died prior to the accident.”

“What?” Greene stared at him. Kincaid thought his skin looked suddenly papery against his dark hair—and that the hair was perhaps a bit too evenly brown to be natural for a man in his fifties.

“His heart, apparently,” Booth said. “The Mercedes coupe parked out front, the E-Class? Is that yours?”

“Well, yes.” Pride replaced some of Greene’s irritation, although he still looked at them suspiciously. “It’s quite new. That’s one of the reasons we took the weekend in the Lakes. I wanted to try it on a long drive.”

Booth closed his notebook with a snap and slipped it back in his pocket. “Thank you, Dr. Greene. We won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sorry for your loss.”

As Booth started to stand, Kincaid said, “One more thing, Doctor. I understand that at one time you shared your practice with a Dr. Abbott.”

Greene seemed suddenly wary. “What of it? That was years ago.”

“Would you mind telling me why you dissolved the partnership?”

“I don’t see—” Greene gave an impatient glance at his watch, then sighed. “Well, if you must know, there had been issues . . . I’d long worried that George was a bit too free with his prescriptions. On top of that, Nell and I disliked the way he treated his wife. Frankly, he was a bully. Then, when Laura died—” His gaze grew distant with the recollection. “It was a terrible time. She—” Greene cleared his throat before going on. “She cut her wrists in the shower. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they found medications in her system, things George had prescribed. Rumors were flying. It was all just too . . . awkward. I felt I couldn’t continue to associate with him.”