“Probably attractive, yes… unless he was a bit too full of himself. I got the impression he was quite the ladies’ man.”
Kincaid wondered how Julia Swann felt about that—she hadn’t impressed him as a woman willing to sit home meekly while her husband played the lad. It also occurred to him to wonder how much of his desire to see Connor had to do with assessing the physical evidence, and how much to do with his personal curiosity about the man’s wife.
He turned to Mickey and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Could we have a look at the rest?”
The young man obliged wordlessly, flipping the sheet off altogether.
“He’d been on holiday, but I’d say not recently,” Gemma commented as they saw the faint demarcation of a tan against belly and upper thighs. “Or maybe just summer boating on the Thames.”
Deciding he might as well imitate Mickey’s nonverbal style of communication, Kincaid nodded and made a rolling motion with his hand. Mickey slid both gloved hands beneath Connor Swann’s body, turning him with an apparent ease betrayed only by a barely audible grunt.
Wide shoulders, faintly freckled; a thin pale band on the neck bordering the hairline, evidence of a recent haircut; a mole where the buttock began to swell from the hollow of the back—all trivial things, thought Kincaid, but all proof of Connor Swann’s uniqueness. It always came, this moment in an investigation when the body became a person, someone who had perhaps liked pickle-and-cheese sandwiches, or old Benny Hill comedies.
“Had enough, guv?” Gemma said, sounding a bit more subdued than usual. “He’s clean as a whistle this side.”
Kincaid nodded. “Not much else to see. And nothing does us much good until we’ve traced his movements and got some estimate of time of death. Okay, Mickey,” he added, as the expression on the young man’s face indicated they might as well have been speaking in Greek. “I guess that’s it. Let’s look up Sherry Sunshine.” Kincaid looked back as they reached the door. Mickey had already turned Connor’s body and tidied the sheet as neatly as before.
They found her in a cubbyhole just to the left of the swinging doors, bent industriously over a computer keyboard, cheerful as ever. “Do you know when they’ve scheduled the post?” Kincaid asked.
“Um, let’s see.” She studied a typed schedule stuck to the wall with Sellotape. “Winnie can probably get to him late tomorrow afternoon or early the following morning.”
“Winnie?” Kincaid asked, fighting the absurd vision of Pooh Bear performing an autopsy.
“Dr. Winstead.” Sherry dimpled prettily. “We all call him that—he’s a bit tubby.”
Kincaid contemplated attending the postmortem with resignation. He had long ago got over any sort of grisly thrill at the proceedings. Now he found it merely distasteful, and the ultimate violation of human privacy sometimes struck him as unbearably sad. “You’ll let me know as soon as you schedule it?”
“Quick as a wink. I’ll do it myself.” Sherry beamed at him.
Out of the corner of his eye Kincaid saw Gemma’s expression and knew she’d rag him about buttering up the hired help. “Thanks, love,” he said to Sherry, giving her his full-wattage smile. “You’ve been a great help.” He waggled his fingers at her. “Cheerio, now.”
“You’re absolutely shameless,” said Gemma as soon as they were through the outer doors. “That poor little duck was as susceptible as a baby.”
Kincaid grinned at her. “Gets things done, though, doesn’t it?”
After a few unplanned detours due to her unfamiliarity with High Wycombe’s one-way system, Gemma found her way out of the town. Following Kincaid’s directions, she drove southwest, back into the hidden folds of the Chiltern Hills. Her stomach grumbled a bit, but they had decided that they should interview the Ashertons again before lunch.
In her mind she ran through Kincaid’s and Tony’s comments about the family, her curiosity piqued. She glanced at Kincaid, a question forming on her lips, but his unfocused gaze told her he was somewhere else entirely. He often got like that before an interview, as if it were necessary for him to turn inward before bringing that intense focus to bear.
She concentrated again on her driving, but she suddenly felt extraordinarily aware of his long legs taking up more than their share of the room in her Escort’s passenger compartment, and of his silence.
After a few minutes they reached the point where she had to make an unfamiliar turning. Before she could speak, he said, “Just here. Badger’s End lies about halfway along this little road.” His fingertip traced a faint line on the map, between the villages of Northend and Turville Heath. “It’s unmarked, a shortcut for the locals, I suppose.”
Ribbons of water trickled across the pavement where a stream bed ran down through the trees and intersected the narrow road. A triangular yellow road sign warned DANGER: FLOODING, and suddenly the story Gemma had heard of Matthew Asherton’s drowning seemed very immediate.
“Hard left,” Kincaid said, pointing ahead, and Gemma turned the wheel. The lane they entered was high- banked, just wide enough for the Escort to pass unscathed, and on either side thick trees arched until they met and intertwined overhead. It climbed steadily, and the high banks rose until the tree roots were at eye level. On the right, Gemma caught an occasional flash through the foliage of golden fields dropping down to a valley. On the left the woods crowded, darkly impenetrable, and the light filtering through the leafy canopy over the lane seemed green and liquid.
“Sledging,” Gemma said suddenly.
“What?”
“It reminds me of sledging. You know, bobsledding. Or the Olympic luge.”
Kincaid laughed. “Don’t accuse me of poetic fancy. Careful now, watch for a turning on the left.”
They appeared to be nearing the top of the gradient when Gemma saw a gap in the left-hand bank. She slowed and eased the car onto the leaf-padded track, following it on and slightly downhill until she rounded a bend and came into a clearing. “Oh,” she said softly, surprised. She’d expected a house built with the comfortable flint and
