love, I’m off to the—” His hand up to tighten his tie, he stopped as he saw Kincaid.
“Here’s Mr. Frye now,” she said to Kincaid, then added to her boss, “A man from Scotland Yard, here about Connor, John.”
“Scotland Yard? Connor?” Frye repeated, and his momentary bewilderment gave Kincaid a chance to study him. He judged him to be about his own age, but short, dark, and already acquiring that extra layer of padding that comes with desk-bound affluence.
Kincaid introduced himself, and Frye recovered enough to shake hands. “What can I do for you, Superintendent? I mean, from what Sir Gerald said, I didn’t expect…”
Smiling disarmingly, Kincaid said, “I just have a few routine questions about Mr. Swann and his work.”
Frye seemed to relax a bit. “Well, look, I was just going round to the pub for some lunch, and I’ve got a client meeting as soon as I get back. Could we talk and grab a bite at the same time?”
“Suits me.” Kincaid realized that he was ravenously hungry, a not unexpected side effect of attending an autopsy, but the prospect of the culinary delights to be found in a Reading pub didn’t fill him with anticipation.
As they walked the block to the pub, Kincaid glanced at his companion. Three-piece suit in charcoal gray, expensively cut, but the waistcoat strained its buttons; midday beard shadow; hair slicked back in the latest yuppie fashion; and as Kincaid matched his stride to the shorter man’s, he caught the scent of musky aftershave. He thought Connor had given the same attention to his appearance—and advertising was, after all, a business of image.
They made desultory chitchat until they reached their destination, and as they entered the White Hart, Kincaid’s spirits lifted considerably. Plain and clean, the pub had an extensive lunch menu chalked on a board and was filled with escapees from other offices, all busily eating and talking. He chose the plaice, with chips and salad, his stomach rumbling. Turning to Frye, he asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Lemonade.” Frye grimaced apologetically. “I’m slimming, I’m afraid. I love beer, but it goes straight to my middle.” He patted his waistcoat.
Kincaid bought him a lemonade and ordered a pint for himself, not feeling the least bit of guilt at giving his companion cause for envy. Carrying their drinks, they threaded their way to a small table near the window. “Tell me about Connor Swann,” he said as they settled into their seats. “How long had he worked for you?”
“A little over a year. Gordon and I needed someone to do the selling, you see. We’re neither of us really good at it, and we’d acquired enough clients that we thought we could justify—”
“Gordon’s your partner?” Kincaid interrupted. “I thought there were three of you.” He sipped his pint and wiped a bit of foam from his lip with his tongue.
“I’m sorry. I’d better start at the beginning, hadn’t I?” Frye looked longingly at Kincaid’s celery, sighed and went on. “I’m
The barmaid appeared at their table with laden plates. Tall and blond, she might have been a Valkyrie in jeans and sweater. She bestowed a ravishing smile upon them along with their lunches and made her way back through the crowd. “That’s Marian,” Frye said. “We call her the Ice Maiden. Everyone’s madly in love with her and she enjoys it immensely.”
“Does the adjective refer to her looks or her disposition?” I Kincaid looked at Frye’s plate of cold salad and tucked happily into his steaming fish and chips.
“I’m not allowed fried things, either,” Frye said, eyeing Kincaid’s food wistfully. “Marian’s disposition is sunny enough, but she’s not generous with her favors. Even Connor struck out.”
“Did he chat her up?”
“Does the sun rise every morning?” Frye asked sarcastically, pushing a sprig of watercress into the corner of his mouth with his little finger. “Of course Con chatted her up. It was as natural to him as breathing—” He stopped, looking stricken. “Oh Christ, that was tasteless. I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t quite taken it in yet.”
Kincaid squeezed a little more lemon on his excellent fish and asked, “Did you like him? Personally, I mean.”
Frye looked thoughtful. “Well yes, I suppose I did. But it’s not that simple. We were quite chuffed to have him at first, as I said. Of course, we wondered why he would have left one of the best firms in London for us, but he said he’d been having domestic problems, wanted to be a bit closer to home, get out of the London rat race, that sort of thing.” He took another bite of salad and chewed deliberately.
Kincaid wondered if Frye’s sorrowful expression reflected his opinion of his lunch or his feelings about Connor. “And?” he prompted gently.
“I suppose it was naive of us to have believed it. But Con could be very charming. Not just with women—men liked him, too. That was part of what made him a good salesman.”
“He was good at his job?”
“Oh yes, very. When he put his mind to it. But that was the problem. He was so full of enthusiasm at first— plans and ideas for everything—that I think Gordon and I were rather swept away.” Frye paused. “Looking back on it, I can see that there was a kind of frantic quality to it, but I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“Back up just a bit,” Kincaid said, his forkful of chips halted in midair. “You said you were naive to have believed Connor’s reasons for coming to work for you—did you find they weren’t true?”
“Let’s say he left a good deal out,” Frye answered ruefully. “A few months later we began hearing trickles through the grapevine about what had really happened.” He drew his brows together in a frown. “Didn’t his wife tell you? You have spoken to the wife?”
“Tell me what?” Kincaid avoided the question, trying to fit the vivid image of Julia in his mind into that neutral possessive.
