“Nothin’. We just had a friendly pint, like. Not against the law, is it, havin’ a friendly drink with a mate?” Hicks asked, voice rising as if he might be working himself up to hysteria.
“Did you see Connor again after that?”
“No, I never. Not after he left here.” He took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray.
“Where were you that night, Kenneth? From eight o’clock or so on?”
Shaking his head, Hicks said, “None of your friggin’ business, is it? I’ve had enough of your bleedin’ harassment. I ain’t done nothin’, fuckin’ filth got no right to keep after me.” He shoved his empty glass away and pushed back on his stool, watching Kincaid, the whites of his eyes showing beneath the irises.
Kincaid debated the benefit of pushing him any farther, and decided against it. “All right, Kenneth, have it your way. But stay around where I can find you, just in case we need to have another little visit.” Hicks’s stool screeched against the floor as he stood up. As he pushed past, Kincaid reached up and sank his fingers into the sleeve of his leather jacket. “If you even think about disappearing, boyo, I’ll have the lads after you so fast you won’t be able to find a hole big enough to hide your skinny backside. Do we understand each other, mate?”
After a long moment, Hicks nodded and Kincaid smiled and let him go. “There’s a good boy, Ken. See you around.”
Kincaid turned and watched Hicks scuttle out the door into the street, then he carefully wiped his fingers against his jeans.
CHAPTER
10
Not one to let good beer go to waste, Kincaid drained the last drop of his pint. He considered briefly having another, but the pub’s atmosphere didn’t encourage lingering.
Out in the street, he sniffed the air curiously. He’d noticed the smell when he arrived in town, but it seemed stronger now. Familiar but elusive… tomatoes cooking, perhaps? Finding his car free of sprayed graffiti and still in possession of its wheel covers, Kincaid stood still for a moment and closed his eyes. Hops. Of course it was hops—it was Monday and the brewery was in full operation. The wind must have shifted since he’d arrived at the pub, bringing the rich odor with it. The brewery would be closing soon, as well as most of the shops, he thought as he glanced at his watch—rush hour, such as it was, had begun in Henley.
He’d navigated his way onto the Reading Road, intent on exchanging the day’s findings with Gemma back at the Chequers, when the signpost for the Station Road carpark caught his eye. Almost without thinking he found himself making the turn and pulling the car into a vacant slot. From there it was only a few hundred yards’ walk down the Station Road to the river. On his right lay the boathouse flats, serene behind their iron fence in the dusk.
Something had been niggling at him—he couldn’t swear to the date of the last check Connor had written Kenneth. Kincaid had never finished his interrupted search of Con’s desk, and now he let himself into the flat with the key he’d used earlier, intending to have another look at the checkbook.
He stopped just inside the door. Looking around, he tried to pinpoint why the flat felt different. Warmth, for one thing. The central heating had been switched on. Con’s shoes had disappeared from beneath the settee. The untidy stack of newspapers on the end table had gone as well, but something even less definable spoke of recent human occupation. He sniffed, trying to place the faint scent in the air. Something tugged at the fringes of his mind, then vanished as he heard a noise above.
He held his breath, listening, then moved quietly toward the stairs. A scrape came, then a thump. Someone moving furniture? He’d only been a few minutes behind Kenneth leaving the pub—had the little sod beat him here, bent on destroying evidence? Or had Sharon come back, after all?
Both doors on the first landing had been pulled to, but before he could investigate, the noise came again from above. He climbed the last flight of steps, carefully keeping his feet to the edge of the treads. The studio door stood open a few inches, not enough to give him a clear view into the room. Taking a breath, he used his fist to slam the door open. He charged into the room as the door bounced against the wall.
Julia Swann dropped the stack of canvases she held in her hands.
“Jesus, Julia, you gave me a fright! What the hell are you doing here?” He stood breathing hard, adrenaline still rushing through his body.
“I gave
“It’s still under our jurisdiction. I’m sorry I frightened you. I had no idea you were here.” Trying to regain a semblance of authority, he added, “You should have notified the police.”
“Why should I feel obliged to let the police know I’d come back to my own flat?” She sat on the rolled arm of the chair she used for a prop in her paintings and looked at him challengingly.
“Your husband’s death is still under investigation, Mrs. Swann, and he did live here, in case you’d forgotten.” He came nearer to her and sat on the only other available piece of furniture, her worktable. His feet dangled a few inches above the floor and he crossed his ankles to stop them swinging.
“You called me Julia before.”
“Did I?” Then, it had been instinctive, involuntary. Now he used it deliberately. “Okay, Julia.” He drew the syllables out. “So what are you doing here?”
“I should think that would be rather obvious.” She gestured around her and he turned, examining the room. Paintings, both the small flower studies and the larger portraits, had been stacked against the walls, and a few had been hung. Dust had vanished from the visible surfaces, and some of the paints and paper familiar to him from her workroom at Badger’s End had appeared on the table. She had brought in a large pot plant and placed it near the blue velvet chair—those, along with the faded Persian rug and the brightly colored books in the case behind the chair, formed the still-life tableau he’d seen in several of the paintings at the gallery.
The room felt alive once more, and he finally identified the scent that had eluded him downstairs. It was Julia’s perfume.
