“He works for a local bookie, does some collecting for him, among other things. He’s also a nasty piece of work, and Connor paid him large amounts of money on a regular basis. That’s why I came back, to have another look at Connor’s checkbook.”
“I never thought of looking through Con’s things,” Julia said slowly. “I’ve not even been in the study.” She dropped her head in both hands and said through her splayed fingers, “I suppose I was putting off the inevitable.” After a moment she raised her head and looked at him, her lips twisting with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado. “I did find some woman’s things in the bedroom and in the bath. I’ve packed them up in a box—I didn’t know what else to do with them.”
So Sharon had not come back. “Give them to me. I think I can return them to their rightful owner.” Although he read the question in her expression, she didn’t speak, and they regarded one another in silence. He sat near enough to touch her, and the desire came to him to raise his hand and lay the backs of his fingers against the hollow of her cheek.
Instead, he said gently, “He was seeing someone, you know. A quite steady arrangement, from the sound of it. She has a four-year-old daughter, and Con told her that he would marry her and look after them both, just as soon as you’d let him have a divorce.”
For a long moment Julia’s face went blank, wiped as clean of expression as a mannequin’s, then she gave a strangled laugh. “Oh, poor Con,” she said. “The poor, silly bastard.”
For the first time since Kincaid had met her, he saw her eyes film with tears.
Gemma finished her second packet of peanuts and licked the salt from the tips of her fingers. Looking up, she saw Tony watching her and smiled a little shamefacedly. “Starving,” she said by way of apology.
“Let me have the kitchen fix you something.” Tony seemed to have adopted her as his own personal responsibility and was even more solicitous than usual. “We’ve got lovely pork chops tonight, and a vegetarian lasagna.”
Surreptitiously, Gemma glanced at her watch beneath the level of the bar. “I’ll wait a bit longer. Thanks, Tony.” After leaving Dame Caroline, she had driven to the pub and carried her case upstairs. Suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion, she’d stretched out on top of the duvet in her good clothes and slept deeply and dreamlessly for an hour. She’d awakened feeling cold and a little stiff, but refreshed. After a good wash and brush, she’d changed into her favorite jeans and sweater and gone down to wait for Kincaid.
Tony, polishing glasses at the far end of the bar, still kept an anxious eye on the level of cider in her glass. She had almost decided to let him refill it when he looked toward the door and said, “There’s your boss now, love.”
Kincaid slid onto the stool beside her. “Has Tony been plying you with drink?” He went on without waiting for an answer, “Good, because I’m going to ply you with food. Sharon Doyle told me that Connor favored the Red Lion in Wargrave—only place the food was up to his standards. I think we should suss it out for ourselves.”
“Will you be having a drink before you go, Mr. Kincaid?” asked Tony.
Kincaid looked at Gemma. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Then we had better go straight on, Tony.”
Tony flapped his dishcloth at them. “Cheerio. Though if you don’t mind my saying so,” he added in a slightly affronted tone, “their food’s no better than ours.”
Having lavished reassurances upon Tony, they escaped to the car and drove to Wargrave in silence.
Only when they had settled at a table in the cheerful atmosphere of the Red Lion did Gemma say, “Tony said you had a message from Sergeant Makepeace. What did he want? Where have you been?”
Kincaid, intent on his menu, said, “Let’s order first. Then I’ll tell you. See anything you fancy? Gratin of haddock and smoked salmon? Prawns in garlic sauce? Chicken breast with red and green peppercorns?” He looked up at her, grinning, and she thought his eyes looked unusually bright. “Con had it right—no shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash to be found here.”
“Are you sure our expenses will run to this?” Gemma asked.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” he said with exaggerated authority. “I’ll take care of it.”
Unconvinced, Gemma gave him a doubtful glance, but said, “I’ll have the chicken, then. And the tomato and basil soup for starters.”
“Going the whole hog?”
“Pudding, too, if I can find room for it.” She closed her menu and propped her chin on her hands. He had seated her with her back to the crackling fire and the warmth began to penetrate her sweater. “I feel I deserve it.”
The barman came round to them, his pad ready. He had a dishcloth tucked into his belt, dark, curling hair restrained in a pony-tail, and an engaging smile. “What will you have?”
Kincaid ordered the gratin for himself and added a bottle of American Fume Blanc. When they had finished the young man said, “Right, then. I’ll just turn this in to the kitchen.” As he slipped back behind the bar, he added, “My name’s David, by the way. Just give me a shout if you need anything else.”
Gemma and Kincaid looked at each other, brows raised, then she said, “Do you suppose the service is always this good, or is it just because it’s slow tonight?” She looked around the room. Only one other table was occupied— in the far corner a couple sat, heads bent close together.
“I’ll bet he has a good memory for customers. After we eat, we’ll give it a go.”
When David had returned and filled their glasses with chilled wine, Kincaid said, “Tell me.”
Gemma related her interview with Tommy Godwin, omitting her rather inglorious arrival. “I’m not sure I buy the bit about his coming into the theater from the front and standing up at the back of the stalls. Doesn’t feel quite right.”
Their starters came, and as Kincaid tucked into his pate, he said, “And what about Dame Caroline? Any joy there?”
