“It seems their lunch didn’t go quite as smoothly as they claimed at first. Connor excused himself to help with the washing up, but Plummy says he never came in the kitchen, and he left without saying good-bye to Gerald and Caroline.” She scraped the last bit of soup from the cup. “I think he must have gone upstairs to Julia.”
“He did, and they had a nasty row.”
Gemma felt her mouth drop open. She closed it with a snap, then said, “How could you possibly know that?”
“Kenneth Hicks told me, then Julia herself.”
“All right, guv,” Gemma said, exasperated. “You’ve got that cat-in-the-cream look. Give.”
By the time he’d recounted his day, their main courses had come and they both ate quietly for a few minutes. “What I can’t understand,” he said as he finished a bite of fish and sipped his wine, “is how a yobbo like Kenneth Hicks managed to hook Connor so thoroughly.”
“Money can be a powerful incentive.” Gemma deliberated between more braised leeks or more roasted potatoes, then took both. “Why did Julia lie about the row with Connor? It seems innocent enough.”
Kincaid hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose she didn’t think it significant. It certainly wasn’t a new argument.”
Fork halfway to her mouth, Gemma said hotly, “But this wasn’t a case of failing to mention something that might or might not have been significant. She deliberately lied. And she lied about leaving the gallery as well.” She returned her fork with its speared chicken to her plate, and leaned toward Kincaid. “It’s not right the way she’s behaved, refusing to take care of the funeral arrangements. What would she have done, let the county bury him?”
“I doubt that very much.” Kincaid pushed his plate aside and leaned back a little in his chair.
Although his tone had been mild enough, Gemma felt rebuked. Feeling a flush begin to stain her cheeks, she retrieved her fork, then set it down again as she realized she’d lost her appetite.
Watching her, Kincaid said, “Finished already? What about that pudding?”
“I don’t think I can possibly manage it.”
“Drink your wine, then,” he said, topping up her glass, “and we’ll have a word with David.”
Gemma bristled at this avuncular instruction, but before she could respond he caught the barman’s eye.
“Ready for your sweets?” David said as he reached their table. “The chocolate roulade is heavenly—” As they both shook their heads he continued with hardly a break in stride, “No takers. Cheese, then? The cheese selection is quite good.”
“A question or two, actually.” Kincaid had opened his wallet. First he showed David his warrant card, then a snapshot of Connor he had begged from Julia. “We understand this fellow was a regular customer of yours. Do you recognize him?”
“Of course I do,” answered David, puzzled. “It’s Mr. Swann. What do you mean, ‘was’?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Kincaid said, using the standard formula. “We’re looking into the circumstances of his death.”
“Mr. Swann—dead?” For a moment the young man looked so pale that Kincaid reached out and pulled up a chair from the next table.
“Sit down,” said Kincaid. “The mob is not exactly queuing up for service at the bar.”
“What?” David folded into the proffered chair as if legless. “Oh, I see what you mean.” He gave a wan attempt at a smile. “It’s just a bit of a shock, is all. Seems like just the other night he was here, and he was always so… larger-than-life. Vital.” Reaching out, he touched the surface of the photograph with a tentative fingertip.
“Can you remember what night it was you saw him last?” Kincaid asked quietly, but Gemma could sense his concentrated attention.
David drew his brows together, but said quickly enough, “My girlfriend, Kelly, was working late checkout at the Tesco, didn’t finish till half-past nine or thereabouts… Thursday. It must have been Thursday.” He glanced at them both, expecting approbation.
Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes across the table and she saw the flash of victory, but he only said, “Good man. Do you remember what time he came in on Thursday?”
“Late-ish. Must have been after eight.” Warming up to his tale, David continued, “Sometimes he came in by himself, but usually he was with people I thought must be clients of some sort. Not that I eavesdropped on purpose, mind you,” he added, looking a bit uncomfortable, “but when you’re waiting tables sometimes you can’t help but overhear, and they seemed to be talking business.”
“And that night?” Gemma prompted.
“I remember it particularly because it was different. He came in alone, and even then he didn’t seem his usual self. He was short with me, for one thing. ‘Something’s really got on his wick,’ I thought.” Remembering Gemma, he added, “Sorry, miss.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t mind me.”
“Mr. Swann, now, he could put it away with the best of them, but he was always jolly with it. Not like some.” David made a face and Gemma nodded sympathetically. As if that had reminded him of his other customers, he glanced at the table in the back, but its occupants were still too engrossed in one another to notice his lack of attention. “Then this other bloke came in, and they took a table for dinner.”
“Did they know each other?” Kincaid asked.
“What did—” Gemma interjected, but Kincaid stopped her with a quickly lifted hand.
“Oh, I’m sure they must have done. Mr. Swann stood up as soon as the other bloke came in the door. They went straight to their table after that, so I didn’t hear what they said—custom was fairly good that night—but things seemed friendly enough at first.”
