House, and here, with no joy. Any suggestions?”
Alison shook her head. “No, he ought to be around.”
Seeing the spark of concern in Alison’s eyes, Gemma said thoughtfully, “I hope our Mr. Godwin won’t prove too difficult to find.”
High Wycombe CID had obligingly made room for Kincaid at an absent DI’s desk, and there he had spent the morning, going through report after inconclusive report. He stretched, wondering if he should have another cup of dreadful coffee, or give it up and have some lunch.
Duty and coffee were grudgingly in the lead when Jack Makepeace put his head round the door. “Anything?”
Kincaid pulled a face. “Sod all. You’ve read them. Any word from the team in Wargrave?”
Makepeace grinned evilly. “Two crushed lager cans, some foil gum wrappers, the remains of a dead bird and a half-dozen used condoms.”
“A popular parking spot, is it?”
“It marks the beginning of a footpath that runs along the river for a bit, then loops around the churchyard. Parking there isn’t strictly legal, but people do it anyway, and I dare say a spot of midnight necking goes on as well.” Makepeace fingered his mustache for a moment. “The forensic lads say the gravel’s much too soft and messed about for tire casts.”
“I expected as much.” Kincaid regarded him thoughtfully. “Jack, if the body went in the river at Wargrave, could it have drifted downstream to Hambleden by morning?”
Makepeace was shaking his head before Kincaid had finished. “Not possible. River’s too slow, for one thing, and there’s Marsh Lock, just past Henley, for another.”
Thinking of Julia’s brief escape from the gallery, he said, “Then I suppose the same would be true of Henley, if he’d gone in along the River Terrace?”
Makepeace levered his bulk away from the door frame and walked over to the area map on the office wall. He pointed a stubby finger at the twisting blue ribbon representing the River Thames. “Look at all these twists and turns, all making places where a body might catch.” Turning back to Kincaid, he added, “I think your body went in within a few hundred yards of where it was found.”
Kincaid pushed back the creaky chair, stretched out his legs and laced his fingers behind his neck. “I’m afraid you’re right, Jack. I’m just clutching at straws. What about the houses along the river, above the lock? House-to- house turn up anything?”
“Either they were all sleeping like babies by ten o’clock,” Makepeace said sarcastically, laying his cheek against the back of his hand, “or they see talking to us as an excuse to trot out their own pet phobias. Remember that flat conversion at the beginning of the weir walkway? Old biddy in one of the riverside flats says she heard voices sometime after the late news finished. When she looked out her window she saw a man and a boy on the walkway. ‘Poofters,’ she says. ‘Queers sinning against the Lord.’ And motorcycle hoodlums to boot.” Makepeace’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “It seems the boy had longish hair and wore leather, and that was good enough for her. Before my PC could get away, she asked him if he’d been saved by Jesus.”
Kincaid snorted. “Doesn’t make me miss my days on the beat. What about access from south of the river, then? Through the meadows.”
“Need a Land Rover, or something with a four-wheel drive. Ground’s like glue after all this rain.” Makepeace studied Kincaid’s face, then said sympathetically, “Bad luck. Oh”—he patted the file tucked under his left arm —“here’s something might cheer you up—final report from pathology.” He handed it across to Kincaid. “Spot of lunch?”
“Give me ten minutes,” Kincaid said with a wave, then dug into the file.
After a cursory read-through he picked up the phone and eventually managed to reach Dr. Winstead in his lair. “Doctor,” he said when he had identified himself, “I know now what time Connor ate—nine, or shortly thereafter. Are you sure he couldn’t have died as early as ten?”
“Meat and potatoes, was I right?”
“Steak, actually,” Kincaid admitted.
“I’d put it closer to midnight, unless the fellow had stomach acid that would’ve stripped paint.”
“Thanks, Dr. Winnie. You’re a dear.” Kincaid rang off and contemplated the scattered reports. After a moment he swept them into a pile, pulled up the knot on his tie and went in search of more pleasant prospects.
When Gemma returned to the Yard, she found a message on her desk that read simply, “Tom Godwin called. Brown’s Hotel, three o’clock.”
She went in search of the duty sergeant. “Was that all, Bert? Are you sure?”
Affronted, he said, “Have you ever known me to make a mistake with a message, Gemma?”
“No, dear, of course not.” She patted his grizzled head affectionately. “It’s just odd, that’s all.”
“That’s what the gentleman said, verbatim,” said Bert, slightly mollified. “The guv’nor wants to see you, by the way.”
“Oh, terrific,” she muttered under her breath, and received a sympathetic glance from Bert.
“He hasn’t eaten anyone since lunch, love.”
“Ta, Bert,” said Gemma, grinning. “That makes me feel ever so much better.”
Still, she went along the corridor in some trepidation. In truth, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs was known to be fair with his staff, but there was something in his pleasant and courteous manner that made her want to confess even imagined misdeeds. His door stood open, as was his policy, and Gemma tapped lightly before entering. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Childs looked up from a file. He had recently adopted granny-style reading glasses, and they looked so
