“No. I stood about for a minute. I guess I still hoped he’d come after me, say he was sorry. Silly cow,” she added bitterly.
“You weren’t silly at all. You had no way of explaining Con’s behavior—in your place I think I’d have done exactly the same.”
She took a moment to absorb this, then said haltingly, “Mr. Kincaid, do you know why Con said those things… why he treated me like that?”
Wishing he had some comfort to give her, he said, “No,” then added with more certainty than he felt, “but I’m going to find out. Come on, let’s get you inside. Your gran’ll have the police out after you.”
Her smile was as weak as his little joke, and manufactured simply to please him, he felt sure. As they reached the cottage door, he asked, “What time was it when you left Con, Sharon? Do you remember?”
She nodded at the massive tower behind them. “Church clock struck eleven just as I came round the Angel.”
After he left Sharon, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to Kincaid that he should continue down the hill and along the river to Julia’s flat. He would collect Sharon’s things while he was thinking of it, and while he was there he’d question Julia again about her movements after the gallery closed that night.
Or so said the rational, logical part of his mind. Some other part stood back and watched the machinations of the first, an amused and taunting spectator. Why didn’t he admit he hoped he might sit with her, watching the warm lamplight reflect from the shining curve of her hair? Or admit that he wanted to see again the way her lips curved up at the corners when she found something he said amusing? Or that his skin still remembered the touch of her fingers against his face?
“Bollocks!” Kincaid said aloud, banishing the spectator to the recesses of his mind. He needed to clear up a few points, that was all, and his interest in Julia Swann was purely professional.
The wind that earlier cleared the sky had died at sunset, leaving the evening still and hushed, waiting expectantly. Lights reflecting on the water’s surface made it look ice-solid, and as he passed the Angel pub and walked along the embankment, he felt the chill air hovering over the river like a cloud.
As he came opposite Trevor Simons’s gallery, he saw Simons come out the door. Hurriedly crossing the street, Kincaid found him still bent over the latch. He touched his arm. “Mr. Simons. Having a bit of trouble with your lock?”
Simons jumped, dropping the heavy key ring he’d held in his hand. “Christ, Superintendent, but you gave me a fright.” He stooped to retrieve the keys and added, “It does stick a bit, I’m afraid, but I’ve got it now.”
“On your way home?” Kincaid said pleasantly, wondering even as he asked if Simons’s itinerary included a visit to Julia. Now that she was reinstalled in the flat just down the road, they would have no more need of furtive meetings in the workshop behind the gallery.
Simons stood a little awkwardly, holding his keys in one hand and a portfolio in the other. “Yes, actually. Did you need to see me?”
“There were one or two things,” Kincaid answered, making a decision as he spoke. “Why don’t we go across the road and have a drink?”
“It won’t take more than half an hour?” Simons looked at his watch. “We’re going out for a meal tonight. My wife’s sent the children to friends—it’s more than my life’s worth to be late.”
Kincaid hastened to reassure him. “We’ll just nip across to the Angel. I promise we won’t be long.”
They found the pub busy, but it was a sedate crowd—made up, judged Kincaid, mostly of professional people having a quick drink before making their way home after work.
“Nice place,” Kincaid said as they settled comfortably at a table by one of the windows overlooking the river. “Cheers. I admit I’ve developed rather a taste for Brakspear’s Special.” Tasting his beer, he watched his companion curiously. Simons had sounded a bit embarrassed about his dinner engagement, yet it had the ring of truth. “Sounds as though you and your wife have quite a romantic evening planned,” Kincaid said, fishing.
Simons looked away, his earlier discomfort more evident. The silver in his thick brown hair caught the light as he ran a hand through it. “Well, Superintendent, you know what women are like. She’ll be very disappointed if I don’t participate with enthusiasm.”
A boat motored slowly under the Henley Bridge, its port and starboard lights gleaming steadily. Kincaid idly pushed his beer mat back and forth with one finger, then looked up at Simons. “Did you know that Julia’s moved back into her flat?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. She rang me yesterday.” Before Kincaid could respond, Simons said more forcefully, “Look, Superintendent. I took your advice the other day. I told my wife about… what happened with Julia.” Simons’s fine- boned face looked drawn with exhaustion, and as he sipped from his whiskey and water, his hand trembled slightly.
“And?” Kincaid said when he didn’t continue.
“She was shocked. And hurt, as you can imagine,” Simons said quietly. “I think that the damage won’t be easy to repair. We’ve had a good marriage, probably better than most. I should never have been so careless of it.”
“You sound as though you don’t mean to continue things with Julia,” Kincaid said, knowing it was none of his business, and that his investigation hardly justified crossing the boundary of good manners.
Simons shook his head. “I can’t. Not if I mean to mend things with my wife. I’ve told Julia.”
“How did she take it?”
“Oh, she’ll be all right.” Simons smiled with the same gentle, self-deprecating humor Kincaid had seen before. “I was never more than a passing fancy to Julia, I’m afraid. I’ve probably saved her the bother of having to say, ‘Sorry, old dear, but it was only a bit of a lark.’”
It occurred to Kincaid that Simons, like Sharon Doyle, was probably glad of a nonpartisan ear, and he pushed his advantage. “Were you in love with her?”
“I’m not sure ‘love’ and ‘Julia’ exist in the same vocabulary, Mr. Kincaid. I’ve been married almost twenty
