years—to me love means darned socks and ‘whose turn is it to take out the rubbish, darling?’” Grinning, he drank a little more of his whiskey. “It may not be exciting, but you know where you are—” He sobered suddenly. “Or at least you should, unless one of you behaves like an ass.
“I was infatuated with Julia, fascinated, entranced; but I’m not sure one could ever get close enough to love her.”
As much as Kincaid disliked the necessity, he dug in, his voice suddenly harsh. “Were you infatuated enough to lie for her? Are you sure she didn’t leave the gallery when the party finished that night? Did she tell you that she had to see someone? That she’d be back in an hour or two?”
The pleasant humor vanished from Trevor Simons’s face. He finished his whiskey and set his glass down deliberately, carefully, in the exact center of its mat. “She did not.
“I may be an adulterer, Superintendent, but I’m not a liar. And if you think Julia had anything to do with Connor’s death, I can tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. She was with me from the time we closed up the gallery until daybreak. And having burned my bridges, so to speak, by confessing to my wife, I’ll testify to that in court if I must.”
CHAPTER
13
Kincaid rang the bell and waited. He rang again, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot and whistling under his breath. No sound came from inside the flat, and he turned away, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment.
The sound of the door opening stopped him. When he turned back he found Julia looking at him silently, registering neither pleasure nor dismay at his presence. She lifted the wineglass she held in a mock salute. “Superintendent. Is this a social call? You can’t join me if you’re going to play the heavy.”
“My, my,” he said, taking in the faded red jersey she wore over black leggings, “an outbreak of color. Is this significant?”
“Sometimes one has to abandon one’s principles when one hasn’t done laundry,” she answered rather owlishly. “Do come in—what will you think of my manners? Of course,” she added as she stepped back into the sitting room, “it might be my concession to mourning.”
“A reverse statement?” Kincaid asked, following her into the kitchen.
“Something like that. I’ll get you a glass. The wine’s upstairs.” She opened a cupboard and stood up on her toes, stretching to reach a shelf. Kincaid noticed that she wore thick socks but no shoes, and her feet looked small and unprotected. “Con arranged everything in the kitchen to suit himself,” she said, snagging a glass. “And it seems whenever I want anything it’s always just out of reach.”
Kincaid felt as if he’d barged in on a party in progress. “Were you expecting someone? There’s no need for me to interrupt—I only wanted a quick word with you, and I thought I’d pick up Sharon Doyle’s things as well.”
Julia turned around and stood with her back against the counter, looking up at him, holding both glasses against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting a soul, Superintendent. There’s not a soul to expect.” She chuckled a little at her own humor. “Come on. We had graduated from ‘Superintendent,’ hadn’t we?” she added over her shoulder as she led him back through the sitting room. “I suppose I’m the one backsliding.”
She wasn’t more than a bit tipsy, Kincaid decided as he climbed the stairs after her. Her balance and coordination were still good, although she moved a little more carefully than usual. As they passed the first landing he glimpsed the tumbled, unmade bed through the bedroom’s open doorway, but the study door still stood tightly shut.
When they reached the studio he saw that the lamps were lit and the blinds drawn, and it seemed to him that the room had acquired another layer of Julia’s personality in the twenty-four hours since he’d seen it last. She had been working and a partially finished painting was pinned to the board on her worktable. Kincaid recognized the plant from the rambles of his Cheshire boyhood—speedwell, the gentian-blue flowers along the pathside that were said to “speed you well” upon your journey. He also remembered his dismay in discovering that its beauty could not be held captive—the delicate blooms wilted and died within minutes of picking.
The rest of the table’s surface held open botanical texts, crumpled papers and several used glasses. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, and very faintly of Julia’s perfume.
She padded across the Persian carpet and sank to the floor in front of the armchair, which she used as a backrest. Beside the chair were Julia’s ashtray, close to overflowing, and an ice bucket holding a bottle of white wine. She filled Kincaid’s glass. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Duncan. You can’t hold a funeral celebration standing up.”
Kincaid lowered himself to the floor and accepted his drink. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“With a bloody good Cap d’Antibes, too. Con would have liked a wake, don’t you think? He was all for Irish tradition.” Tasting what remained of her wine, she made a face. “Warm.” She refilled her glass, then lit a cigarette. “I’m going to cut down, I promise,” she said in anticipation of Kincaid’s protest, smiling.
“What are you doing, barricading yourself up here like this, Julia? The rest of the house doesn’t look like anyone’s been in it.” He examined her face, deciding that the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than they had been the day before. “Have you eaten anything?”
Shrugging, she said, “There were still some bits and pieces in the fridge. Con’s sort of bits, of course. I would have settled for bread and jam. I suppose I hadn’t realized,” she paused to draw on her cigarette, “that it would have become Con’s house. Not mine. Yesterday I spent most of the day cleaning, but it didn’t seem to make any difference—he’s everywhere.” She made a circular gesture with her head, indicating the studio. “Except here. If he ever came up here, he left no traces.”
“What makes you want to eradicate him so thoroughly?”
“I told you before, didn’t I?” She knitted her brow and gazed at him over the rim of her glass, as if she couldn’t quite remember. “Con was a first-class shit,” she said without heat. “A drinker, a gambler, a womanizer, a lout with a load of Irish blarney that he thought would get him anything he wanted—why would I want to be reminded of him?”
Kincaid raised a skeptical eyebrow and sipped his wine. “Can we attribute this to Con, too?” he asked, tasting its crisp delicacy against the roof of his mouth.
