Even barefoot, dressed in leggings and what looked to be one of her husband’s cast-off rugby shirts, the woman radiated sex appeal. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a flash of brilliant white smile made her seem as Mediterranean as her kitchen, but her accent held an incongruous trace of Scots burr. “Do you like it?” she said to Gemma, gesturing at the kitchen. She hadn’t missed Gemma’s rapt stare. “Do you cook—”
“Darling,” said her husband, “they are not here to talk about cooking, as difficult as that may be for you to imagine.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
“Nevertheless, they cannot talk without something to eat and drink. There are wholemeal scones still warm in the oven, and I will make some latte.”
Kincaid opened his mouth to protest. “No, really, that’s quite—”
“Sit,” ordered Valerie, and Kincaid obediently sat in a clear spot on the settee. Gemma lingered in the kitchen, sniffing as Valerie opened the Aga’s warming oven.
“You’re wondering how I manage not to waddle,” said Malcolm as he joined Kincaid. He pointed at the dogs, who had stretched out on the tile floor in a patch of sunlight. “If it weren’t for running those two up and down the bloody hills twice a day, I probably wouldn’t be able to get through the door, much less into my clothes. Val’s cooking is quite irresistible.”
The hiss of the espresso machine filled the room, and when Valerie had filled cups Gemma helped her carry coffee and scones into the solarium. Once settled in a comfortable slipcovered chair, Gemma tasted her scone as Valerie watched expectantly.
“Wonderful,” said Gemma sincerely. “Better than anything from a bakery.”
“It takes ten minutes to mix these from scratch, yet people buy
“But you’re English, aren’t you, Mrs. Reid?” asked Gemma through a mouthful of crumbs.
“Valerie, please,” she said, helping herself to a scone. “My parents are Anglicized Italians. They settled in Scotland and opened the most British of cafes, on the anything-you-can-do-we-can-do-better principle. This they even extended to the naming of their children.” She tapped her chest. “You’d think Valerie was bad enough, but they called my brother Ian. Can you imagine anything less Italian than Ian? And they learned to fry everything in rancid grease, in the best British fashion.
“But I forgave them, because every summer they sent me to Italy to stay with my grandmama, and so I learned to cook.”
“Val.” Malcolm’s voice held amusement. “Give the superintendent a chance, would you?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Valerie, sounding not the least bit abashed. “Do get on with whatever it is you need to get on with.” She settled back into her nest of papers, cup of latte in one hand, scone plate balanced on her knee.
Kincaid smiled and sipped his coffee before replying. “Mr. Reid, I believe you told us that you’d had no contact with Alastair Gilbert before his death?” Before Reid could affirm or deny this rather open-ended question, Kincaid continued, “But I think that in fact you misled us. You had an appointment with Gilbert at six o’clock the evening before he died, which he confirmed by telephone. Just what was Gilbert’s urgent business with you, Mr. Reid?”
A smooth bluff, thought Gemma, but would it work?
Malcolm Reid glanced openly at his wife, then rubbed his palms against the knees of his jeans. “Val said at the time that it wasn’t a good idea, but I simply didn’t want to complicate things any more than necessary for Claire. She’s had a difficult enough time as it is.”
When Reid didn’t continue, Kincaid said, “You have to let us do the interpreting. We’ll make every effort to cause Claire as little distress as possible, but the only way she can get on with her life is to have this business resolved. Surely you can see that?”
Reid nodded, glanced at his wife again, started to speak, stopped, then finally said, “I find this all very awkward and embarrassing.”
“What my husband is trying to tell you,” said Valerie, matter-of-factly, “is that Alastair had developed some wild idea that Malcolm was having a passionate liaison with his wife.”
Reid gave her a grateful look as he nodded in agreement. “That’s right. I don’t know what put it into his head, but he was behaving quite oddly. I had no idea how to deal with him.”
“Oddly in what way?” asked Gemma, having finished her scone and rescued her notebook from the depths of her bag. “Was he violent?”
“No … not physically, at least. But he didn’t seem quite rational. One minute he’d be demanding proof and threatening me, then the next he’d be smiling and jocular, and sort of … ingratiating.” Reid gave a slight shudder. “I can’t tell you how creepy it was. He kept talking about his
“Did he mention anything, or anyone, in particular?” Kincaid sat forwards intently.
Shaking his head, Reid said, “No, but he was almost … gloating. As if he were enjoying his secrets. And he kept saying that if I’d just tell him the truth, he wouldn’t take any action against me.”
Kincaid raised an eyebrow at that. “Very magnanimous of him. What did you do?”
“Told him there was nothing to tell and that he could bloody well bugger off. He shook his head, as if he were disappointed in me. Can you imagine that?” Reid’s voice rose incredulously.
“And that’s how he left you?”
“No.” Reid rubbed his hands against his jeans again and smiled a bit crookedly. “It’s too melodramatic—I feel an ass just repeating it. ‘Malcolm, my boy, I promise you’ll regret this,’ he said as he reached the door. Just like some character in a bad film.” One of the spaniels raised its head at the change in Malcolm’s voice and gave him a sleepy, puzzled look. Reassured, it flopped down again with a gusty sigh.
“What did you do then?” asked Gemma. “That must have made you feel a bit odd.”
“Laughed it off, at first. But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt. I tried to ring Claire, but no one answered, and once Alastair had time to get home, I was afraid that my ringing up would only aggravate
