Beside him, Sharon stirred and pulled the cardigan a little closer about her. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he turned to her, saying briskly, “One more thing, Sharon, and then you’d better go in before you catch a chill. We have a witness who’s certain he saw Connor at the Red Lion in Wargrave after he left you that night. Con met a man who fits the description of Tommy Godwin, an old friend of the Ashertons. Do you know him, or did you ever hear Con mention him?”
He could almost hear her thinking as she sat beside him in the dark, and he thought that if he looked closely enough he would see her brow furrowed in concentration. “No,” she said eventually, “I never did.” She turned to him, pulling her knee up on the bench so that she could face him directly. “Did they… were they having a row?”
“According to the witness, it was not a particularly friendly meeting. Why?”
She put her hand to her mouth, nibbling at the nail of her index finger. Nail-biting was a form of self-mutilation that had never tempted Kincaid, and it always made him wince for the damaged flesh. He waited, lacing his own fingers together to stop himself from pulling her hand away from her mouth.
“I thought it was me made him angry,” she said in a rush. “He came back that night. He wasn’t pleased to see me-he wanted to know why hadn’t I gone back to Gran’s, like I said.” She touched Kincaid’s sleeve. “That’s why I didn’t say anything before. I felt such a bloody fool.”
Kincaid patted her hand. “Why hadn’t you gone home?”
“Oh, I did. But Gran’s bridge finished early-one of the old ladies felt a bit ill-so I came back. I was sorry I’d left in a huff before. I thought he’d be glad to see me and we could-” She gulped, unable to go on, but what she had hoped was painfully clear to Kincaid without any further elaboration.
“Was he drunk?”
“He’d had a few, but he wasn’t proper pissed, not really.”
“And he didn’t tell you where he’d been or who he’d seen?”
Sharon shook her head. “’E said, ‘What are you doing here?’ and walked past me like I was a piece of bloody furniture or something.”
“Then what? Tell me bit by bit, everything you can remember.”
Closing her eyes, she thought for a moment, then began obediently, “He went into the kitchen and fixed himself a drink-”
“Not to the drinks trolley?” asked Kincaid, remembering the plethora of bottles.
“Oh, that was just for show. Company. Con drank whiskey and he always kept a bottle on the kitchen counter,” she said, then continued more slowly. “He came back into the sitting room and I noticed he kept rubbing at his throat. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him. ‘You’re not feeling ill, love?’ But he didn’t answer. He went upstairs into the study and closed the door.”
“Did you follow him?” Kincaid asked when she lapsed into silence.
“I didn’t know what to do. I’d started up the stairs when I heard him talking-he must have rung someone.” She looked at Kincaid and even in the dim reflected light he could see her distress. “He was laughing. That’s what I couldn’t understand. Why would he laugh when he’d hardly said boo to me?
“When he came downstairs again, he said, ‘I’m going out, Shar. Lock up when you leave.’ Well, I’d had enough by that time, I can tell you. I told him to lock his own bloody door-I wasn’t hanging about to be treated like a bloody tart, was I? I told him if he wanted to see me he could pick up the sodding phone and ring me, and I’d think about it if I hadn’t anything better to do.”
“What did Connor say to that?”
“’E just stood there, his face all blank, like he hadn’t heard a word I said.”
Kincaid had heard Sharon in full fury, and he thought Connor must have been very preoccupied indeed. “And did you? Leave, I mean?”
“Well, I had to, hadn’t I? What else was I to do?”
“The scene definitely called for a grand exit,” said Kincaid, smiling.
Sharon smiled back a little reluctantly. “I slammed the bloody door so hard I ripped my nail right off. Hurt like hell, too.”
“So you didn’t actually see him leave the flat?”
“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.”