Leave the Grave Green (20 page)

“Connor may not have taken very good care of some parts of his life, but in others he was quite meticulous. He recorded every check he wrote—did you know that, Kenneth? You don’t mind if I call you Kenneth, do you?” Kincaid added, all politeness again. When Hicks didn’t reply, he continued. “He paid you large amounts on a very regular basis. I’d be curious to see how those amounts tally with what he owed your boss—”

“You leave him out of this!” Hicks almost shouted, sloshing beer on the table. He looked around to see if anyone else had heard, then leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hiss. “I’m telling you, you leave him—”

“What were you doing, Kenneth? A little loan-sharking on the side? Carrying Con’s debts with interest? Somehow I don’t think your boss would take too kindly to your skimming his clients like that.”

“We had a private arrangement, Con and me. I helped him out when he was in trouble, same as he’d have done for me, same as any mates.”

“Oh, mates, was it? Well, that puts a different complexion on it entirely. I’m sure in that case Connor didn’t mind you making money off his debts.” Kincaid leaned forward, hands on the edge of the table, resisting the urge to grab Hicks by the lapels of his leather bomber jacket and shake him until his brains rattled. “You’re a bloodsucker, Kenneth, and with mates like you nobody needs enemies. I want to know when you saw Connor last, and I want to know exactly what you talked about, because I’m beginning to think Con got tired of paying your cut. Maybe he threatened to go to your boss—is that what happened, Kenneth? Then maybe the two of you had a little scuffle and you pushed him in the river. What do you think, sunshine? Is that how it happened?”

The bar had begun to fill and Hicks had to raise his voice a little to make himself heard over the increasing babble. “No, I’m telling you, man, it wasn’t like that at all.”

“What was it like?” Kincaid said reasonably. “Tell me about it, then.”

“Con had a couple of really stiff losses, close together, couldn’t
come up with the ready. I was flush at the time so I covered him. After that it just got to be sort of a habit.”

“A nasty habit, just like gambling, and one I’ll bet Con got fed up with pretty quickly. Con hadn’t written you a check the last few weeks before he died. Was he balking, Kenneth? Had he had enough?”

Perspiration beaded on Hicks’s upper lip and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “No, man, the horses had been good to him the last couple of weeks, for a change. He paid off what he owed—we were square, I swear we were.”

“That’s really heartwarming, just like good little Boy Scouts. I’ll bet you shook hands on it, too.” Kincaid sipped from his glass again, then said conversationally, “Nice local beer, don’t you think?” Before Hicks could reply he leaned across the little table until he was inches from the man’s face. “Even if I believed you, which I don’t, I think you’d look for some other way to soak him. You seem to know a lot about his personal life, considering your
business
arrangement. Looking for another foothold, were you, Ken? Did you find something out about Connor that he didn’t want anyone else to know?”

Hicks shrank back. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man,” he said, then wiped spittle from his lower lip. “Why don’t you ask that slut of his what she knows? Maybe she found out hell’d freeze over before he’d marry her.” He smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth, and Kincaid found it no improvement over his sneer. “Maybe she shoved him in the river—did you ever think about that one, Mr. Bloody Know-it-all?”

“What makes you think he wouldn’t have married Sharon?”

“Why should he? Get himself stuck with a stupid little cow like that—take on some other bugger’s bleedin’ kid? Not on your nelly.” Sniggering, Hicks pulled another cigarette from the packet and lit it from the butt of the first. “And her with a gob like a fishwife.”

“You’re a real prince, Kenneth,” Kincaid said generously. “How do you know Sharon thought Con intended to marry her? Did she tell you?”

“Too right, she did. Said, ‘He’ll get shut of you then, Kenneth Hicks. I’ll make sure of it.’ Stupid—”

“You know, Kenneth, if you’d been the one found floating facedown in the Thames, I don’t think we’d have had to look far for a motive.”

“You threatening me, man? You can’t do that—that’s—”

“Harassment, I know. No, Kenneth, I’m not threatening you, just making an observation.” Kincaid smiled. “I’m sure you had Connor’s best interests at heart.”

“He used to tell me things, when he’d had a few, like.” Hicks lowered his voice confidentially. “Wife had him by the balls. She crooked her little finger, he’d come running with his tail between his legs. He’d had a hell of a row with her that day, the bitch—”

“What day, Kenneth?” Kincaid said very distinctly, very quietly.

Cigarette frozen halfway to his lips, Hicks stared at Kincaid like a rat surprised by a ferret. “Don’t know. You can’t prove nothing.”

“It was the day he died, wasn’t it, Kenneth? You saw Connor the day he died. Where?”

Hicks’s close-set eyes shifted nervously away from Kincaid’s face and he drew sharply on the cigarette.

“Spit it out, Kenneth. I’ll find out, you know. I’ll start by asking these nice people here.” Kincaid nodded toward the bar. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

“So what if I did have a couple of pints with him? How was I to know it was different from any other day?”

“Where and when?”

“Here, same as always. Don’t know what time,” Hicks said evasively, then added as he saw Kincaid’s expression, “Twoish, maybe.”

After lunch
, Kincaid thought. Con had come straight here from Badger’s End. “He told you he’d had a row with Julia? What about?”

“Don’t know, do I? Nothin’ to do with me.” Hicks clamped his mouth shut so decisively that Kincaid changed tacks.

“What else did you talk about?”

“Nothin’. We just had a friendly pint, like. Not against the law, is it, havin’ a friendly drink with a mate?” Hicks asked, voice rising as if he might be working himself up to hysteria.

“Did you see Connor again after that?”

“No, I never. Not after he left here.” He took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray.

“Where were you that night, Kenneth? From eight o’clock or so on?”

Shaking his head, Hicks said, “None of your friggin’ business, is it? I’ve had enough of your bleedin’ harassment. I ain’t done nothin’, fuckin’ filth got no right to keep after me.” He shoved his empty glass away and pushed back on his stool, watching Kincaid, the whites of his eyes showing beneath the irises.

Kincaid debated the benefit of pushing him any farther, and decided against it. “All right, Kenneth, have it your way. But stay around where I can find you, just in case we need to have another little visit.” Hicks’s stool screeched against the floor as he stood up. As he pushed past, Kincaid reached up and sank his fingers into the sleeve of his leather jacket. “If you even think about disappearing, boyo, I’ll have the lads after you so fast you won’t be able to find a hole big enough to hide your skinny backside. Do we understand each other, mate?”

After a long moment, Hicks nodded and Kincaid smiled and let him go. “There’s a good boy, Ken. See you around.”

Kincaid turned and watched Hicks scuttle out the door into the street, then he carefully wiped his fingers against his jeans.

Not one to let good beer go to waste, Kincaid drained the last drop of his pint. He considered briefly having another, but the pub’s atmosphere didn’t encourage lingering.

Out in the street, he sniffed the air curiously. He’d noticed the smell when he arrived in town, but it seemed stronger now. Familiar but elusive… tomatoes cooking, perhaps? Finding his car free of sprayed graffiti and still in possession of its wheel covers, Kincaid stood still for a moment and closed his eyes. Hops. Of course it was hops—it was Monday and the brewery was in full operation. The wind must have shifted since he’d arrived at the pub, bringing the rich odor with it. The brewery would be closing soon, as well as most of the shops, he thought as he glanced at his watch—rush hour, such as it was, had begun in Henley.

He’d navigated his way onto the Reading Road, intent on exchanging the day’s findings with Gemma back at the Chequers, when the signpost for the Station Road carpark caught his eye. Almost without thinking he found himself making the turn and pulling the car into a vacant slot. From there it was only a few hundred yards’ walk down the Station Road to the river. On his right lay the boathouse flats, serene behind their iron fence in the dusk.

Something had been niggling at him—he couldn’t swear to the date of the last check Connor had written Kenneth. Kincaid had never finished his interrupted search of Con’s desk, and now he let himself into the flat with the key he’d used earlier, intending to have another look at the checkbook.

He stopped just inside the door. Looking around, he tried to pinpoint why the flat felt different. Warmth, for one thing. The central heating had been switched on. Con’s shoes had disappeared from beneath the settee. The untidy stack of newspapers on the end table had gone as well, but something even less definable spoke of recent human occupation. He sniffed, trying to place the faint scent in the air. Something tugged at the fringes of his mind, then vanished as he heard a noise above.

He held his breath, listening, then moved quietly toward the stairs. A scrape came, then a thump. Someone moving furniture? He’d only been a few minutes behind Kenneth leaving the pub—had the little sod beat him here, bent on destroying evidence? Or had Sharon come back, after all?

Both doors on the first landing had been pulled to, but before he could investigate, the noise came again from above. He climbed the last flight of steps, carefully keeping his feet to the edge of the treads. The studio door stood open a few inches, not enough to give him a clear view into the room. Taking a breath, he used his fist to slam the door open. He charged into the room as the door bounced against the wall.

Julia Swann dropped the stack of canvases she held in her hands.

“Jesus, Julia, you gave me a fright! What the hell are you doing here?” He stood breathing hard, adrenaline still rushing through his body.

“I gave
you
a fright!” She stared at him wide-eyed, holding her balled hand to her chest and flattening her black sweater between her breasts. “You probably just cost me ten years off my life, Superintendent, not to mention damage to my property.” She bent to retrieve her paintings. “I might ask you the same question—what are you doing in my flat?”

“It’s still under our jurisdiction. I’m sorry I frightened you. I had no idea you were here.” Trying to regain a semblance of authority, he added, “You should have notified the police.”

“Why should I feel obliged to let the police know I’d come back to my own flat?” She sat on the rolled arm of the chair she used for a prop in her paintings and looked at him challengingly.

“Your husband’s death is still under investigation, Mrs. Swann, and he did live here, in case you’d forgotten.” He came nearer to her and sat on the only other available piece of furniture, her worktable. His feet dangled a few inches above the floor and he crossed his ankles to stop them swinging.

“You called me Julia before.”

“Did I?” Then, it had been instinctive, involuntary. Now he used it deliberately. “Okay, Julia.” He drew the syllables out. “So what are you doing here?”

“I should think that would be rather obvious.” She gestured around her and he turned, examining the room. Paintings, both the small flower studies and the larger portraits, had been stacked against the walls, and a few had been hung. Dust had vanished from the visible surfaces, and some of the paints and paper familiar to him from her workroom at Badger’s End had appeared on the table. She had brought in a large pot plant and placed it near the blue velvet chair—those, along with the faded Persian rug and the brightly colored books in the case behind the chair, formed the still-life tableau he’d seen in several of the paintings at the gallery.

The room felt alive once more, and he finally identified the scent that had eluded him downstairs. It was Julia’s perfume.

She had slid down into the depths of the chair and sat quietly smoking with her legs stretched out, and as he looked at her he saw that her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. “Why did you give this up, Julia? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Studying him, she said, “You look different out of your proper policeman’s kit. Nice. Human, even. I’d like to draw you.” She stood suddenly and touched her fingers to the angle of his jaw, turning his head. “I don’t usually do men, but you have an interesting face, good bones that catch the light well.” Just as quickly, she sank into the chair again and regarded him.

He still felt the imprint of her fingers against his skin. Resisting the urge to touch his jaw, he said, “You haven’t answered me.”

Sighing, she ground the half-smoked cigarette into a pottery ashtray. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Try me.”

“You would have to know how things were with us, toward the end.” Idly, she rubbed the nap on the chair arm the wrong way. Kincaid waited, watching her. She looked up and met his eyes. “He couldn’t pin me down. The more he tried the more frustrated he got, until finally he started imagining things.”

Fastening on the first part, Kincaid asked, “What do you mean, he couldn’t pin you down?”

“I was never there for him, not in the way he wanted, not when he wanted…” She crossed her arms as if suddenly cold and rubbed her thumbs against the fabric of her sweater. “Have you ever had anyone suck you dry, Superintendent?” Before he could answer, she added, “I can’t go on calling you Super-bloody-intendent. Your name’s Duncan, isn’t it?” She gave his name a slight stress on the first syllable, so that he heard in it a Scots echo.

“What kind of things did Connor imagine, Julia?”

Her mouth turned down at the corners and she shrugged. “Oh, you know. Lovers, secret trysts, that sort of thing.”