Leave the Grave Green (23 page)

Kincaid shone his pocket torch on the gravel. “You can see the wheel ruts where cars have been parked. Forensic will love this.”

Gemma turned to him, clamping down on her chattering teeth. “How could Tommy have done it? Even if he’d choked Connor and dumped him in the boot of his car, he would have to have driven like a demon to be in London before eleven o’clock. He
couldn’t possibly have driven to Hambleden and carried Con’s body all that way.”

“But,” Kincaid began reasonably, “he could have left the body in the boot, driven to London to establish an alibi, and dumped the body later.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why go to the theater, the one place that would connect him with the Ashertons, and through them, with Connor? And if he wanted to establish an alibi, why not sign in with the porter? It was only chance that Alison Douglas saw him in Gerald’s dressing room, and Gerald certainly hasn’t mentioned it.” Having forgotten the cold and damp in the heat of her argument, Gemma drew breath for her final salvo. “And even if the rest of it were true, how could he possibly have carried Con’s body from the Hambleden carpark to the lock?”

Kincaid smiled his most infuriating smile, the one that meant he found her vehemence amusing. “Well, I guess we had better ask him, hadn’t we?”

Alison Douglas protested when Gemma rang her early the next day. “But, Sergeant, how can I possibly ask the ushers to come in this morning when they worked last night? And some of them have other jobs or school.”

“Do the best you can. The alternative is having them down to the Yard, which I doubt most of them would be too keen on.” Gemma tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. A restless night and a drive back to London in the thick of the commuter traffic had left her feeling shirty, but that was no excuse for taking it out on Alison. And it was not the most reasonable of requests, after all. “I’ll be there before noon,” she told Alison, ringing off.

Replacing the receiver in its cradle, she surveyed with distaste the paperwork swamping Kincaid’s desk. She felt none of her usual satisfaction in having appropriated his office, but rather the same discomfort that had kept her awake into the wee hours. Something had been different about Kincaid last night—at first she had only been aware of a rather feverish quality to his behavior, but as she tossed and turned through the night she came to the conclusion that his responses to her had altered as well. Had she only imagined the easy companionship of the previous evening in London? He had sought her out. Had his delight in her flat and evident enjoyment of her company caused her to drop her barriers a dangerous notch too far?

She shrugged and rubbed her eyes, trying to massage away the fatigue, but she couldn’t erase the fleeting thought that the change
in Kincaid’s manner had something to do with his visit to Julia Swann.

In the end, Alison managed to bring in four of the ushers, and they sat cramped together on folding chairs in her office, looking disgruntled but curious.

Gemma introduced herself, adding, “I’ll try not to keep you any longer than necessary. Do any of you know Tommy Godwin, the Wardrobe Manager? Tall, thin, fairish man, very well dressed?” Looking at them, she wasn’t hopeful that sartorial elegance had a place in their vocabularies. The three young men were neat but ordinary, and the girl had managed what Gemma recognized as low-budget dressing with a bit of flair. “I want to know if anyone saw him last Thursday evening.” The young men glanced sideways at one another from blank faces. Behind them Alison stood with arms crossed, leaning lightly against the wall, and Gemma saw her mouth open slightly in surprise.

Shaking her head slightly at Alison, Gemma waited, letting the silence stretch.

Finally, the girl spoke. “I did, miss.” Her voice held a trace of West Indian cadence, probably acquired from parents or other family members who were first-generation immigrants, thought Gemma.

Letting out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, Gemma said, “Did you? You’re sure it was Thursday evening, now?
Pelleas and Melisande
, right?” She hadn’t really expected such a positive result, still didn’t quite trust it.

“Yes, miss.” The girl smiled as if she found Gemma’s doubt amusing. “I see all the productions—I can tell which is which.”

“Good. I’m glad one of us can.” Gemma smiled, silently kicking herself for sounding patronizing. “What’s your name?”

“Patricia, miss. I’m a design student—I’m interested in costumes, so sometimes I help out a bit with Wardrobe. That’s how I know Mr. Godwin.”

“Can you tell me about Thursday evening?”

The girl glanced round at Alison as if seeking permission from
the nearest authority. “Go ahead, Patricia, tell the Sergeant. I’m sure it’s quite all right,” responded Alison.

“Mr. Godwin came into the lobby from the street doors. Usually I stand just inside the auditorium and listen to the performance, but I’d just come back from the Ladies’ and was crossing the lobby myself. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me.”

Gemma didn’t know whether she felt relief or disappointment—if Tommy had been telling the truth about watching the performance, he couldn’t have been in Wargrave with Connor. “What did he do then, did you see?”

“Went in the next aisle over. Roland’s,” she added with a sideways glance at the best-looking of the young men.

“Did you see him?” asked Gemma, turning her attention to him.

He smiled at her, comfortable with the sudden attention. “I can’t say for sure, miss, as I don’t know him, but I don’t remember seeing anyone of that description.”

At least he hadn’t called her “madame.” Gemma returned the smile and turned her attention back to Patricia. “Once you’d gone back to your post in the auditorium, did you see him again?”

The girl shook her head. “The mob started out just after, and I had my hands full.”

“Intermission so soon?” asked Gemma, puzzled.

“No.” Patricia shook her head more forcefully this time. “Final curtain. I’d only realized I needed to go for a pee”—she sent a quelling glance at the young men—“just in time.”

“Final curtain?” Gemma repeated faintly. “I thought you meant he’d come in just after the performance began.”

“No, miss. Five minutes, maybe, before the end. Just before eleven o’clock.”

Gemma drew in a breath, collecting herself. So it might have been Tommy in the Red Lion after all. “Did you see him later on, Patricia, when you were clearing up?”

“No, miss.” Having entered into the spirit of things, she sounded as if she genuinely regretted having nothing more to offer.

“Okay, thanks, Patricia. You’ve been a great help.” Gemma looked at the men. “Anyone else have anything to add?” Receiving
the expected negatives, she said, “All right, clear off, then, the lot of you.” Patricia trailed out last, looking back a little shyly. “Bright girl,” said Gemma as the door closed.

“What is all this about Tommy, Sergeant?” asked Alison, coming to sit on the edge of her desk. She brushed absently at the wrinkles in her brown wool suit. The fabric was the same soft tone as her hair and eyes and made her look, thought Gemma, like a small brown wren.

“Are you quite sure you didn’t see him until you went to Gerald’s dressing room?”

“I’m positive. Why?”

“He told me he was here in the theater during the entire performance that night. But Patricia’s just contradicted that, and she seems a reliable witness.”

“Surely you don’t think Tommy had anything to do with Connor’s death? That’s just not possible. Tommy is… well, everyone likes Tommy. And not just because he’s witty and amusing,” Alison said as though Gemma had suggested it. “That’s not what I mean. He’s kind when he doesn’t have to be. I know you wouldn’t think it from his manner, but he notices people. That girl, Patricia—I imagine he gave her some encouragement. When I first started here I tiptoed around everything, terrified of making a mistake, and he always had a kind word for me.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Gemma, hoping to soothe Alison’s hostility, “but there is a discrepancy here, and I must follow through on it.”

Alison sighed, looking suddenly weary. “I suppose you must. What can I do to help?”

“Think back to those few minutes in Sir Gerald’s dressing room. Did you notice anything at all unusual?”

“How can I tell?” asked Alison, her feathers ruffling again. “How can I be sure my recollection’s not distorted by what you’ve told me? That I’m not making something out of nothing?” When Gemma didn’t respond, she went on more quietly. “I have been thinking about it. They stopped talking when I came into the room. I felt as if I’d put my foot in—you know?” She looked at
Gemma for confirmation. “Then after that awkward bit, they seemed a bit too hearty, too jolly, if you know what I mean. I think now that’s why I only stayed a minute, just long enough to offer the usual congratulations, although I didn’t consciously realize it at the time.”

“Anything else?” Gemma asked, without too much anticipation.

“No. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Smiling at Alison, Gemma made an effort to overcome the lethargy that seemed to be creeping into her limbs. “I will have to talk to him again, and he’s proving rather elusive. This morning I’ve tried his flat, LB House, and here, with no joy. Any suggestions?”

Alison shook her head. “No, he ought to be around.”

Seeing the spark of concern in Alison’s eyes, Gemma said thoughtfully, “I hope our Mr. Godwin won’t prove too difficult to find.”

High Wycombe CID had obligingly made room for Kincaid at an absent DI’s desk, and there he had spent the morning, going through report after inconclusive report. He stretched, wondering if he should have another cup of dreadful coffee, or give it up and have some lunch.

Duty and coffee were grudgingly in the lead when Jack Makepeace put his head round the door. “Anything?”

Kincaid pulled a face. “Sod all. You’ve read them. Any word from the team in Wargrave?”

Makepeace grinned evilly. “Two crushed lager cans, some foil gum wrappers, the remains of a dead bird and a half-dozen used condoms.”

“A popular parking spot, is it?”

“It marks the beginning of a footpath that runs along the river for a bit, then loops around the churchyard. Parking there isn’t strictly legal, but people do it anyway, and I dare say a spot of midnight necking goes on as well.” Makepeace fingered his mustache for a moment. “The forensic lads say the gravel’s much too soft and messed about for tire casts.”

“I expected as much.” Kincaid regarded him thoughtfully. “Jack, if the body went in the river at Wargrave, could it have drifted downstream to Hambleden by morning?”

Makepeace was shaking his head before Kincaid had finished. “Not possible. River’s too slow, for one thing, and there’s Marsh Lock, just past Henley, for another.”

Thinking of Julia’s brief escape from the gallery, he said, “Then I suppose the same would be true of Henley, if he’d gone in along the River Terrace?”

Makepeace levered his bulk away from the door frame and walked over to the area map on the office wall. He pointed a stubby finger at the twisting blue ribbon representing the River Thames. “Look at all these twists and turns, all making places where a body might catch.” Turning back to Kincaid, he added, “I think your body went in within a few hundred yards of where it was found.”

Kincaid pushed back the creaky chair, stretched out his legs and laced his fingers behind his neck. “I’m afraid you’re right, Jack. I’m just clutching at straws. What about the houses along the river, above the lock? House-to-house turn up anything?”

“Either they were all sleeping like babies by ten o’clock,” Makepeace said sarcastically, laying his cheek against the back of his hand, “or they see talking to us as an excuse to trot out their own pet phobias. Remember that flat conversion at the beginning of the weir walkway? Old biddy in one of the riverside flats says she heard voices sometime after the late news finished. When she looked out her window she saw a man and a boy on the walkway. ‘Poofters,’ she says. ‘Queers sinning against the Lord.’ And motorcycle hoodlums to boot.” Makepeace’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “It seems the boy had longish hair and wore leather, and that was good enough for her. Before my PC could get away, she asked him if he’d been saved by Jesus.”

Kincaid snorted. “Doesn’t make me miss my days on the beat. What about access from south of the river, then? Through the meadows.”

“Need a Land Rover, or something with a four-wheel drive. Ground’s like glue after all this rain.” Makepeace studied
Kincaid’s face, then said sympathetically, “Bad luck. Oh”—he patted the file tucked under his left arm—“here’s something might cheer you up—final report from pathology.” He handed it across to Kincaid. “Spot of lunch?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Kincaid said with a wave, then dug into the file.

After a cursory read-through he picked up the phone and eventually managed to reach Dr. Winstead in his lair. “Doctor,” he said when he had identified himself, “I know now what time Connor ate—nine, or shortly thereafter. Are you sure he couldn’t have died as early as ten?”

“Meat and potatoes, was I right?”

“Steak, actually,” Kincaid admitted.

“I’d put it closer to midnight, unless the fellow had stomach acid that would’ve stripped paint.”

“Thanks, Dr. Winnie. You’re a dear.” Kincaid rang off and contemplated the scattered reports. After a moment he swept them into a pile, pulled up the knot on his tie and went in search of more pleasant prospects.

When Gemma returned to the Yard, she found a message on her desk that read simply, “Tom Godwin called. Brown’s Hotel, three o’clock.”

She went in search of the duty sergeant. “Was that all, Bert? Are you sure?”

Affronted, he said, “Have you ever known me to make a mistake with a message, Gemma?”

“No, dear, of course not.” She patted his grizzled head affectionately. “It’s just odd, that’s all.”

“That’s what the gentleman said, verbatim,” said Bert, slightly mollified. “The guv’nor wants to see you, by the way.”

“Oh, terrific,” she muttered under her breath, and received a sympathetic glance from Bert.