Leave the Grave Green

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.”