Leave the Grave Green

Moving her plate out of the way, Gemma leaned toward him. “That’s not all, Tommy. The barman came out just after you and Connor left the pub. He says he saw you fighting down by the river.”

Although she wouldn’t have believed that a man with Tommy Godwin’s poise and experience could blush, she could have sworn his face turned pink with embarrassment.

There was a moment’s pause as he refused to meet her eyes. Finally, he said, “I’ve not done anything like that since I was at school, and even then I considered any form of physical violence both undignified and uncivilized. It was the accepted way to get on in the world, beating what one wanted out of someone else, and I made a deliberate choice to live my life differently. It got me labeled a pansy and a poofter, of course,” he added with a hint of the familiar, charming smile, “but I could live with that. What I couldn’t live with was the thought of abandoning my principles.

“When I found myself locked in a ridiculous schoolboy scuffle with Connor, I simply stopped and walked away.”

“And he let you?”

Tommy nodded. “I think he’d run out of steam himself by that time.”

“Had you parked your car on the gravel by the river?”

“No, I’d found a spot on the street, a block or two up from the pub. Someone may have seen it,” he added hopefully. “It’s a classic Jaguar, red, quite distinctive.”

“And then, after you’d returned to your car?”

“I drove to London. Having agreed to see Con, against my better judgment, I’d spoiled my evening, and I felt he’d rather made a fool of me. I thought I’d try to salvage as much of my original plan as I could.”

“Five minutes’ worth?” asked Gemma, skeptically.

He smiled. “Well, I did my best.”

“And you didn’t make a point of stopping by Sir Gerald’s dressing room in order to establish an alibi?”

Patiently, he said, “I wanted to congratulate him, as I told you before, Sergeant.”

“Even though you hadn’t actually seen the performance?”

“I could tell by the audience’s response that it had been particularly good.”

She searched his face, and he returned her gaze steadily. “You’re right, you know, Tommy,” she said at last. “You are an awful liar. I suppose you went straight home from the theater?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.”

“Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”

“No, my dear. I’m afraid not. And I parked in back of my building and went up in the service lift, so I didn’t see anyone at all. I’m sorry,” he added, as if it distressed him to disappoint her.

“I’m sorry, too, Tommy.” Gemma sighed. Feeling suddenly weary, she said, “You could have put Connor’s body in the boot of your car, then driven back to Hambleden after the performance and dumped him in the lock.”

“Really? What an extraordinarily imaginative idea.” Tommy sounded amused.

Exasperated, she said, “You do realize that we’ll have to impound your car so that the forensics team can go over it. And we’ll have to search your flat for evidence. And you will have to come down to the Yard with me now and make a formal statement.”

He lifted the delicate porcelain teapot and smiled at her. “Well, then you had better finish your tea, my dear Sergeant.”

CHAPTER

12

Lunch with Jack Makepeace improved Kincaid’s outlook on life considerably. Replete with cheese, pickle and pints of Green King ale, they blinked as they came out into the street from the dim interior of a pub near the High Wycombe nick. “That’s a surprise,” said Makepeace, turning his face up to the sun. “And I doubt it’ll last long—the forecast is for cats and dogs.”

The perfect antidote to a morning spent wheel-spinning, thought Kincaid as he felt the faint warmth of the sun against his face, was a good walk. “I think I’ll take advantage of it,” he said to Makepeace as they reached the station. “You can reach me if anything comes up.”

“Some people have all the luck,” Makepeace answered good-naturedly. “It’s back to the salt mines for the likes of me.” He waved and disappeared through the glass doors.

Kincaid made the short drive from High Wycombe to Fingest, and on reaching the village he hesitated for a moment before turning into the pub’s carpark. Although the vicarage looked mellow and inviting in the afternoon sun and the vicar was certainly the authority on local walks, he decided it was much too likely he’d end up spending the rest of the afternoon being comfortably entertained in the vicar’s study.

In the end, Tony proved as useful and accommodating on the matter of walks as he had about everything else. “I’ve just the thing,” he said, retrieving a book from the mysterious recesses under the bar. “Local pub walks. Three and a half miles too much for you?” He eyed Kincaid measuringly.

“I think I can just about manage that,” Kincaid said, grinning.

“Fingest, Skirmett, Turville, and back to Fingest. All three villages are in their own valleys, but this particular walk avoids the steepest hill. You might get a bit mucky, though.”

“Thanks, Tony. I promise not to track up your carpets. I’ll just go and change.”