The space was long and narrow, with a big window overlooking the street and framing the grand piano. Bistro-style tables and chairs and a few banquettes lined the wall, leaving a free center aisle. The place smelled faintly but not unpleasantly of booze and sweat. Gemma did not miss the days when a bar like this would have reeked of morning-after ashtrays.
At the back was the bar itself, presided over for the moment by a barman wiping glasses with a cloth.
“Oy,” he said, looking up. “We’re closed until five. Didn’t you read the sign?”
Kerry flashed her ID at him, her attitude still in evidence. “Police.”
The barman raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Weights and measures?”
“CID,” Kerry snapped. The barman’s eyes widened a fraction.
Putting down his cloth, he said, “No need to get your knickers in a twist. What can I do for you ladies?” His receding hair was pulled into a ponytail and his tight black T-shirt was strained by the beginnings of a paunch. Still, there was charm in his grin, and Gemma guessed he was accustomed to using it.
Before Kerry could threaten him with cuffs, Gemma gave him her biggest smile. “Tell us your name, for starters.”
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Darrell. Darrell Byrd. Like the band. With a y.”
“Were you working this last Friday night?”
“I’m always working Fridays and Saturdays, darlin’. Me and one or two others. It’s a madhouse in here. What’s this in aid of?”
“Just a few questions relating to an investigation we’re pursuing.” Gemma suspected he wasn’t averse to a little drama, and she didn’t want the weight of “murdered girl” to color his account. She held up her phone with Reagan’s photo on the screen. “Do you remember seeing this girl on Friday night?”
Darrell wiped his hand again with the bar cloth, then took the phone from her and studied the photo. “Yeah, I remember her, though I couldn’t have told you whether it was Friday or Saturday.”
“Why do you remember her? Was she a regular?”
He shook his head. “No. But she was pretty, you know, in a girl-next-door sort of way.”
“Did you serve her alcohol?” Kerry asked.
“Of course I served her alcohol. It’s what I do.” Darrell gave her an unfriendly look. “And she was not underage, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, not at all,” Gemma assured him. “So, she did have a few drinks?”
“One. A specialty cocktail. I made it myself. She made a face when she tasted it, so I don’t think she cared for it.” Darrell looked a little hurt.
“And that was it?”
“Unless someone else served her, but I don’t think they did. She left not long after that. She was having a bit of a row with a bloke. I noticed because they were standing back by the loo”—he nodded towards a narrow corridor that led back from one side of the bar—“and I had to go to the storeroom to get another case of vodka.”
“Could you tell what the row was about?”
“Not really.” Darrell thought a moment. “She said something to him about ‘cheating.’”
“She said he was cheating? Not the other way round?” Gemma asked, thinking Hugo might have found out about Edward Miller.
“That’s what I remember. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in the guy, anyway.” Darrell rolled his eyes. “Little wanker, if you’ll excuse my language.”
Gemma frowned and saw Kerry wearing a perplexed expression. “A blond bloke, with hair like this?” She held her hand parallel to her jawline. “Very good looking, like a model?”
Darrell looked as confused as Kerry. “No. A weedy little guy. Needed to eat his spinach. Mousy hair. And spots.”
Kincaid left his car at the hospital and took the tube from Whitechapel to Farringdon. From there, he walked the short distance down Greville Street to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, tucked above the Bleeding Heart Tavern.
For some time, he’d used the club as a retreat. When he’d transferred to Holborn, and the club had become within walking distance, he’d come more often, but he’d never taken anyone there from his team at Holborn nick.
Now, he was glad to have a place where he could feel—at least temporarily—safe, and where he could think. It was nearing five by the time he reached the Bleeding Heart and there were already crowds spilling out of some of the Hatton Garden pubs. Ducking down the little alleyway beside the Bleeding Heart, he pushed the buzzer at the whisky society’s door. When it released, he climbed the open-tread stairs to the first floor.
The society rooms were directly above the pub. The large main room held the bar as well as seating at comfortable tables and sofas. Bright, modern paintings adorned the white walls. There was a fireplace in the room’s center, cozy in winter but unused now, and large windows on two of the room’s sides, open to catch any hint of breeze. To one side of the bar was a much smaller room, the Snug, with a single long table and walls lined with racks of the society’s special bottles.
Kincaid signed in at the bar, then ordered a sandwich to be sent up from the pub. “Choose something for me,” he said to the barman. “Something bracing.”
“Bad day?” asked the young man.
“You could say that.”
“Hmmm.” The barman thought for a moment, then poured a measure from a numbered bottle. “This should do it,” he said, handing Kincaid the small snifter. “Cheers.”
Kincaid thanked him and, drink in hand, headed for the low table in the very back corner. He wanted the spot where he would be least likely to be overheard. He’d texted Doug as he walked from Farringdon and had received a terse reply saying that Doug had been hung up at the Yard but was on his way.
After some thought, he texted Gemma, saying merely that he was back in London and would be home soon. He wasn’t ready to talk—he didn’t know where he would begin, or how he’d explain where he’d been that day. He missed her and the children with an almost physical ache, but he couldn’t let himself think about that now. He had to concentrate on making sense of what he’d learned.
Raising his glass, he took a swallow of the whisky, neat. What tasted like liquid smoked peat seared his throat and he blinked away tears. Bracing didn’t begin to describe the stuff. He lifted the glass again and inspected it. The liquid was pale gold with a slight green tint. Adding a drop of water from the jug provided on the table, he sipped again, gingerly. This time he got sweetness beneath the smoke, and butter, and medicinal herbs, with a last lingering hint of dark chocolate. Sipping again, he sat back, feeling some of the tension drain from his body. When he glanced up, the barman grinned at him and Kincaid gave him a thumbs-up.