But it was a high-profile death, Childs said, perhaps accidental, and Kincaid was on the spot. So could he just take a look at things? A personal favor had been implied.
To Gemma’s chagrin, Kincaid agreed. Kincaid’s route that day had taken him just this way, through Henley, then north on the Marlow Road, following the winding course of the Thames downriver.
The victim’s body had been found caught in the weir below the village of Hambleden. Kincaid now knew that Denis Childs had been aware that newly retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig lived in Hambleden, and Kincaid now also knew that Childs had had good reason to think Craig might be a suspect in a suspicious death.
And Childs had dropped Kincaid in the midst of it.
During the course of the investigation, evidence had surfaced that implicated Angus Craig in another death, but Denis Childs had delayed Craig’s arrest.
In the early hours of the following morning, the Craigs’ house in Hambleden had gone up in flames. Craig’s body, and that of his wife, Edie, had been found inside, an apparent murder/suicide.
It had seemed an open-and-shut case. Edie had been found in the kitchen, Angus in his study, both shot with the handgun that appeared to have been gripped in Angus’s fingers. The remains were too damaged by the fire to determine much more.
But something about the events of that night had nagged at Kincaid. This morning, triggered by his dreams and the barking of his own dogs, he’d realized what it was. Edie Craig’s little whippet, Barney, had been heard barking by a neighbor some hours before the fire started. The neighbor, getting no answer when he’d rung the Craigs, had left a message and taken the dog in for the night.
The idea that Edie Craig had had some premonition of what was to come, and had perhaps let the dog out to keep it safe, had haunted Kincaid ever since. But if that was the case, what had happened in the hours that had elapsed between the finding of the dog and the start of the fire? No scenario quite added up.
He remembered that the detective constable on the scene had said the neighbor’s name was Wilson. The Craigs’ house, a beautiful estate at the far edge of the village, had been Edie’s, inherited from her family. The closest neighbor would be the house nearer the village, a good half mile from the Craigs’. He’d try there first. He preferred not to leave a trail by asking the Henley police, although he’d have liked to see Detective Constable Imogen Bell again.
He’d only seen the village in the autumn. Now, it was even prettier, with the lush spring green of the trees a vibrant contrast to the dark stone and red tile roofs of the buildings. He passed the pub, where he had drunk a beer, and the church, where he had once met Edie Craig at the lych-gate. As he drove past the village center, the houses grew farther apart. Then, after a longer gap, came the place he remembered. The small bungalow sat back from the lane, its well-tended garden riotous with blooms. In the distance, where the Craigs’ red-tiled roof had once marked the horizon, Kincaid saw nothing.
Spotting a wide place in the verge, he pulled up the car and got out. He’d dressed the part that morning, but his jacket had come off and his tie been unknotted as soon as he’d climbed in the un-air-conditioned Astra. Now, he slipped into his jacket, which was only lightly dusted with dog hair from the backseat, and pulled the knot on his tie up a bare half inch.
He’d opened the gate into the garden when the bungalow’s front door swung open. A man came out, half pulled by two small dogs on leads. One was a Blenheim Cavalier King Charles spaniel. The other, he recognized instantly. Barney, Edie Craig’s whippet.
“You kept him,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” The man looked confused, and a little wary. “Can I help you?”
“Barney. Edie Craig’s dog.”
The dog, hearing his name, or perhaps dimly recognizing something in Kincaid’s voice, began to wag his tail and strain at the lead. Kincaid squatted and the man, seeing that the garden gate was closed, let the dog go. Barney ran to Kincaid and, after an initial sniff, delicately licked his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” the man said again. “But who are you?”
Kincaid gave the dog a last pat and stood, collecting himself. “My name’s Kincaid.” He pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held out the open folder just long enough for the man to see the Met seal and his name. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to identify himself as a detective superintendent. Slipping the folder back into his jacket pocket, he held out his hand. “You’re Mr. Wilson, I believe?”
Nodding, the man shook Kincaid’s hand tentatively. His fingers were damp. “Danforth Wilson. That’s right. How can I help you?”
Wilson was a small man, edging past middle age. He wore gold-framed glasses and was dressed in a slightly fussy and seasonally inappropriate tapestry waistcoat. He squinted at Kincaid, looking more anxious since he’d seen the identification.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Kincaid asked. He stooped again to give the spaniel a pat. “That’s a very nice Cavalier you have there, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson seemed to relax. “Thank you. Her name is Lola. I was just taking the dogs for their morning constitutional, but I suppose we could sit in the garden for a bit.” He gestured at a bench set amidst a riot of roses. Kincaid wished he’d left his good suit jacket in the car. Following Wilson, he sat beside him, avoiding reaching thorns as best he could.
“Graham Thomas,” said Wilson. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
It took Kincaid a moment to realize he was referring to the fulsome yellow rose that was at that moment threatening his eyesight with a wayward tendril. “Yes,” he agreed. “Lovely.” The scent, in the sun, was headily sweet. He shifted sideways so that he looked Wilson in the eye. “Mr. Wilson—”
“How do you know Barney? You haven’t come to—”
Kincaid was already shaking his head. “I met Barney once, with Edie Craig. I’m glad to see him happy here.”
“There was no one else to take him, you see. Neither of them had any family. The estate is still tied up in probate.” Kincaid must have looked surprised at his knowledge because he added, “It’s common knowledge at the pub. No one claimed the dog. I didn’t mind, and now I’m afraid I’ve grown quite attached to him. When you said you were with the police . . .”