“I did come to see you about Barney,” Kincaid said. “I had met Edie and Barney once, and then I was called in after the fire. Today, I was passing through Henley, and I just wondered if the dog was all right. One of the officers told me you’d taken him in that night.” That was, as far as it went, the truth. “I wondered if you could tell me exactly what happened.”
The small man was quiet. Kincaid couldn’t see his eyes behind the reflection in the gold-framed glasses. Wilson picked a petal from a drooping Graham Thomas bloom. “I don’t like to think about it,” he said at last, shredding the petal with his well-manicured fingers. “If I had known . . . If I had done something . . . But if I had gone over, and he . . . Craig . . .” A visible shudder went through Wilson’s body. Kincaid didn’t need him to elaborate.
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Kincaid said. “But that night—had Barney ever been loose at night before?”
“No. Never. That’s why I— It was all very strange. I don’t know why I didn’t clip him on a lead and walk him back.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was just going to take Lola out for her little bedtime ramble round the garden. My television programs had finished—I’m a bit of a night owl,” he added, with a little glancing smile at Kincaid, as if staying up late was a slightly naughty admission. “I heard barking. I couldn’t think what was happening.”
“What time would this have been?”
“Oh, I don’t know, exactly.” Wilson pushed at his glasses in a gesture that reminded Kincaid of Doug. “My program finished at a quarter to twelve, if I remember. I’d gone, you know, to the loo. And made myself a little nightcap.” Another little smile with the guilty admission.
Kincaid waited.
“I thought if it was someone out walking a dog, they would go on, so I waited a bit longer. But the barking didn’t stop. I shut Lola in the house and went out with my torch. There was Barney, just standing in the meadow outside my fence, barking. He came when I called out to him.”
“Was the dog his usual self?”
“He was shivering, I remember. But it was a chilly night, and he hasn’t much coat,” Wilson added, affection in his voice. “There was no sign of Edie, so I took him in the house, and I—” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t think what to do. I had the Craigs’ phone number, but one didn’t like to . . . I did think of taking him over and putting him in their garden, but . . .”
“So, in the end, you rang the house?” Kincaid asked, encouraging.
Wilson nodded. “Yes. I left a message. When no one rang back within half an hour, I put Barney in the kitchen with some water and a towel for a bed. I thought I’d get up at first light and walk him home. But—” He stopped and removed his glasses, twisting the wire earpiece back and forth in his fingers. “But— The sirens woke me, and the smell of smoke. At first I thought it was my own little house and I panicked. And, then, I looked out the window and . . . I could . . . see it burning . . .”
“That must have been terrible,” Kincaid said after a silence. “What did you do?”
“I dressed and walked down the road, to see if there was anything I could do. But I was turned away, as if I were a mere onlooker.” Grievance still echoed in Wilson’s voice.
“But you did go back?” Kincaid asked.
“When it was light. They stopped me well away from the house again, but I told that detective to let Edie know I had Barney with me. It wasn’t until I went to the pub later in the morning that I heard they were dead.” Wilson put his glasses back on and sat with his hands folded in his lap, his gaze unfocused. “They said what had happened, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t imagine how someone could do such a thing.”
Kincaid sat quietly, watching the dogs, which had come to lie in a patch of shade. Barney looked back at him, his bright-eyed little face alert and trusting. “No,” he said. “Nor can I. Mr. Wilson, was there anything else at all unusual that night?”
“No. Not that I can remember. Other than the men in the car, of course. But that was earlier. And I did tell that constable.”
Kincaid, who’d been preparing to rise, dropped back onto the bench and stared at Wilson. “What men?”
“The ones in the four-by-four. A Range Rover. New. It was odd, though, because the car was clean but the plates were mud spattered.”
“Where,” Kincaid said slowly, “was this, exactly?”
“Just before the pub. Lola and I—and Barney now, of course—go most evenings for a little visit, around half past five. I thought the car would stop to let us cross, but it didn’t. Quite rude, I thought. The rear windows were dark tinted, but I could see the two men in the front seats quite clearly as they went past. They were going towards the Craigs’, so I thought perhaps it was police business, but they didn’t look at all like policemen. And the one nearest me, the passenger, gave me a look that could kill. I was going to call out to them, you know, to say they should mind their manners, but after that . . . I didn’t quite like to.”
“No,” Kincaid said. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Mr. Wilson, could you describe these men?”
“I told that constable,” Wilson answered, aggrieved again.
“Yes, but would you mind telling me?”
Wilson sighed. “The passenger was older. Not a nice face, that one. And he had a mark on his neck, just here.” He touched the side of his neck. “A birthmark. Or perhaps an old tattoo.”
Kincaid couldn’t shake a growing dread. “And the driver?”
“Oh, he was younger. And much better looking. Short brown hair, with that bit of stubbly beard that’s fashionable nowadays.”
For a moment, Kincaid thought he might thank the man, shake his hand, and walk away. He sat, staring into space, until Barney trotted over to him and rested his long, pointed muzzle on Kincaid’s knee.
“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “you’ve been very helpful. Is there anything else you can remember?”
Wilson frowned, his face scrunched in concentration. “I can’t say why, but I had the sense they’d been arguing. The driver looked startled, not as if he’d meant to almost run me over. And he was quite the dashing sort, really, with that bandanna round his neck.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Kincaid had almost reached the car when he remembered what he had on his mobile. Turning back, he met Mr. Wilson, who’d collected the dogs, at the garden gate. “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “would you mind having a look at something?” He held out his phone. The photo on the screen was the one of Michael Stanton he’d sent to Doug the evening before, taken from Stanton’s driving license. “Do you recognize this man?”
Wilson peered at the photo, frowning, then glanced up at Kincaid. “That looks like the man in the car. The passenger, not the driver. Who is he? I’d not like to think he’d come back here.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson.” Kincaid slipped the mobile back into his pocket and forced a smile. “I can assure you that this man won’t be bothering you again.”