“Of course they didn’t.” Kincaid pulled a face. “And none of this means a thing without some estimate of time of death.”

“You met the family, didn’t you, this afternoon? What are they like?”

Kincaid made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “hummmph.” “Interesting. Might be better if I let you form your own impressions, though. We’ll interview them again tomorrow.” He sighed and sipped his pint. “Not that I’ll hold my breath waiting for a revelation. None of them can imagine why anyone would want to kill Connor Swann. So we have no motive, no suspect, and we’re not even sure it’s murder.” Raising his glass, he made her a mock toast. “I can’t wait.”

A good night’s sleep had imbued Kincaid with a little more enthusiasm for the case. “The lock first,” he said to Gemma over breakfast in the Chequer’s dining room. “I can’t get much further along with this until I see it for myself. Then I want to have a look at Connor Swann’s body.” He gulped his coffee and squinted at her, adding, “How do you manage to look fresh and cheerful so early in the morning?” She wore a blazer the bright russet color of autumn leaves, her face glowed, and even her hair seemed to crackle with a life of its own.

“Sorry.” She smiled at him, but Kincaid thought her sympathy was tinged with pity. “I can’t help it. Something to do with genes, I expect. Or being brought up a baker’s daughter. We rose early at my house.”

“Ugh.” He’d slept heavily, aided by one pint too many the night before, and it had taken him a second cup of coffee just to feel marginally alert.

“You’ll get over it,” Gemma said, laughing, and they finished their breakfast in companionable silence.