It would be difficult to keep anything under wraps for long in a village this size, Kincaid knew, but they’d try until the house-to-house queries were finished, just in case someone let slip they knew something they shouldn’t.

“You were friendly with the Gilberts?” Deveney asked Genovase, sliding forwards on his stool so that he could rest his elbows on the bar.

“It’s a small village, Nick. You know how it is. Claire and Lucy are well liked.”

Kincaid took another sip of his drink and said casually, “And the commander wasn’t?”

Brian Genovase looked wary for the first time. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” Kincaid smiled at him. “But is it true?”

After a moment’s consideration, Genovase said, “Let me put it this way-Alastair Gilbert didn’t go out of his way to make himself popular around here. Not one of the beard and wellie brigade, not by a long chalk.”

“Any particular reason?” Kincaid asked. Gilbert hadn’t gone out of his way to make himself popular with his officers, either, not if Kincaid’s experience with him was any indication. He had seemed, in fact, to enjoy making the most of his superiority.

“Not really. An accumulation of small misunderstandings, amplified by the gossip mill. You know how it is,” he said again, “place like this, things get blown out of proportion sometimes.” Obviously unwilling to say more, Genovase finished his drink in one swallow and set his glass down.

Deveney followed suit and sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this, I can tell you that. Better you than me in the hot seat, mate,” he added, glancing at Kincaid. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks,” Kincaid said with considerable irony. He finished his own drink more slowly, finding comfort in the burn as it went down, then stood and retrieved his coat and bag. “That’s it for me, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch and swore. “Hardly worth going to bed.”

“You’re last on the left, Mr. Kincaid,” said Genovase. “And I’ll have a bit of breakfast for you in the morning.”