Mourn Not Your Dead (10 page)

“Close your mouth,” Deveney said with a grin as he got up to fetch Gemma a chair.

“Gemma,” Kincaid began, not knowing what he meant to say, and the lights went out.

For an eerie moment a hush fell over the pub, then the voices rose in a wave—questioning, exclaiming.

“Just hold on,” Brian called out. “I’ll get the lanterns.” The wavering flame of his cigarette lighter disappeared through the door at the far end of the bar. Within moments he had three emergency lanterns lit and placed throughout the room.

The lamplight cast a soft yellow glow, and Deveney smiled at Gemma with unabashed pleasure. “I’d say that was perfect timing. You look even lovelier by lamplight, if that’s possible.”

At least she had the grace to blush, Kincaid thought as she murmured something unintelligible. “No, let me get it,” Deveney said as Kincaid rose to get Gemma a drink. “It’s easier for me to get out.”

Kincaid sank back onto his bench and regarded her, unsure what he might say without antagonizing her. Finally, he offered, “Nick’s right, you do look wonderful.”

“Thanks,” she said, but instead of meeting his eyes she fidgeted with the empty ashtray and looked towards the bar. “I wonder where Geoff is? That’s Brian’s son,” she explained, turning back to Kincaid. “I met him this afternoon, and from what he told me I thought he’d be helping out behind the bar.”

Appearing once more from the kitchen, Brian announced, “I’ve been on to the Electricity Board. There’s a transformer down between Dorking and Guildford, so it may be quite some time before we have power again. Not to worry,” he interrupted the beginning buzz, “the cooker’s gas, so most of the menu is still on.”

“That’s a relief,” Deveney said as he returned with Gemma’s, vodka and orange, and the dinner menu. “I’m starved. Let’s see what Brian can do in a pinch.” When they’d made their decisions and settled back with their drinks, he
said to Kincaid, “I had a message from the chief constable waiting when I got back to the station. The gist of it was he expects to see something concrete, and there were a few phrases thrown in like ‘residents’ peace of mind’ and ‘image of the force.’”

Both Kincaid and Gemma pulled faces. It was familiar “authority-speak” and had little to do with the mechanics of an investigation. “You’re still keen on your intruder theory, Nick?” asked Kincaid.

“It’s as good as anything else we’ve got.” Deveney shrugged.

“Then I’d suggest we start by interviewing everyone in the village who’s reported things missing. We’ll have to eliminate the possibility of a connection before we can move on. Do we have a list from today’s house-to-house?”

Just then Brian brought their salads. Once he’d set them on the table, he wiped his perspiring brow. “Can’t imagine what’s kept John,” he said. Then he added, “He helps out behind the bar, and I’m that strapped without him tonight.”

“But what about Geoff?” asked Gemma.

“Geoff? What has Geoff got to do with it?” Brian said impatiently, then hurried away as another customer called to him.

“But—” Gemma said to his retreating back, then subsided, a flush creeping up her cheekbones. “I know he said he worked for his dad, and it seemed a logical assumption that he tended bar.”

“So what do you make of Geoff, then?” asked Deveney, drawing attention from her embarrassment, and she launched into an account of their meeting that afternoon.

Kincaid listened, watching her animated face and hands as she talked to Deveney, and felt more excluded by the minute. He toyed with the ubiquitous cress and iceberg lettuce of his salad, wondering if he had really known her at all. Had he lain next to her, felt her skin against his, her breath on his
lips? He shook his head in disbelief. How could he have been so wrong about what had happened between them?

The word “quarrel” pulled him back to the conversation and he said, “What? I’m sorry.”

“Geoff told me that he overheard Gilbert and the village doctor quarreling a couple of weeks ago,” she answered a bit too patiently, as if Kincaid were a not-too-bright child. “But he didn’t know what it was about, only that they both seemed angry and upset.

“It’s odd,” she added a moment later as she speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “I don’t remember ever seeing Gilbert angry. There was just this sort of unspoken knowledge that if he spoke even more quietly than usual, you were in big trouble.”

“What?” Kincaid said again, glass halfway to his mouth. “You knew him? You worked under Alastair Gilbert?” He felt a complete fool as Deveney looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“He was my super when I was a rookie at Notting Hill,” Gemma said dismissively. “I didn’t know it was important.” Into the awkward silence that followed, she added, “I think we should definitely interview this doctor first thing tomorrow, along with the burglary victims.”

“Wait, Gemma,” said Kincaid. “Someone needs to get on to Gilbert’s office, check out that end of things. And you’ll be needing to look after Toby. Why don’t you go up to London tomorrow, and Nick and I will do the interviews here.”

She didn’t speak as she pushed her plate away and carefully laid down her knife and fork, but the look she gave him could have frozen lava.

Morning commuters packed the Dorking-to-London train. “There’s no direct service from Guildford,” Will Darling had explained as he picked her up from the pub. “So there’s usually a bit of a crunch.” Gemma bumped more than one briefcase before she reached the only available seat. The immense woman opposite left no room for Gemma’s knees and she had to wedge herself in sideways. But as the train came to life with a jerk, she settled herself against the window contentedly enough, grateful for the journey’s quiet minutes.

A good night’s sleep had restored some of her perspective, and as Will dropped her at the station she’d apologized again for yesterday’s behavior.

“Don’t give it another thought,” he’d assured her, his friendly face unperturbed. “It’s a difficult case for us all. It’ll do you good to get home for a bit.”

She’d had every intention of apologizing to Kincaid, too, but he and Deveney had left for a meeting at Guildford Police Station before she came down for breakfast. Over solitary toast and boiled egg she tried to convince herself that she really hadn’t any reason to feel guilty. Kincaid had excused himself after dinner with a too-polite reserve, and she’d been left to fend off the good-natured Deveney.

She hadn’t deliberately set out to make Kincaid jealous—she’d always despised women who used such tactics—but
Deveney’s interest and Kincaid’s growing discomfort had fueled her like water on a grease fire. In the more sober light of day, she realized she’d have to be a bit more careful with Nick Deveney. He was an attractive single man, but to have him making overtures was the last thing she needed just now. And Kincaid—the reasons she had enjoyed making him squirm didn’t bear too close an examination.

Deliberately, she turned her attention to more comfortable subjects.

Now, as the Surrey countryside gradually disappeared into the suburban sprawl of London, she thought about Alastair Gilbert, who had taken this same train every morning. She pictured him sitting where she sat, watching the world with careful eyes, briefcase close to his lap. What had he thought about as the miles clicked away? Or had he buried himself in his
Times
and not thought at all? Had any of the other passengers noticed his absence, wondered what had happened to the small, dapper man? Her eyes drifted closed until the squeal of brakes announced their arrival at Victoria.

Gemma walked up Victoria Street towards Buckingham Gate, taking her time, enjoying the thin sunshine that had followed last night’s downpour. As she turned into Broadway, she found the sight of the Yard surprisingly welcome. For once, its stark aspect proved comforting, and it felt good to be on firm ground again.

Having made a brief report to Chief Superintendent Childs, she appropriated Kincaid’s office, but found none of her usual satisfaction in it. It allowed her the peace she needed to organize her day, however, and soon she had made an appointment with Commander Gilbert’s staff officer, Chief Inspector David Ogilvie, and was on her way to the Divisional Headquarters in Notting Dale.

She remembered Ogilvie from her Notting Hill days, before he, like Gilbert, had transferred to Divisional Headquarters. He’d been an inspector then, and she’d felt a bit frightened of
him. His dark hawkish looks had made his reputation as a ladies’ man plausible, but he seldom smiled, and his tongue was known to be as sharp as the jut of his nose.

Steeling herself for an unpleasant interview, she introduced herself to the duty officer and sat down in the reception area to wait until Ogilvie sent for her. Much to her surprise, Ogilvie appeared himself a few moments later, hand outstretched in welcome. He hadn’t changed much, she thought, studying him as she shook his hand. Flecks of gray had appeared in his thick, dark hair, and the angles of his face were a bit more prominent, his body a little leaner.

He led her to his office, seated her cordially, then surprised her again by taking the initiative before she could get her notebook and pen out. “This business about Alastair Gilbert is shocking. I don’t think any of us have quite taken it in yet. We keep waiting for someone to tell us it was all a mistake.” He paused while he aligned some loose papers on his desk, then gazed at her directly.

His eyes were a very dark pure gray, set off to perfection by the charcoal herringbone of his jacket. Gemma looked away. “I’m sure it must be hard for you, having worked with—”

“You were part of the team called to the scene,” he interrupted, ignoring her condolence. “I want you to tell me what happened.”

“But you’ll have seen a report—”

Shaking his head, he leaned towards her, his eyes dilated. “That’s not good enough. I want to know what it looked like, what was said, down to the last detail.”

Gemma felt a prickle of sweat break out under her arms. What in hell was he playing at? Was this some sort of test of her abilities? And was she obliged to answer him? The silence stretched, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. What harm could it do, after all? He had access to the incident files anyway, and she needed to establish some sort of rapport with him. She took a deep breath and began.

Ogilvie sat very still while she talked, and when she’d finished he relaxed back into his chair and smiled at her. “I see we trained you very well at Notting Hill, Sergeant.” Gemma started to speak, but he held up his hand. “Oh, yes, I remember you,” he said, and his grin grew wolfishly wide. “You were quite determined to get on, and it seems that you have. Now what can I do for you, since you’ve been so obliging? Will you be wanting to go through the things in the commander’s office?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions first.” Having succeeded in retrieving her pen and notebook, Gemma flipped to a new page and headed it with determination. “Had you noticed anything different about the commander’s behavior recently?”

Ogilvie swiveled his chair towards the window a little and appeared to give the matter serious thought. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I did, but then I knew Alastair for many years and I could never have guessed what he was feeling at any given time. He was a very private person.”

“Any difficulties at work? Could someone have threatened him?”

“You mean some villain threatening to do for the copper as nicked ’im? I do believe you’ve been watching the telly, Sergeant.” Ogilvie gave a bark of amusement and Gemma flushed, but before she could retort, he said, “As you are aware, Gilbert had little to do with day-to-day operational policing. And as he was always better at administration than tactics, I dare say it suited him.” He stood up with a swift grace that increased Gemma’s impression of his fitness. “I’ll take you—”

“Chief Inspector.” Gemma didn’t budge from her chair. “Tell me about the commander’s last day, please. Did he do anything out of the ordinary?”

Rather than sit again, Ogilvie went to the window and fiddled absently with the lever on the blinds. “As far as I can
remember he was in and out of departmental meetings all day. The usual drill.”

“It was only two days ago, Chief Inspector,” Gemma said softly.

He turned back to her, hands in his trouser pockets, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m getting old, Sergeant. And I had no reason to pay particular attention to the commander’s movements that day. Have a word with the department secretary, why don’t you? And I know Alastair kept a desk diary. He liked to know where he stood.” As he came around the desk and opened his door, he said, “I’ll just get you started.”

Gemma smiled and thanked him, all the while aware of a distinct feeling that she’d been led a merry dance.

Alastair Gilbert’s office furnishings befitted a commander. Good quality carpeting covered the floor, and the furniture was the impressive sort only senior officers could requisition. A heavy bookcase against one wall held volumes of philosophy and military history as well as police manuals, but other than that Gemma found the room devoid of personality. Of course, she hadn’t really expected Gilbert to accumulate the flotsam that cluttered most people’s work spaces, but the order of this room was not even marred by family photographs. With a sigh she settled down to work.

Not until her stomach growled did she realize she’d missed lunch by several hours. She replaced the papers in the last file and levered herself up from the floor, her joints stiff and aching. Her fingertips felt dry and grimy from handling so many pieces of paper, but her search had yielded absolutely nothing of interest. Gilbert’s meticulous appointment book merely outlined a day that sounded as dull as she felt at that moment.

He had started his last morning with a senior officers’ briefing, then taken care of his correspondence. Before lunch
he’d met with a representative from the local council and after lunch with officials from local pressure groups and the Crown Prosecution Service. There was no reference to an after-work meeting, nor had there been any notation for the evening before.