Mourn Not Your Dead (11 page)

Stretching and smothering a yawn, Gemma conceded for the first time that Kincaid might have a point in not wanting further promotion. She retrieved her handbag from beneath the desk and went to find the loo.

Feeling better once she’d washed her hands and splashed water on her face, she emerged from the building to find the sun miraculously still shining. She stood still and tilted her face up, soaking in the faint warmth obliviously until the door flew open and someone bumped her from behind. “Sorry,” she said automatically, taking in an impression of a stocky female body in a blue uniform, then the face clicked into focus and she gasped. “Jackie? I can’t believe it! Is it really you?” After a moment’s laughing and hugging, she held her friend at arm’s length and studied her. “It is you. I’d swear you haven’t changed a bit.”

She and Jackie Temple had been in the same class at the academy, and when they were both posted to Notting Hill a pleasant acquaintanceship had merged into real friendship. They had stayed close, even when Gemma transferred from uniform to CID, but since Gemma had been posted to the Yard they’d seen each other very rarely. Now she realized with a shock that she hadn’t spoken to Jackie since Toby’s conception.

“Neither have you, Gemma,” Jackie said, a smile lighting her dark face. “And now that we know we’re both god-awful liars, what are you doing here? And how long has it been? How’s Rob?” Gemma’s expression must have betrayed her, because Jackie said immediately, “Oh, no, I’ve put my foot in, haven’t I?” She lifted Gemma’s left hand and shook her head when she saw her bare finger. “I’m so sorry, love. Whatever happened?”

“You couldn’t have known,” Gemma reassured her. “And it’s been more than four years now.” Rob had found the demands of family life a bit more than he’d bargained for and hadn’t proved much better as an absentee father. The child-support checks, regular at first, became sporadic, then stopped altogether when Rob left his job and changed his address.

“Look,” said Jackie as the door swung open again and narrowly missed them, “we can’t stand about on the bleedin’ steps all day. I’m just off duty, but I ran some paper work over from Notting Hill as a favor to my sarge. Now I’m off home. Come with me and we’ll have something to drink and a good old natter.”

Gemma had a moment’s guilt, quickly buried as she told herself that she had, after all, followed Kincaid’s instructions to the letter. And she could always quiz Jackie about Alastair Gilbert. Smiling, she said, “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Jackie still lived in the small block of flats Gemma remembered, near Notting Hill Police Station. It was a bit of an ugly duckling in an area of terraced Georgian houses, but Jackie’s second-floor flat was pleasant enough. Wide windows opened onto a south-facing balcony, a profusion of green plants grew among the clutter of African prints, and bright-patterned throws covered the casual furniture.

“Do you still share with Susan May?” Gemma called from the sitting room as Jackie disappeared into the bedroom, shedding her uniform sweater as she went.

“We rub along all right. She’s had another promotion—fancies herself a bit these days,” Jackie said affectionately as she reappeared in jeans, pulling a sweatshirt over her tight curls. “I’m starved,” she added, heading for the tiny galley kitchen. “Hang on a bit and I’ll put something together for us.”

When Jackie refused her offer of help, Gemma wandered out on the balcony, admiring the snapdragons and pansies that bloomed cheerfully in terra-cotta pots. She remembered
that Susan, a willowy woman who worked as a production assistant for the BBC, was the one with the green thumb. When the three of them had gathered together for makeshift suppers in the flat, Susan had teased Jackie about her ability to kill anything by just looking at it.

This had been her patch, Gemma thought as she leaned over the railing and gazed out at the broad tree-lined streets—not all of it as elegant and pleasant as this, of course—but it had been a good place to start life as a copper, and she had grown fond of it. Once she’d walked a beat that stretched from the crayon-box of Elgin Crescent to the bustle of Kensington Park Road. It felt odd to be back, as if time had telescoped in on itself.

When she returned to the sitting room, Jackie had set out plates of sandwiches, fruit, and two bottles of beer. As they pulled their chairs nearer the window so they could sit in the last of the sun while they ate, Jackie echoed Gemma’s thoughts. “A bit like old times, isn’t it? Now tell me about you,” she added as she bit into an apple with a resounding crunch.

By the time Gemma had brought her up to date and Jackie had promised to visit Toby soon, they’d mopped up the crumbs. “Jackie,” Gemma said tentatively, “look, I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch. When I was pregnant with Toby it was all I could do to fall into bed at night, and afterwards … with Rob … I just didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I understand.” Jackie’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “But I envy you your baby.”

“You?” It had never occurred to Gemma that her tough and self-sufficient friend might want a child.

Jackie laughed. “What? You think I’m too crusty to want to change nappies? But there it is. And I’d never have thought you’d let a baby interfere with your career. Speaking of which”—she punched Gemma lightly on the arm—“who would have thought you’d end up such a big shot, investigating a commander’s murder. Tell me all about it.”

When Gemma had finished, Jackie sat quietly for a moment,
swirling the dregs of her beer in its amber bottle. “Lucky you,” she said at last. “Your guv sounds like a good one.”

Gemma opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. That was a can of worms she didn’t dare open.

“I could tell you some stories about mine that would make your hair stand on end,” Jackie said, then added philosophically, “Oh, well, I made my bed when I decided I wanted to stay on the street.” She finished her beer in one swallow and changed the subject abruptly. “I saw Commander Gilbert at Notting Hill not too long ago—one day last week, I think it was. Can you believe he had a spot on his tie? Must have got caught in the crossfire of a canteen food fight, that’s the only reasonable explanation.”

They both laughed, then inspired by the mention of such juvenile behavior, settled into a round of “do you remember’s?” that left them giggling and wiping their eyes. “Can you believe how ignorant we were?” Jackie asked finally, blowing her nose in a tissue. “Sometimes I think it’s a wonder we survived.” She studied Gemma for a moment, then added more soberly, “It’s good to see you again, Gemma. You were an important part of my life, and I’ve missed you.”

Rob hadn’t cared for any of Gemma’s friends, especially those in the force, and after a bit she’d lost the energy to face the inevitable arguments that followed her contacts with them. Nor had he liked her to talk about her life before she met him, and gradually even her memories seemed to fade from disuse. “I seem to have lost bits of my life in the last few years,” she said slowly. “Maybe it’s time I made an effort to find them again.”

“Come have dinner with us sometime soon, then,” said Jackie. “Susan would love to see you, too. We’ll drink a bottle of wine to our misspent youth—and remember when all we could afford was the worst plonk imaginable.” She stood up and went to the window. “How odd,” she said a little absently, “I’ve just remembered that I thought I saw Commander Gilbert someplace else recently. It must have been the plonk brought it to mind,
because I’d just come out of the wine shop in the Portobello Road, and there was Gilbert talking to this West Indian bloke who’s a known informant. At least I thought it was Gilbert, but a lorry came between us then and by the time the light changed, they’d both disappeared.”

“You didn’t check it out?”

“You’ve been in CID too long, love,” said Jackie, clearly amused. “Just who was I supposed to ask? Commander Gilbert himself? I know enough to keep my nose out of my elders’ and betters’ business, ta very much. Still”—she turned back to Gemma and smiled—“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to put in a word or two in certain quarters. I’ll let you know if anything interesting turns up, shall I?”

Gemma hated the escalators at the Angel tube station. She was sure they must be the longest and steepest of any in London, and the prospect of facing that dizzying descent every day had almost deterred her from taking her flat. At least, she told herself as she hugged the rail, going up wasn’t nearly as bad as going down—as long as you didn’t look back.

A plastic bag wrapped itself around Gemma’s legs as she emerged from the station. Disentangling herself, she saw rubbish blowing all along Islington High Street. A sheet of newspaper clung tenaciously to a nearby lamppost, and a plastic bottle rattled discordantly along the pavement. The rubbish collection had failed again, Gemma thought, frowning in irritation, and she certainly didn’t have time to complain to the council about it.

The sight of the black man sitting on the bench beside the flower stall snapped her out of her bad temper. Dwarfed by the towering glass office building behind him, he cradled a paper-wrapped whiskey bottle against his thin chest and sang to himself as he smiled up at her. His ragged clothes looked as though they had once been of good quality, but they offered little protection from the wind that made his red-rimmed eyes water.

She stopped and bought a bunch of yellow carnations, then handed her change to the drunk before sprinting across the zebra crossing. Looking back, she had a glimpse of his head bobbing like a mechanical toy as he gabbled something incomprehensible after her. When she’d started in the force, a rookie constable, she’d almost unconsciously shared her parents’ disdain for those who could “better themselves if they made the effort,” but experience had quickly taught her that the equation was almost never that simple. For some the most you could do was try to make their lives a little more comfortable, and if possible leave them a bit of dignity.

To her right as she entered Liverpool Street lay the Chapel Market. It was closing time, and with an occasional cheerful curse the vendors were tearing down stalls and packing up boxes. Too late to pick up anything there for supper, she’d have to stop in Cullen’s or brave the crush in the enormous new Sainsbury’s across the street.

One thing drew her to Sainsbury’s, much as she disliked its sterile, gleaming interior. The busker stood on his usual patch outside the doors, his dog watchful beside him. She always had a few coins for him, sometimes a pound if she could manage it, but this ritual was not motivated by pity. Tonight she stopped as she usually did and listened to the liquid notes spilling from his clarinet. She didn’t recognize the piece, but it made her feel sweetly sad, leaving a gentle melancholy as the sound died away. The heavy coin clinked satisfyingly as she tossed it into the open case, but the young man merely nodded his thanks. He never smiled, and his eyes were as aloof as those of the mongrel lying quietly at his feet.

Laden carrier bags bumped her leg as she emerged from the supermarket and hurried up the Liverpool Road with her collar pinched together against the wind. Her anticipation built as she thought of catching Toby up in her arms, hearing him squeal with delight as she nuzzled his neck, breathing in the warm smell of his skin. Turning into Richmond Avenue,
she passed the grammar school, gates shut against the darkening day, play yard still except for the movement of an empty swing. Before she knew it Toby would be old enough to join the children there. Already his plump softness was melting away, little boy sturdiness emerging in its place, and Gemma felt a pang of loss for his babyhood. Thrusting back the guilt that always hovered near the surface of her mind, she assured herself that she did the best she could.

At least the move to the Islington flat had brought with it an unexpected benefit—her landlady, Hazel Cavendish, had offered to keep Toby while Gemma worked, and Gemma no longer had to depend on her mum or indifferent child minders.

Thornhill Gardens came into view and Gemma slowed, catching her breath so as not to arrive on the doorstep panting. Almost home, and lights were coming on in the houses along the gardens now, offering a tantalizing vision of comfort and warmth behind closed doors. The Cavendishes’ house backed up to the gardens, and Gemma’s adjoining flat faced Albion Street, almost directly across from the pub.

She let herself into the back garden by the gate at the side of the garage, not stopping to leave the groceries in the flat. She’d called ahead so that Hazel would be expecting her, and as she reached the back door she squinted at the small sticky-note fluttering in the dimness.
IN BATH, H.,
it read, and Gemma smiled as she looked at her watch. Hazel ran an orderly house, and by this time the children would have had their tea and been bustled upstairs to the tub.

A wave of warmth and spicy smells greeted her as she opened the door, a sure sign that Hazel was cooking one of her “vegetable messes,” as her husband affectionately called them. Hazel and Tim Cavendish were both psychologists, but Hazel had taken an indefinite leave from her lucrative practice to stay at home with their three-year-old daughter, Holly. They had absorbed Toby into their household effortlessly, and although Hazel accepted the going rate for child minding, Gemma suspected
it was more balm for her pride than a financial necessity for the Cavendishes. Following the distant sound of voices, she deposited her purchases on the kitchen table and dodged the toys littering the floor as she made her way upstairs.

She tapped on the bathroom door, and hearing Hazel’s cheerful, “Come on in,” she slipped inside. Hazel knelt by the old-fashioned claw-footed tub, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up over her elbows, her chin-length brown hair forming curly tendrils from the steam.

Both children were in the tub, and when Toby saw her he shrieked, “Mummy!” and smacked his hands palm-down against the water.

Laughing, Hazel jumped back from the spray. “I think you little munchkins are clean enough. Welcome home, Gemma,” she added, wiping the sudsy droplets from her cheek.

Gemma felt a sudden spasm of jealousy, but it faded as Hazel called out, “How about giving a hand with the towels?” and she soon had her arms full of wet and giggling children.