Mourn Not Your Dead (16 page)

Kincaid leaned forwards and dropped his voice, as if inviting a confidence. “I didn’t realize you were on such friendly terms with Alastair Gilbert. Got on together well, did you?”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Bainbridge, beaming. “I think the commander was much misunderstood by the hoi polloi of the village, Superintendent. He was a man of purpose, of direction, a man who counted in life. And I think he recognized a kindred soul when he met one.” One eyelid drooped in what might have been a wink, and Bainbridge finished off his sherry in one swallow.

“Did the commander ask you to substantiate your allegations about his wife?” Kincaid asked a bit more sharply.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t like that at all.” Bainbridge shook his head in aggrieved agitation. “I merely expressed my concern that his wife should be spending so much time alone with a man like that. Well, I ask you, what can they be doing all day? It’s not as if it were a real job, is it, Superintendent?” His enunciation became more absurdly precise as he compensated for the slurring effect of the sherry.

“And what did you do before you retired, Mr. Bainbridge?” asked Kincaid. He tried to visualize the man as a navvy and failed miserably.

“I was a teacher, sir, a molder of young minds and morals. At one of the best schools—you would recognize the name if I told you, but I don’t like to make much of myself.” He simpered and smoothed the lank fringe of hair again.

Kincaid let a note of severity creep into his voice. “Tell me, Mr. Bainbridge, could the shadowy figure you saw have been Malcolm Reid, Claire Gilbert’s partner? Think very carefully, now.”

The color drained from Bainbridge’s cheeks, leaving them more pinched than before. “Well, I… that is … I never meant to imply … As I told you, Superintendent, the figure was very vague, very elusive, and I couldn’t swear to anything at all.”

Exchanging glances with Deveney, Kincaid gave him a slight nod.

“Mr. Bainbridge,” said Deveney, “if you’ll just answer a few more questions, we won’t take up any more of your time. What exactly went missing from your cottage last month?”

Bainbridge looked from one to the other as if to protest, then sighed. “Well, if you must drag all that up again. Two silver picture frames with inscribed photos of some of my boys. A money clip. A gold pen.”

“Was there money in the clip?” asked Kincaid.

“That was the odd thing, Superintendent. He didn’t take the money. I found the bills lying neatly folded, just where the clip had been.”

“Nothing more valuable than that?” said Deveney with obvious exasperation.

Affronted, Bainbridge puffed out his thin chest. “They were valuable to me, Chief Inspector. Treasured keepsakes, mementos of the years devoted to my charges …” Reaching for the decanter, he refilled his glass, this time not bothering to offer them any. Kincaid judged that Mr. Percy Bainbridge had reached the maudlin stage and that no further useful information would be forthcoming.

“Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and Deveney stood up so fast he bumped the coffee table with his knees.

They hastily said their good-byes, and when they reached the end of the cottage walk, Deveney wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. “What a dreadful little man.”

“Undoubtedly,” answered Kincaid as they walked to the car. “But how reliable a witness is he? Why didn’t your constable report his ‘shadowy figure’ story? And could there be anything to this business about Claire Gilbert and Malcolm Reid?”

“Proximity’s made for stranger bedfellows, I dare say.”

“I suppose so,” said Kincaid, glad that the twilight hid the flush creeping up his neck.

They walked on to the car in silence, and when they’d shut themselves into the still-warm interior, Deveney stretched and said, “What now, guv? I could use a real drink after that.”

For a moment Kincaid gazed into the deepening dusk, then said, “I think you should give Madeleine Wade a call, ask her if Geoff Genovase has done any odd jobs for her. I’m beginning to get an idea about our village brownie.

“And feel out the village on the subject of Mr. Percy Bainbridge—the pub ought to do nicely for that. I’d like to know if he has a reputation for moonshine and how chummy he really was with Alastair Gilbert. Somehow I can’t quite picture that alliance. As for Malcolm Reid and his relationship
with Claire Gilbert, we may have more success if we talk to him at the shop again tomorrow, rather than at home.”

“Right.” Deveney glanced at his watch. “I should think the evening regulars would be drifting into the Moon about this time. Will you be coming along with me, then?”

“Me?” Kincaid answered absently. “No, not tonight, Nick. I’m going to London.”

“All in order,” read the note the major had left on the kitchen table. “Will maintain routine unless notified otherwise.” Kincaid smiled and picked up Sid, who was rubbing frenziedly about his ankles and purring at a volume that threatened to vibrate the pictures off the walls. “You’ve been well looked after, I see,” he said, scratching the cat under his pointed black chin.

In the months since his friend Jasmine had died and he’d taken in her orphaned cat, he and his solitary neighbor, Major Keith, had formed an unlikely but useful partnership. Useful for Kincaid, as it allowed him to be away without worrying about Sid—useful for the major in that it gave him an excuse for contact with another human being that he would not otherwise have sought. Kincaid theorized that it also allowed Harley Keith to maintain a secret and unacknowledged relationship with the cat, a tangible evocation of Jasmine’s memory.

Putting Sid down with a last pat, he turned out the lamp and went to stand on his balcony. In the dim light he could see the red leaves on the major’s prunus tree hanging limp as banners on a still day, and pale splotches in the garden beds that would be the last of the yellow chrysanthemums. Suddenly he felt bereft, his grief as fresh and raw as it had been in the first weeks after Jasmine’s death, but he knew it would pass. A new family occupied the flat below his now, with two small children who were only allowed to use the garden under the major’s strictest supervision.

The cold crept into his bones as he stood a moment longer, irresolute. He had phoned Gemma from Guildford train station,
then again from Waterloo, listening to the repeated rings until long after he’d given up hope of an answer. He hadn’t admitted how much he’d hoped he might talk to her, perhaps even see her, hoped that in the course of going over the day’s notes he might somehow begin to right whatever had gone wrong between them.

The burring sound came from a great distance, its insistent repetition dragging her up from the cottony depths of sleep. Her arm felt leaden, treacle-slow, as she freed it from the duvet and felt for the telephone. “Hullo,” she mumbled, then realized she had the handset wrong way round.

Once she’d got it right-side-up, she heard Kincaid saying cheerfully, “Gemma, I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to ring you last night, but you weren’t in.”

Focusing on the clock, she groaned. She’d overslept by an hour and she had absolutely no memory of turning off the alarm. Fuzzily, she was trying to remember whether or not she had set it when she realized Kincaid was saying, “Meet me at Notting Hill.”

“Notting Hill? Whatever for?” She shook her head to clear it.

“I want to have a look at some records. How long?”

Making an effort to pull herself together, she said, “An hour.” Quick mental arithmetic confirmed that she should be able to shower, leave Toby with Hazel, and get the tube to Notting Hill. “Give me an hour.”

“I’ll meet you at the station, then. Cheerio.” The line clicked and went dead in her ear.

She hung up slowly, piecing together the wine drunk at Hazel’s, the first part of the night spent sleeping in the chair,
Toby in her lap. This was the first night she’d slept in her own bed for a week—no wonder she’d been so exhausted.

With that thought, memory returned to her sleep-fogged brain, and she realized that Duncan was no longer her comfortable, dependable friend and partner but unknown territory to be navigated with the greatest care.

She might never have been away, thought Gemma as she walked into Notting Hill Police Station. The blue wire chairs in reception were the same, as was the black-and-white-speckled lino on the floor. She had always loved this place, had forgiven it the awkward partitioning of its interior for the symmetrical grace of its exterior. As it was a listed building, no changes were allowed to the outside and very few to the inside, so they managed the best they could.

As she stood awaiting her turn at reception, she imagined the rhythm of the four hundred officers moving through the four floors, the gossip, the boredom, the sudden spasms of frantic activity, and she felt a moment of acute longing for her old life. It had all seemed so much less complicated, then.

“The superintendent said to send you up to CID as soon as you came in,” said the friendly but unfamiliar girl behind the counter. “He’s in Interview Room B. First floor.” Gemma thanked her with tactful restraint, considering that she could have found CID drugged and blindfolded.

Kincaid looked up and smiled as she opened the door. “I brought you some coffee. Sniffed out the good stuff, too, from the department secretary’s office.” He gestured at a still-steaming mug standing on the table beside a stack of file folders. His chestnut hair, which always started out the day neatly brushed, now stood on end—due no doubt to the recent exercise of his habit of running his hand through it when he read or concentrated.

As she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, he tapped at the open folder before him. “It’s all here.”

Gemma forced herself to concentrate. If he had intentionally set out to distract and disarm her he couldn’t have succeeded better. His thoughtfulness in timing the coffee with her arrival, his attempts at cheerful normality, and worst of all, that damned wayward lock of hair. She clasped her hands tightly around the mug to keep from reaching out and brushing the hair back, then said, “What’s all there?”

“The death of Stephen Penmaric, twelve years ago this coming April.”

“Penmaric? But that’s—”

“Lucy Penmaric’s father. They lived here in Notting Hill, in Elgin Crescent. He was struck and killed crossing the Portobello Road, on his way to get some medicine for Lucy at an all-night chemist.”

“Oh, no …” Gemma breathed. Now she understood Claire Gilbert’s oblique comment during their interview, and her heart went out in sympathy to mother and daughter. “That’s too much for anyone to bear, surely. But what has it to do with this?”

“I don’t know.” Kincaid sighed and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “But Alastair Gilbert was superintendent here then. A Sergeant David Ogilvie was the investigating officer.”

Gemma closed her mouth when she realized she was gaping, then said, “I spoke to Ogilvie yesterday at Divisional Headquarters. He’s a chief inspector now, and he was Gilbert’s staff officer.” She recounted the interview, then her visit with Jackie Temple.

“They go back a long way, then,” said Kincaid. “And it most likely has nothing to do with anything … but I think we should have a talk with David Ogilvie about it.”

“What about Stephen Penmaric? Did they find out who ran him down?”

Kincaid shook his head. “Hit and run. It was late at night, there were no witnesses. The copper on the beat saw taillights
disappearing around the corner, but by the time he radioed for help the car had vanished.”

“How dreadful for Claire. And for Lucy.”

“He was a journalist, and from what Lucy told me I’d say that, unlike Alastair Gilbert, he was sorely missed.” Gathering up the loose papers, Kincaid closed the file and stacked it neatly with the others. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s walk for a bit.”

It promised to be another clear day, and even in mid-November the trees arching over Ladbroke Grove made a lacy canopy of green. Gemma had followed Kincaid without question and now paced beside him, breathing deeply of the still air but hugging her coat together against the cold.

He glanced at her as if gauging her mood, then said, “I wanted to see it—the house in Elgin Crescent. For some reason I felt a need to meet the ghosts.”

“Only Stephen’s dead,” Gemma said logically.

“You could argue that the Claire and Lucy of twelve years ago no longer exist, either, if you wanted to get into the semantics of time.” He flashed her a grin, then sobered. “But I don’t want to argue with you at all, Gemma.” His steps slowed as he spoke. “I admit I had a double motive—I wanted a chance to talk to you. Look … Gemma … if I’ve done something to offend you, it wasn’t intentional. And if I’ve taken our partnership for granted in the past, I can only say I’m sorry, because the past few days have made me realize how much I depend on your support, on your interpretation of things, on your gut reaction to people. I need you on this case. We need to be communicating, not bumping around in the dark like blind fish in a barrel.” They reached an intersection and he stopped, turning to her. “Can’t we be a team again?”

Thoughts rattled around in Gemma’s head, as disorganized as her emotions. How could she explain to him why she’d been so angry when she didn’t know herself? She knew he was
right—they were likely to make a real balls-up of the case if they kept on as they were—and she also knew neither of them could afford that. She, who prided herself on her professionalism above all else, had been behaving like an ass, but the words of an apology stuck in her throat and refused to budge.

Finally, she managed a strangled, “Right, guv,” but she kept her eyes firmly on the pavement.

“Good,” he said. Then as the light changed and they stepped into the street, he added so softly that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly, “That’s a start.”

As they turned into Elgin Crescent a few minutes later, she searched for a safe subject. “It’s got more yuppified since I left.” Every house in the terrace boasted a different-hued stucco unified by gleaming white trim, and each sprouted its baby satellite dish and displayed a plaque announcing the possession of an alarm system.