Mourn Not Your Dead (18 page)

“I have two reasons, in fact, if you want to know.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, you haven’t met Malcolm Reid and I wanted your reaction to him, wanted to know if you thought there was anything in Percy Bainbridge’s allegations that Claire’s having an affair with him. Two, you’ve established a positive contact with Geoff Genovase, and I’d like to keep it that way. You know as well as I do how useful that can be in an interrogation, and going in with a search warrant is certainly not going to reinforce his confidence in you.” He took a breath. “Is that good enough for you, or do I need more?”

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come. She leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes, feeling deflated and shaken.

An echo of his words took her back, and for a moment she was a child again, in her tiny bedroom above the bakery. She’d had one of her frequent and furious rows with her sister, and her mother had come in to her, sitting down on the bed where she lay with her hot, tear-streaked face buried in the pillow. “What am I to do with you, Gemma?” her mum had said with weary exasperation, but the fingers stroking her hair had been gentle. “If you can’t learn to control that redheaded temper, love, you’d best learn to apologize gracefully. And if you have a particle of the sense God gave you, you’ll do both.” It had been good advice—given from experience, Gemma had realized as she grew older—and she’d tried to take it to heart.

She opened her eyes as a breath of air touched her face. Kincaid had turned away, his hand on the doorknob, face set in a tight scowl. Gemma reached out and touched his arm, attempting a smile. “You’re right, of course. Guess I did overreact a bit. Look … I know I’ve been an awful bloody cow lately.” She glanced away, bit her lip. “Duncan … I’m sorry.”

Tall and tanned, his close-cropped silver-blond hair molded to his finely shaped head, Malcolm Reid was a sight to make any woman’s heart flutter. He would make a perfect complement
to Claire Gilbert’s fair, delicate prettiness, and Gemma could easily imagine why tongues would wag.

He’d greeted them pleasantly, offering coffee from a sleek, German pot plugged into an outlet at the back of one of the display countertops.

“I thought this was all just for show.” Gemma gestured at the kitchen area as she accepted a mug.

“Might as well make use of the facilities.” Reid grinned as he pulled up wrought-iron stools for Will and Gemma. “Actually, this is very much a working kitchen. My wife uses it for demonstration cooking classes, but she has nothing on just now. ‘Healthy Cooking from the Mediterranean’ finished last week, and ‘Italian Classics’ starts this coming Tuesday.”

The names of the courses conjured up exotic ingredients, warm climates awash with garlic-laden smells, and Gemma felt a little shiver of longing. Although her parents had turned out excellent baked goods, their business had left them little time or energy for anything but the most conventional of English cooking, and Gemma hadn’t had much opportunity to venture further afield. “Sounds lovely,” she said a bit wistfully.

“It is.” Malcolm Reid regarded her with interest. He’d propped himself against the countertop with an air of much practice, cradling his coffee in both hands. “You should give it a try sometime. Now how can I help you?”

Will shifted position on a stool seat not made for thighs the size of hams. “Mr. Reid, can you tell us what you were doing on Wednesday evening?”

Reid’s mug made an almost imperceptible pause in its journey to his mouth. He took a sip, then said, “Wednesday evening? Are you asking me for an alibi? I know, I know”—he held up a hand before they could speak—“I heard it from your … chief inspector, wasn’t it? Routine inquiries, just like the telly, not to worry. I must say I don’t find that reassurance very comforting, but I’ve no reason not to tell you. I’m afraid you may find it rather a disappointment, however.” He
looked at Gemma, a gleam of humor in his eyes. “I closed up the shop at half past five and went straight home, where I spent the entire evening with my wife.”

Will nodded encouragingly. “Your wife will verify this, Mr. Reid?”

“Of course she will. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Mr. Reid,” began Gemma, wondering how she might ease into this tactfully, “does your wife get on well with Claire Gilbert?”

“Val?” Reid appeared genuinely puzzled. “Val’s known Claire longer than I have. That’s how Claire came to me as a client—she’d taken one of Val’s classes.”

“Were both your wife and Alastair Gilbert comfortable with your working relationship with Claire?”

For a moment Reid looked at her blankly, then his face hardened. “Just what exactly are you getting at?”

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, thought Gemma, since her attempt at tact had not come off a resounding success. “Apparently, Mr. Reid, there have been some rumors in the village that your relationship with Claire Gilbert was a little more personal in nature and that her husband was made aware of that.”

“Bloody hell,” exploded Reid, his knuckles white on the coffee mug. “I hate bloody gossip. It’s so insidious, and one’s so bloody powerless against it. You’re damned as a sneak if you say nothing, damned even more if you speak out or challenge the whisperers—’methinks he doth protest too much.’

“It’s all nonsense, and nonsense about Alastair, too.” Suddenly he relaxed and sighed. “Oh, it’s not your fault, Sergeant. Sorry if I took it out on you. But tell me you don’t have to thrust this on Claire, too. Surely she’s had enough to deal with as it is.”

Painfully aware of its inadequacy, Gemma trotted out her stock answer. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Reid, and the truth must take precedence. I dislike—”

She was spared finishing by the opening of the shop door, and she recognized Claire Gilbert’s voice even as she turned.

“Malcolm, I—” Claire stopped in midstride as she took in Will and Gemma, but Gemma had the distinct impression that she had been about to rush straight into Malcolm Reid’s arms.

“Claire, what are doing here?” Reid crossed to her and took her hands, his face creased with concern. “You’ve no business being out.”

Letting go Reid’s hands after a brief contact, Claire recovered enough poise to greet Will and Gemma with her usual graciousness. “I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t seem rude.” She nodded at them, with a half smile for Will. “It’s just that I couldn’t bear it anymore. We’ve had the phone off the hook to stop it ringing, and the constable is still on the gate, but they’re waiting out there in the lane, watching us.” A shudder ran through her body and she clasped her hands together tightly.

“Here. Sit,” Reid instructed her as Will slid from his stool and positioned it for her. “Who’s watching you? What are you talking about?”

“Reporters.” Gemma made a face. “Like bloody vultures. But it will pass, Mrs. Gilbert, I promise you. They have relatively short attention spans—I’m surprised they’ve stuck it out this long, actually.”

“So how did you escape the siege?” asked Will.

The half smile flashed again. “I put my hair up under one of Alastair’s caps to complete the disguise.” Claire gestured at her clothes, and Gemma noticed she’d exchanged her usual elegant attire for jeans and an old tweed jacket. “Then I sneaked out the back and through Mrs. Jonsson’s garden, slouched across to the pub, and borrowed Brian’s car.” Her voice held a note of sheepish pride as she added, “It felt quite unexpectedly liberating, to tell you the truth.”

The clothes made Claire look younger, bringing out what Gemma had begun to recognize as her toughness, as well as emphasizing her fragility. Would she continue to shed her
respectable-suburban-housewife trappings like a snake sloughs an old skin?

“But why are
you
here?” She turned to Will and Gemma as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I don’t know why you’d need to talk to Malcolm.” She hugged herself as if cold, and a note of fear crept into her voice as she added, “Has something happened? What’s go—”

“Routine inquiries,” Reid said with a grin before Gemma could answer. “Nothing to worry about. Right, Sergeant?”

“Mrs. Gilbert,” said Gemma, “could I have a word with you?”

Having suggested a walk, Gemma led the way across the bridge and took the path along the little Tillingbourne River. Birches grew right along the water’s edge, and their bare silvery branches reached towards the sky as if seeking the last of the pale sun.

Gemma wondered how best to frame her questions. Claire seemed at ease, content to walk in silence. She smiled at Gemma, then stooped for a stone and stood hefting it in the palm of her hand. Shaking her head, she bent and looked for another one. The wind parted her hair as she knelt, revealing a flash of pale and slender neck. The sight made Gemma feel oddly and uncomfortably protective, and she looked away.

Claire found another stone, stood, and skipped it expertly across the water. When the last set of ripples had stilled, she said, “I haven’t done that in years—I’m surprised I remember how. Do you think it’s like riding a bike?” Then, as if continuing a conversation, “Thank God for Becca. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’ll make all the arrangements for the funeral when … when they release Alastair’s body.”

“Becca?”

“Our vicar, Rebecca Fielding.”

Gemma saw an opening. She was willing to abandon Malcolm Reid for the moment in order to delve into the past. “I don’t suppose experience makes these things any easier. I
didn’t know about your first husband when we talked the other day. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for you to be—you couldn’t have known. And Stephen was always a great one for getting on with things. I tried to remember that on those days it didn’t seem worthwhile getting up.” Claire stopped and turned towards the river. Hands shoved in her trouser pockets, she stared into the water where it ran like molten pewter over the stones. “But that all seems a very long time ago. I’m not even sure I know her anymore, that distant Claire.”

“That was when you met Commander Gilbert, after Stephen died?”

Claire’s smile held no mirth. “Alastair thought I needed looking after.”

“And did you?”

“I thought I did,” answered Claire, walking again. “Stephen and I married very young, just out of school. Childhood sweethearts. He was a journalist, you know, a brilliant one.” With a glance at Gemma she added fiercely, “We had a
good
life. And after Lucy was born it was even better, but it wasn’t what you’d call secure, living from assignment to assignment.

“So there I was, my husband dead, my parents dead, no job skills at all, and a five-year-old daughter to care for. Stephen had a bit of life insurance, not enough to last more than a year or two even if we pinched every penny.” The path had narrowed and now stopped abruptly against a stone wall. Claire turned and started back. “Alastair seemed safe.”

Gemma followed her silently as they reached the road again and crossed over. They followed the lane leading to the church, skirting the tubs of bright flowers that half blocked the pavement.

What would she have done without her job and her parents’ support when Rob left? Would she, like Claire, have chosen security had it been offered her? “What about David Ogilvie?” she asked. “Was he in love with you, too?”

“David?” Claire stopped with her hand on the church gate and gave her a startled glance.

“We had to interview him as your husband’s staff officer. There was something in what he
didn’t
say that made me wonder.”

“Oh, David …” Claire said on a sigh that echoed the creak of the gate. As they picked their way through the tall grass surrounding the gravestones, she plucked a spear and twisted it in her fingers. “David was … difficult. At the time I convinced myself that I was just another of David’s potential conquests, a notch on his belt. He was very much against my marrying Alastair, but that I put down to peacock rivalry. You know how men are when they feel their territory’s threatened.” They had come to the river again, and stopping on the little wooden footbridge, Claire ran her fingers over the grass’s feathery head, stripping it bare. She watched the seeds drift down towards the water. “But looking back on it now I’m not sure that was true. I’m not sure of anything.”

“That must have caused friction between them, and yet they had to keep working together,” said Gemma, thinking of the bad blood Jackie had mentioned. “Did the three of you remain friends?”

“David never spoke to me after Alastair and I were married. I don’t mean that quite literally—when we were thrown together in social situations he made civil responses—but he never spoke to me again as a friend.”

It still hurts her after all these years, Gemma thought as she watched the tightening of Claire’s lips and heard the careful control in her voice. Perhaps she should have asked a different question—was Claire in love with David Ogilvie when she married Alastair Gilbert?

“Got the list?” Kincaid asked as they pulled into the empty pub car park. Deveney had asked to drive the Rover from the Yard pool, finding it a damn sight better than his heaterless Vauxhall.

Deveney patted his pocket. “Every last trinket. It does make an odd assortment when you put them all together.” He killed the engine and looked around as he unsnapped his seat belt. “The little van Brian uses for running about seems to be missing. Hope someone’s here.”

Getting out of the car, Deveney glanced in the window at the back of the pub, then said, “We’re in luck, at least as far as Brian’s concerned.”

As they made their way single file along the path that ran from the car park around to the front door, he added, “Okay if I handle him?”

“Be my guest,” said Kincaid.

The pub’s door and windows were thrown open to the mid-afternoon air. They found Brian whistling as he wiped down the bar, preparing for the evening customers. The room smelled of lemon polish. “You back for the night, Superintendent? And your sergeant, too?” He flipped his towel over his shoulder and began sliding clean glassware into the racks. “My son will be pleased. She seems to have impressed him no end.”

“It’s Geoff we want to talk to you about, Brian,” said Deveney. “Why don’t we have a seat?”