Mourn Not Your Dead (21 page)

Kincaid met Deveney’s eyes. The on-line connection shouldn’t be difficult to check, but how could they be sure Geoff didn’t leave the computer downloading automatically while he ran across the road long enough to kill the commander?

“I’d just finished when I heard the sirens, then Brian came upstairs to tell me something had happened at the Gilberts’.”

That struck Kincaid as a bit odd. With a bar full of able-bodied customers, why had Brian felt it necessary to inform his son before he charged across the road to investigate?

“Anyone else see you?” Gemma asked hopefully, but Geoff shook his head.

“Can I go home now?” he asked, but his tone held little optimism.

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, then studied Geoff for a moment before she said, “I want to help you, Geoff, but I’m afraid we may need to keep you a bit longer. You do understand, don’t you, that if your neighbors positively identify the things we found in your room, we’ll have to charge you with burglary?”

* * *

Will Darling stood in the corridor outside the interview room, looking as relaxed as if he’d been napping on his feet. “Brian Genovase asked for a word with you in private, sir,” he said as Kincaid came out and shut the door. “I’ve put him in the canteen with a cuppa—thought it might be a bit more comfortable there.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid had left Gemma and Deveney to take Geoff’s statement, in hopes that he might catch up on his own paperwork, but he should have known it wasn’t a likely prospect.

The smell of hot grease made his throat close convulsively. It also made him realize, with a stomach-turning queasiness, that he was ravenously hungry. Vaguely, he remembered lunch, and a look at his watch told him it was after eight o’clock.

The room was almost empty and he quickly spotted Brian, who sat staring fixedly into his cup. Kincaid got himself a cup of tea so dark it might have been coffee and joined Brian at the small orange-topped table. “Disgusting color, isn’t it?” Kincaid asked, rapping the table with his knuckles as he sat down. “Reminds me of baby food. Always wondered who’s in charge of the decorating.”

Brian looked at him blankly, as if trying to decipher a foreign language, then said, “Is he all right?” I’ve called our solicitor, but he’s not in.”

“Geoff is making a statement just now, and he seems to be coping reasonably—”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” said Brian, pushing his cup out of the way. The spoon fell from the saucer with a clatter. “I know you think I’m behaving like a broody old hen over a grown son, but you don’t understand about Geoff.

“You see, his mum left us when Geoff was only six. The poor kid thought it was his fault, and he was terrified I’d leave him, too. I had a good job then as a commercial traveler, and I could afford to pay someone to stay with him when I
was away, but he’d panic every time. At first I thought he’d get over it, but instead he got worse. Finally I quit the job and invested my savings in the pub.”

“And did that help?” asked Kincaid, giving his muddy tea a desultory stir.

“After a bit,” said Brian, sitting back in his chair and regarding Kincaid levelly. “But it was only then that I began to find out what she’d done to him. She told him it was his fault she was leaving, that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t ‘measure up.’ And before that, she did …” He shook his head, reminding Kincaid of a frustrated bull. “She did vile things to a small boy. I’ll tell you, Superintendent, if I ever find that bitch, I’ll kill her, and then it’ll be me you’ll have warming your cell.” He stared aggressively at Kincaid, chin thrust forwards, then when Kincaid didn’t respond he relaxed and sighed. “I felt responsible. Do you understand that? I should have seen what was going on, should have stopped her, but I was too caught up in my own misery.”

“You
still feel responsible for him.” Kincaid made it a statement.

Brian nodded. “He got better over the years. The nightmares stopped. He did well enough at school, even though he didn’t make friends easily. Then when he went to prison it started all over again. ‘Separation anxiety,’ the prison doctor called it.

“Superintendent, if Geoff is sent to prison again, I don’t think he will recover.”

A movement caught Kincaid’s eye and he looked up. Will Darling threaded his way through the tables towards them like a barge easing its way down the Thames. “Sir,” he said as he reached the table, “there’s a … um, delegation of sorts … to see you.”

They were crowded into the tiny reception area—Doc Wilson, Rebecca Fielding, and behind them, a head taller, Madeleine Wade. The doctor had evidently appointed herself
spokesperson, for as soon as he came into the room, she marched up and buttonholed him. “Superintendent, we want a word. It’s about Geoff Genovase.”

“You couldn’t have had better timing,” Kincaid said, smiling. “You’ve saved us asking you to come in, as we need you to officially identify your things.” He looked over his shoulder. “Will, is there somewhere more comfortable—”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Kincaid.” The doctor sounded exasperated, as if he were a recalcitrant patient. The vicar looked worried, and Madeleine looked as though she were enjoying the whole thing but trying not to show it.

Stepping forwards, Rebecca put a hand on the doctor’s arm. “Mr. Kincaid, what we’re trying to tell you is that we don’t wish to press charges. We’ll be glad to identify the things for you, but it won’t make any difference.”

“What the—” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Madeleine?”

“I’m with them all the way. We’ll say we lent him the things and just forgot, if necessary.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin.

“What about Percy Bainbridge?”

“Percy has a tendency to be a bit difficult, all right,” said the doctor, “but Paul’s having a word with him just now. I’m sure he’ll manage to sort him out.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Kincaid eyed them skeptically.

The doctor smiled, and he recognized the battle light in her eyes. ‘We’ll make his life hell.”

Kincaid rubbed the stubble on his chin between thumb and forefinger. “What if you’re wrong about Geoff? What if he went into the Gilberts’ house that night and killed the commander?”

Madeleine stepped forwards. “We’re not wrong. I promise you, Geoff isn’t capable of killing anyone.”

“You have no evidence,” added the doctor. “And if you try to pin this on him, I guarantee you’ll have half a dozen people suddenly remember they saw him doing something else.”

“This is all a bit feudal, don’t you think?” When no one responded, Kincaid said on a surge of anger, “You do realize what you’re doing here? You’re taking the law into your own hands, and you have neither the knowledge nor the impartiality to do so. This is what our justice system is designed to prevent—”

“We are not willing for Geoff Genovase to be sacrificed in order to test the fairness of the law, Superintendent.” The doctor’s brows were set in a straight line, and the faces of the others were implacable.

Kincaid glared at them for a moment, then sighed. “Will, take care of the formalities, would you? I’ll just tell Brian he can take his son home.”

Kincaid scooted in beside Gemma on the bench before Deveney or Will could outmaneuver him, then smiled at the disappointment on Deveney’s face. They had adjourned to a pub near the station, hoping to organize strategy as well as fill their stomachs.

“The chief constable’s been on the blower,” Deveney said conversationally when they had ordered and were sipping appreciatively at their drinks.

No one looked thrilled at the prospect of hearing what that exalted figure had to say, but Kincaid set down his pint and took the plunge. “All right, Nick, put us out of our misery quickly, then.”

“You’ll never guess.” Deveney pulled down the knot on his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He’s ‘very anxious for a resolution,’ and he would be ‘most pleased’ if we were to find reason to charge Geoff Genovase with Gilbert’s murder. Allay any suspicion on the part of the public that we’re sitting around on our duffs, you know.”

Gemma spluttered into her drink. “Is he daft? We don’t have a shred of evidence. Turning the burglary file over to the CPS is embarrassing enough—trying to bring a murder charge against him at this point would make us laughingstocks.”

“Not daft, politically minded,” snorted Deveney

“Gemma’s right, you know,” said Kincaid. “It’s all completely circumstantial, based on the assumption that Geoff
might
have taken Claire Gilbert’s earrings, which we did
not
find in his possession. For all we know she lost them or accidentally knocked them down the bloody drain in the lav.

“We’ve checked his prints with the unknowns found in the Gilberts’ kitchen, and there’s not a smudge with a remote resemblance. Nor has forensics come up with any hair or fibers that might provide a link.”

Deveney grinned. “So we assume that in the few minutes it took Geoff to download a file, he equipped himself with hat, gloves, and protective clothing, nipped across the road and killed the commander, then disposed of Claire’s earrings, the murder weapon, and the aforementioned protective clothing on his way back to the pub. Although, of course, we’ve searched every square inch in between and turned up sweet eff-all.” This brought a chorus of groans and much rolling of eyes. “Is that all the appreciation I get for a feat of intellectual daring?” Deveney winked at Gemma, and Kincaid saw her look quickly away.

Before anyone could make a proper rejoinder, the barmaid brought their dinners. They tucked in like starving sailors, and for a while the clink of cutlery was the only sound at the table.

Kincaid watched as Gemma ate her chips and plaice with quiet concentration. He was comforted simply by her proximity. She didn’t flinch if his knee occasionally brushed hers under the table, and he wondered if it heralded a thaw. Looking up at him, she gave him an unguarded smile, and he felt a wave of desire so strong it left him shaking.

“You know,” said Deveney, pushing his plate away, “if that’s the chief’s line on this, maybe our village committee was right in refusing to throw Geoff to the wolves.”

“So now we’re the wolves?” asked Kincaid a bit testily. “Would we let someone we thought innocent serve as a scapegoat?”

“Of course not,” said Deveney, “but these political agendas
can very easily get out of hand. We’ve all seen it happen.” He looked questioningly around the table and they all nodded grudging confirmation.

Will wiped up the last bit of his shepherd’s pie with his last chip, then pushed his plate away and regarded them gravely. “It seems to me that we’re all mincing around the real question like little ballerinas. And that is, regardless of the nature of the evidence, do we think Geoff did it?”

Watching his tablemates, Kincaid wondered fleetingly if the four of them were just as guilty of star-chamber behavior as the villagers. But they were all good, honest coppers, and none of them could do their jobs without exercising their judgment. Indecision would paralyze them. “No,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’d say it’s highly unlikely, at the very least, and I’ll not stand by and see him go down for a crime he didn’t commit.” Beside him, he felt Gemma relax as she nodded agreement, and Deveney followed suit. “Will?” Kincaid asked, unable to read the constable’s expression.

“Oh, aye, I’d agree with you on that. It’s too tailor-made by half. But I wonder if we won’t wish we’d found such an easy solution by the time this is all over.” He drained his pint and added, “And what about Percy Bainbridge’s mysterious shadow?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Could have been anybody.”

“More likely a product of Percy’s imagination, dredged up purely for the drama,” said Deveney.

“You’re not going to like this,” Gemma said slowly, “and I don’t like it either. But what if Gilbert went ferreting because he didn’t like his stepdaughter having a … relationship with Geoff? And what if he found out that Geoff was responsible for the thefts? And then what if Gilbert told Brian that he intended to turn Geoff in? Brian had good reason to hate him already. What would he do in order to protect his son?”

“You’re right,” Deveney said after a moment. “I don’t like it a bit. But it’s the nearest thing to a motive we’ve come up with so far.”

Kincaid yawned. “Then I suggest the first thing on our list tomorrow should be discovering if Brian can account for himself the whole of Wednesday evening. We’ll keep picking at Malcolm Reid, too. There’s something in that situation that bothers me. I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Let’s call it a night, then,” said Deveney. “I’m knackered. I’ve booked you a couple of rooms in the hotel on the High.” He put his hand over his heart and grinned at Gemma. “And I’ll sleep better knowing you’re near at hand.”

The hotel turned out to be presentable, if a bit fusty. Having bid the lingering Nick Deveney a definite good night, Kincaid followed Gemma up the stairs at a respectable distance. Their rooms were opposite each other, and he waited in the corridor until she’d turned her key in the lock. “Gemma—” he began, then floundered.

She gave him a bright, brittle smile. If she had allowed a chink to show in her defenses at the pub, she’d pulled her armor firmly into place again. “Night, guv. Sleep well.” Her door clicked firmly shut.

He undressed slowly, hanging up his shirt and laying his trousers across the room’s single chair as if his salvation depended upon a perfect crease. The combination of alcohol and exhaustion had produced a numbing effect, and he felt as if he were watching his own actions from a distance, knowing them to be absurd. But still he kept on, order his only defense, and as he hung his overcoat on a peg in the wardrobe a crumpled paper poppy fell to the floor.

He’d worn the poppy last Sunday, a week ago, when he’d walked up to St. John’s, Hampstead, to hear the major sing the Fauré requiem in the Remembrance Day service. The soaring voices had lifted him, stilling all worries and desires for a brief time, and as he climbed into the narrow hotel bed he tried to hold the memory in his mind.

* * *

It came to him as he drifted in the formlessness just before sleep. He scrambled out of bed, upsetting the flimsy lamp on the nightstand in his haste. When he’d righted the lamp, he flicked it on and began digging through his wallet.