Mourn Not Your Dead (23 page)

“And that’s how he left you?”

“No.” Reid rubbed his hands against his jeans again and
smiled a bit crookedly. “It’s too melodramatic—I feel an ass just repeating it. ‘Malcolm, my boy, I promise you’ll regret this,’ he said as he reached the door. Just like some character in a bad film.” One of the spaniels raised its head at the change in Malcolm’s voice and gave him a sleepy, puzzled look. Reassured, it flopped down again with a gusty sigh.

“What did you do then?” asked Gemma. “That must have made you feel a bit odd.”

“Laughed it off, at first. But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt. I tried to ring Claire, but no one answered, and once Alastair had time to get home, I was afraid that my ringing up would only aggravate him further.”

“But you discussed it with her the next day.” Kincaid made it a statement rather than a question.

“I never had the chance. She was out on a consulting job in the morning, and we only met briefly in the shop at lunchtime, when there were customers waiting. When I returned from my afternoon appointment, Claire had left for the day.”

“And since then?”

Reid shrugged. “It seemed pointless to worry her with it. How could it possibly matter now?”

The look Kincaid cast at Gemma conveyed his skepticism, but he merely said, “And on Wednesday evening, Mr. Reid, you said your wife had a cooking class, I believe?”

Valerie responded before Reid could get a word in. “No, no, Superintendent. The classes are all finished until next week. On Wednesday night Malcolm was at home with me. We had vermicelli Abruzzesi and a salad.”

“Do you always remember what you had for dinner on a particular night, Mrs. Reid?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course,” she said, rewarding him with a brilliant smile. “And that was a new recipe I’d been wanting to try, but I’d had a bit of trouble getting the courgette flowers.”

“Flow—” Kincaid shook his head. “Never mind. Is there anyone who can corroborate this?”

“Not unless you count the dogs,” said Malcolm, with a weak attempt at humor.

“Well, I appreciate your frankness.” Kincaid set down his empty cup and rose, nodding at them both. “And your hospitality. We’ll let you know if we have further questions.”

Valerie Reid stood up quickly. “If you must go so soon, I’ll see you out. No, darling,” she added as Malcolm started to get up, “I can manage perfectly well.”

When they reached the front door, she came out with them, pulled the door to, and stopped, hand on the knob. “Superintendent,” she said quietly, “Malcolm … my husband sometimes has a tendency to behave nobly. I admire this in him, but I am not willing to see him sacrifice himself to a code of honor.” She bit her lip. “What I’m trying to say is that if you’re interested in Claire Gilbert’s lover, you’d do better to look a bit closer to home.”

With that she slipped back inside and shut the door firmly, leaving them standing in the dim and dappled shade.

“And what do you make of that?” Kincaid said when they’d buckled into their seats and eased out into the road again. “A well-coordinated cover-up, wife supporting husband despite his erring ways?”

Slowly, Gemma shook her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe I’m naive as a just-hatched chick, but I can’t see Malcolm Reid as a straying husband. They have a good life, and the affection between them seems genuine.”

“He was embarrassed by Gilbert’s accusations, but he wasn’t a bit nervous. Did you notice?”

“What about the lover Valerie mentioned?” asked Gemma. “Do you suppose she just made it up to stop us harassing Malcolm? Who could it be?”

“Percy Bainbridge?” suggested Kincaid. “Though I’m inclined to think he prefers schoolboys.”

Gemma took it up. “The vicar?”

“Now there’s a thought. She is rather lovely.” He gave her a swift sideways glance, accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

Wondering what the vicar looked like, Gemma felt a twinge of jealousy. “What about Geoff?” she countered. “Maybe she’s cradle robbing? Or maybe it’s—”

“Brian?” They said it in unison on a rising note of incredulity. Kincaid looked at her and they both grinned.

“Great minds,” he said as he shifted down into another curve.

“But I’d never have thought it. Brian doesn’t seem Claire’s type at all, while Malcolm seemed tailor-made to suit her.”

“One should never fail to take proximity into account,” Kincaid said levelly, his eyes on the road. “Or the unpredictable nature of the human heart. What—” His phone trilled, and he paused while he slipped it out of his pocket, flipping it open with a deft one-handed maneuver. “Kincaid.”

After listening for a moment, he said, “Right. Right. I’ll pass it along,” then disconnected.

He gave Gemma a regretful glance. “It looks like I’ll have to manage Brian Genovase without you. Jackie Temple’s been trying to reach you—says she needs to see you urgently.”

Gemma watched Will’s big, square hands lying easily on the steering wheel and wondered if others found him as restful as she did. A call to Guildford Police Station from the mobile phone had brought him to the village, ready to run her into Dorking for the quickest train to London. He’d made no attempt to disturb her preoccupied reflection, yet his silence held no hint of injured feelings.

She looked out the window again as the car swooped round a curve. Tall, silver-trunked trees closed in on either side of the road, and the falling leaves flickered and swirled through the air like swarms of golden bees. The beauty of it pierced her unexpectedly—sharply, sweetly—and for a moment she felt as exposed and transparent as a jellyfish.

She must have made some involuntary sound, because Will glanced at her and said, “You all right, Gemma?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She took a breath, then said the first thing that came into her head. “Will—do you think we ever
really
know anyone? Or are we so blinded by our own perceptions that we can’t see past them? I’ve been imagining Brian as a loving father who might do anything to protect his son. But that was only one dimension, and it kept me from seeing the possibility that he might be Claire’s lover, a man who could have killed Alastair Gilbert for reasons that had nothing to do with his son. And I didn’t see Claire as—oh, never mind.”

Will chuckled. “You didn’t see Claire as flesh and blood, as a woman with needs so strong she’d be willing to court social condemnation, at the very least, to satisfy them.”

“You never seem surprised,” said Gemma.

“No, I suppose I’m not, but I’m no cynic, either. This job teaches us not to have faith in people. But in the end, what else is there? I’m still willing to give the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s a fine balance,” she said slowly. But was she capable of achieving it? She studied Will covertly through her lashes, wondering if she’d been deceived by her perceptions once again, and if his placid exterior concealed something entirely different.

His quick glance caught her off guard and she felt herself coloring. “This isn’t really about Brian, is it, Gemma?” he asked. Before she could protest, he added, “You don’t have to tell me. But remember, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

By half past one, Gemma was ascending the steps at the Holland Park tube station, fortified by a cheese and tomato roll bought from the buffet trolley on the train. A brisk walk brought her to Jackie’s flat and she stood on the pavement for a moment, catching her breath and admiring the way the tendrils of creeper flamed orange against the brown brick.

Jackie answered the bell with a smile of pleasure. “Gemma! When I couldn’t get you at home I tried the Yard, but I wasn’t really expecting you to turn up on the doorstep like a lost pilgrim. Come in.” She wore a brightly colored dressing gown and her tight curls looked damp from the bath.

“They said it was urgent,” Gemma explained as she followed Jackie up to the first floor.

“Well, I expect I did lay it on a bit.” Jackie looked sheepish. “But I thought they wouldn’t take me seriously, otherwise. Have a seat and I’ll get you something to drink.”

When Jackie returned from the kitchen with two glasses of fizzy lemonade, cold from the fridge, Gemma said, “What’s it all about, Jackie? And why aren’t you at work?”

Jackie curled up on the settee, her dressing gown spreading around her like the robes of an exotic princess. “I go on at three. They’ve changed my shift. I’ll have to get dressed and be off in a few minutes.

“They said you weren’t in London—I haven’t brought you all the way from Surrey, have I?”

Gemma gave her friend a quizzical look. “Jackie, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalling. And, yes, I did come up from Surrey. Now spill it.”

Jackie sipped at her drink, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles got up it. “I feel a bit of a silly cow, to tell the truth. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. You know I said I’d have a word with Sergeant Talley?”

Gemma nodded encouragement.

“Well, he got quite shirty with me. Told me to mind my own business if I knew what was good for me. I hadn’t expected that, and it got my back up a bit. There are a couple of blokes on the beat that have been at Notting Hill as long as Talley, so this morning I ambushed one of them when he came off duty. Bought him breakfast in the caff next the station.” Jackie paused and drained half her drink.

“And?” Gemma prompted, her curiosity thoroughly aroused.

“He said that the way he heard it, the bad blood between Gilbert and Ogilvie had nothing to do with a woman. Rumor had it that Gilbert blocked Ogilvie’s promotion, told the review board that he thought Ogilvie was too much a maverick to make a good senior officer. They’d been partners, and it was common knowledge among the lads that Gilbert was incompetent and Ogilvie had covered his ass more than once.” Jackie shook her head in disgust. “Can you imagine? Ogilvie did get promoted eventually, when Gilbert was no longer his senior officer, but I doubt he ever forgave Gilbert.”

“Do you suppose Ogilvie hated him enough to murder him, after all these years?” Gemma thought a moment, frowning. “From what I’ve learned about Alastair Gilbert, I wouldn’t be surprised if he blocked Ogilvie’s promotion out of spite, because he was jealous of him. This all happened about the time they both met Claire, didn’t it?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure. You’d have to check the records. Gemma—”

“I know. If I don’t let you get ready, you’ll be late.” Gemma picked up her empty glass, intending to take it to the kitchen.

“That’s not it.” Jackie glanced at the clock on a side table. “Well, only partly, anyway.” She stopped, smoothing the folds of her dressing gown with her fingers, then said hesitantly, “I have some connections on the street, some sources. You know, you work a beat long enough—you accumulate them. When I got curious about this business I started asking some questions, putting out some feelers.”

When Jackie paused again, her eyes on the fabric beneath her fingers, Gemma felt a prick of apprehension. “What is it, Jackie?”

“You’ll have to decide what to do with this, whether to turn it over to C&D.” She waited until Gemma nodded assent before continuing. “Remember I said I thought I’d seen Gilbert talking to a snitch? Well, Gilbert was much too far up the ladder to be running informers, so I asked my
bloke if he’d heard Gilbert’s name in connection with anything dirty”

“And?” Gemma prompted.

“Drugs, he said. He’d heard hints of some high-up bloke running protection for the dealers.”

“Gilbert?” Gemma’s voice rose in an incredulous squeak. Jackie shook her head. “David Ogilvie.”

Going back to the Yard had been a mistake, thought Gemma as she walked slowly up Richmond Avenue in the dark. She’d been inundated by piles of paper, and by the time she’d accomplished her own task of looking through every record pertaining to Gilbert or Ogilvie, her eyes burned and her back ached with fatigue. She’d missed Toby’s tea, and now, too tired to shop on the way home, she’d have to settle for whatever she could find in her meager pantry.

Thornhill Gardens came into view, an even darker void against the black bulk of the surrounding houses. She picked her way along the pavement until she reached the Cavendishes’ walk, then stopped. The sitting room window shade hadn’t been pulled quite to the sill, and through the uncovered space she could see the blue flickering light of the telly. But there was an added glow, yellow-warm and wavering. Candles. For a moment she fancied she heard laughter, soft and intimate. Gemma shook herself and marched up the walk, but her knock was tentative.

“Gemma, love!” said Hazel when she opened the door. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.” She looked rumpled, relaxed, and slightly flushed. “Come in,” she said, shooing Gemma into the hall. “The children were knackered, poor dears—I took them to the Serpentine today and wore them out—so we got them down early. Tim and I were just watching a video.”

“I meant to call,” said Gemma, then as Hazel started towards the stairs, “Wait, Hazel. I’ll just nip up and get Toby. You go back to your video.”

Hazel turned. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right, then, love.” Padding back in her stockinged feet, Hazel squeezed Gemma’s shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Toby lay sprawled on his back, arms flung up in the air as if he’d been doing jumping jacks in his sleep. He’d kicked his covers off, as usual, which made it easier for Gemma to slip her arms under him, one hand cradling the back of his head. When she lifted him he barely stirred, and his head flopped against her shoulder as she positioned him in her arms.

She’d turn in early, too, she thought as she carried Toby across the garden, balancing his inert weight against her hip as she let herself into the flat. Then she could get up and enjoy spending some time with Toby in the morning before she had to leave for Holmbury St. Mary again.

But after she had tucked Toby into his own small cot, she went round the flat tidying, unable to settle to anything. Finally, when she had exhausted her repertoire of chores, she searched the fridge until she found a piece of cheddar that hadn’t been attacked by mold, then unearthed a few stale biscuits in the cupboard.