Mourn Not Your Dead (24 page)

She ate standing at the sink, looking out into the darkened garden, and when she’d finished she poured a glass of wine and eased into the leather chair. Old maid habits, she thought with a wry grimace. Soon she’d be wearing cardies and flannel pants, and then what would become of her?

Jackie usually saved the area near the top of the Portobello Road for the end of her shift. It had been a long time since she’d worked evenings, though, and she wasn’t used to the eerie emptiness of the cul-de-sacs this time of night. The little antique shops that bustled with customers during business hours were dark and barred, and bits of rubbish rattled along the gutters.

As she turned left into the last street, the street lamp at its end flared and died. “Shit,” Jackie said under her breath, but she always finished her rounds, and she wasn’t about to let a case of the rookie spooks stop her doing it tonight. She imagined herself telling her guv’nor that she’d done a bunk because the street was dark and empty, then snickered to herself at the thought of his response.

She’d be home soon enough. Susan, who had to rise with the birds to get to her job at the BBC, would be fast asleep but would have left out a snack and a nightcap for her. Jackie smiled at the prospect. A hot bath, a warm drink, and then she’d curl up with the Mary Wesley novel she’d been saving. There was something rather liberating about being awake in the wee hours while the rest of the world slept.

She stopped, head cocked, listening. The hair on the back of her neck rose in an atavistic response. That soft shuffle behind her—could it have been a footstep?

Now she heard nothing but the slight sigh of the wind between the buildings. “Silly cow,” she said aloud, chasing the shadows. She walked on. A few more steps and she’d reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac, then she’d start the last leg back to the station.

This time the footfall was unmistakable, as was the raw and primitive terror that left her knees like jelly. Jackie spun, heart pounding. Nothing.

She unclipped her radio and thumbed the mike. Too late. She smelled him first, a rancid sweetness. Then the metal burned cold against the base of her skull.

Kincaid saw Gemma into the car with Will Darling, then watched as they sped away around the green. She looked back, once, but by the time he’d lifted his hand to wave to her, she had turned away. A moment later the car disappeared from sight.

He crossed the road and stood for a moment at the end of the walk leading to the pub, collecting himself for the task ahead. Deveney had been called out to a shop burglary in Guildford, which left Kincaid on his own to question Brian Genovase. But perhaps he could turn that to his advantage by making the interview as informal as possible.

The wind had risen from the west, shivering the leaves of the old oak, and the pub sign creaked on its hinges as it swung. Looking up at the lovers silhouetted against the moon, Kincaid thought that the image was perhaps more apt than they’d realized.

He found Brian alone, preparing for Sunday lunch. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pud,” said Brian by way of greeting. He finished lettering the chalkboard with a flourish. “We always do Sundays properly. You’ll do well to get a table early.” His words were friendly enough, but as he spoke he gave Kincaid a wary glance.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but first I’d like a word with you before you get too busy” Kincaid slid onto a bar stool.

Brian stopped in the midst of setting up a rack of clean glassware. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I appreciate what you did for my lad last night. You were decent to him, which can’t be said of the last lot. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. Geoff’s been round to the folk in the village already this morning, told them he’d work free in order to make some reparation for what he did. And first thing tomorrow we’ll get him started again in counseling. It seems this is going to be a long process. I should have—”

“Brian.” Kincaid cut him off. “This isn’t about Geoff.”

Brian stared at him blankly. “Not about—”

“I’m afraid we never quite finished our official inquiries. Can you tell me what you were doing on Wednesday evening, between about six o’clock and half past seven?

“Me?” Brian’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “But… I suppose you have to ask everyone?”

“You’d just got lucky up to now,” Kincaid said with a smile. “Were you here?”

“Course I was bloody here. Where else would I be?”

“By yourself?”

Shaking his head, Brian said, “John was on the bar, and Meghan was here, the girl that helps out in the kitchen. It was a busy night for middle of the week.”

“Did you leave at any time, even for a few minutes?” asked Kincaid. “Think carefully now. It’s important to be accurate with these things.”

Brian frowned and rubbed his chin. “There’s only one thing I remember,” he said after a moment. “Somewhere between about half-six and seven I went to the storeroom and broke out a new case of lemonade. I can’t have been away from the bar much more than five minutes.”

“Can you reach the storeroom from inside the pub?”

“No. You have to go the long way round, through the car park.” Then Brian added, with the air of sharing a confidence, “Bloody miserable when it’s raining, I can tell you.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual, however small?”

“Only the mice. We lost our mouser a few months back. It’s time we found a new puss. Usually they come to us, but not a one’s turned up so far. Maybe the word hasn’t gone round that the position’s vacant.” Brian grinned, obviously regaining his equilibrium.

Good, thought Kincaid. Now that he’d got him relaxed and a bit pleased with himself, it was time to hit below the belt. “Brian, I’ve gathered the impression that you and Claire Gilbert are quite good friends.”

Brian took a glass from the tray and slotted it into the rack, almost concealing his momentary hesitation. “No more than most neighbors. We help each other out when needed.” He kept his eyes on his task as he spoke.

“How did her husband feel about that?”

“I don’t know why he should have been bothered one way or the other.” Irritation edged Brian’s voice, but he still hadn’t met Kincaid’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“I think he might have been quite bothered, actually,” Kincaid interrupted. “It seems that Alastair Gilbert was irrationally jealous of his wife. He might have misinterpreted the most innocent of gestures.”

“I hardly knew the man.” Brian’s brows were drawn together in a scowl, and the glasses clinked dangerously as he slid them into position. “He didn’t frequent the pub, and he certainly didn’t consider me his social or professional equal. He called me a bloody shopkeeper once, and him a farmer’s son from Dorking.”

Resting his elbows on the bar, Kincaid leaned close to Brian and said, “You knew him well enough to ask him for help when Geoff got into trouble, and he turned you down flat. You hated him, didn’t you, Brian? No one could say you didn’t have good cause.”

The wineglass in Brian’s hand cracked, the head separating from its stem and falling unscathed to the bar. Blood welled
from his thumb and he held it to his mouth for a moment, glaring at Kincaid. “All right, I hated him. What do you want me to say? He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Claire and Lucy. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. He laughed at me when I asked him to help Geoff—treated me like I was some kind of scum. I might have been tempted then, but I didn’t touch him, so why should I have done it now?”

“I’ll give you two good reasons,” Kincaid said. “He found out what Geoff was up to and told you he intended to take action.” I think he would have wanted to gloat over it a bit first, would have enjoyed making you squirm. Gilbert liked playing the petty tyrant, didn’t he, Brian? And you could have shut him up once and for all.”

“But I didn’t—”

“And what if he suspected you were dallying with his wife? Gilbert was not the sort of man to step nobly aside, was he? I think he’d have been determined to make your life as miserable as possible, no matter the cost.”

“But he didn’t—”

The kitchen door swung open. Through it came a thin girl enveloped in a white chef’s apron several sizes too large for her. “Could you give me a hand with the veg, Bri?” she asked, then, as she took in Kincaid and the tense atmosphere, “Oh, sorry.” The smell of roasting beef reached Kincaid’s nose, and he swallowed involuntarily.

“I’ll be right there, Meghan.” Brian gave her a quick smile and turned back to Kincaid as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Look, Superintendent, this is all nonsense. You can’t seriously—”

The front door opened and a group dressed in Sunday best came in, laughing and calling greetings to Brian. Kincaid met Brian’s eyes and smiled. “I’d better get that table, hadn’t I?” He knew when to beat a graceful retreat.

* * *

Kincaid found himself once again outside the Moon, but this time he was stuffed to the popping point with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Although the state of his stomach made him long for nothing more taxing than a nap, he felt restless and unsettled as he contemplated the afternoon stretching before him.

He’d reached the point in this case where he hadn’t an idea what to do next, but he knew that his mounting frustration was counterproductive.

What he needed was a walk. It would help clear his mind, as well as lessen the impact of his Sunday lunch. Having been informed of several promising routes by some of the regulars in the bar, he changed into the trainers and lightweight anorak he kept in his overnight bag.

The westerly wind had brought clouds with it, but Kincaid judged the weather not seriously threatening. He chose the way that led through the village and up the hill, past Madeleine Wade’s closed shop. Soon the track left the paved road and he climbed steeply, passing the silent cricket pitch, following the signposts designating the Greensand Way, as he’d been instructed. Winded, he reached a large level clearing, the junction of many paths running through the Hurtwood. A good metaphor, he thought, for the many avenues this case seemed to be taking, but he’d be damned if he could see how they all came together.

He took the Greensand Way, walking easily at first on the sandy path, studying his surroundings. An evocative name, Hurtwood, bringing to mind images of injured trees, but one of his garrulous lunchtime friends had informed him that the name came from the old word for bilberries. He wondered if the thickets of brambly plants he saw were indeed hurtberries.

One usually thought of autumn as crisp, but this wood was a soft symphony in greens and browns. The heather lining the path had dried to a crumbly brown, yellow and brown leaves carpeted the path under his feet, and the bracken had dried to the color of
new pennies. He shied away from the comparison with Gemma’s hair that came to mind and picked up his pace a bit.

Soon the path narrowed, and the ground dropped away on his left; through the gaps in the trees he could see all the way across the Surrey Weald to the South Downs. He made a deliberate effort to stop his mind circling, and for the next half hour he just walked, climbing more and more often as the path become steeper.

Rounding a bend, he came to a halt, balancing on his toes from the abrupt change in momentum. A giant splay of tree roots grew out of the hillside, blocking the path. Surely this was not still the Greensand Way. He must have missed a signpost somewhere. Suddenly aware that he had neither map or compass, he decided that retracing his steps would be the wisest course, but first he picked a dry spot on one of the roots and sat down for a moment’s breather.

As his breathing slowed, the quiet closed in, broken only by birdsong and the occasional rumble of a jet taking off from Gatwick. No sound reached the forest floor from the gently swaying treetops, but when a leaf drifted down from a branch above his head, he could have sworn he heard it rustle as it touched the ground.

Kincaid ran his fingers over the lichens on a gnarled stick, wondering if Alastair Gilbert had ever taken time to feel the texture of bark or listen to the leaves fall. Strict agendas for professional and social success usually didn’t leave much room for contemplation.

He’d tried hard not to let his personal feelings about the man cloud his view of the case, but perhaps he’d have been better off starting with his own judgment. That was the key, after all—what kind of man Gilbert had been and what consequences had unfolded from his actions. For he had no doubt that Gilbert’s murder had been committed by someone who knew him, had in fact never given the intruder theory more than a cursory consideration.

What had Brian Genovase been about to say when Meghan opened the door? Had Gilbert not suspected Brian of having an affair with his wife? Thinking about it, Kincaid felt fairly certain that Valerie Reid had steered them in the right direction, whatever her motives. Brian had never asked him the obvious question of an innocent man wronged by gossip—Who the hell told you that?

But if Brian and Claire were lovers, and Brian had killed Gilbert in a confrontation, why had he been so worried about Lucy and Claire? Shaking his head, Kincaid crumbled bits of bark off the stick with his fingers. Could Brian have murdered Gilbert in the few minutes he’d been away from the bar and disposed of the murder weapon? The lads had searched the premises thoroughly, looking for Claire Gilbert’s missing earrings, and hadn’t turned up anything that fit Kate Ling’s description of the instrument.

It seemed to Kincaid that this was exactly the scenario they’d constructed for Geoff. Only if the crime had been premeditated and carefully planned could either Geoff or Brian have pulled it off, and he felt sure that Gilbert’s murder had been committed in a moment of rage. It had been a passionate crime. A crime of passion, in fact.

That left Malcolm Reid. If one assumed that Valerie was covering up for him, then Reid would have had the time to commit the murder and the leisure to dispose of the weapon and anything else incriminating. But since Reid seemed to have been open with his wife about Gilbert’s accusations, what had he to gain by killing him? And besides, Kincaid, like Gemma, had difficulty seeing either of the Reids as consummate liars.