Mourn Not Your Dead (28 page)

“It is possible,” Gemma countered.

“But highly unlikely.”

Conceding, Gemma nodded. “So where is he, and what are C&D doing about it?”

“Tracing primary contacts, making the most obvious inquiries. They don’t feel they have enough on him to pull out all the stops yet. What I’d like to know is what precipitated such a flight. If he arranged Jackie’s death, why wait almost two days before panicking?”

“Why panic at all?” Gemma traced a circle in the dust on Kincaid’s desk, then drew another. “Unless we stirred the mud more than we intended yesterday. But in that case, who tipped him off?” She connected the circles with a wavy line, then wiped the smudge from her fingertip.

“Could be as simple as his secretary, nice Mrs. what’s-her-name, telling him we were inquiring about his movements on the night Gilbert died, but I’d have expected a cooler response from an experienced copper like Ogilvie—a good bluff at the very least.”

Gemma nodded. “Cool personified, is Ogilvie. But what about—”

“Talley? The converse, I should think. C&D will begin on him today, and their wheels grind very fine indeed. But in the meantime, there’s not much we can do on that end.” Kincaid yawned.

“What’s next then, guv?” asked Gemma.

“You can make us some coffee, there’s a good girl,” Kincaid said, grinning at her.

It was an old running gag between them, and this morning Gemma didn’t feel inclined to disappoint him. “You can make your own bloody coffee, sir,” she answered, not quite managing a scowl. “I’ll make some for myself, though, and if you’re very nice to me I might just spare you a cup.” Rising from the chair, she added, “But seriously—”

“Back to Surrey, I think. Do you want to go with Will to interview the bank manager in Dorking?”

He phrased it as a request, rather than an order, and the gesture touched her more than she expected. “Okay.” She perched on the arm of her chair. “You don’t want to ask Claire about it first? Could be there’s a perfectly simple explanation.”

Kincaid shook his head as he rubbed at the tension lines between his eyes. “No.” He dropped his hand, looking up at Gemma with no trace of the mischief he’d displayed a moment earlier. “Claire’s not telling us the whole story, Gemma. I’m sure of it, and I don’t like it one bit. I think it’s time I had another little talk with Dr. Gabriella Wilson.”

After a good look at her boss in the light of the Yard car park, Gemma insisted on driving the Rover they’d requisitioned from the pool. Kincaid was asleep before they’d crossed Westminster Bridge, and nothing disturbed him as they inched their way south through the clamor of London traffic. Glancing at him as she waited at another interminable traffic light, Gemma thought of the last time she’d watched him sleep, defenseless as a child, and for the first time doubt assailed her. Should she have listened, at least, to what he had to say?

Kincaid stirred and opened his eyes for a moment, as if an awareness of her regard had reached him when the sound of honking horns and squealing brakes could not.

Gemma gripped the wheel and concentrated on her driving.

* * *

“Fancy a bite of lunch first?” asked Will Darling as he whipped the car into a space in the Dorking car park, beating out another eager motorist.

Gemma and Kincaid had swapped cars as soon as they arrived at Guildford Police Station—Gemma going with Will and Nick Deveney with Kincaid in the pool Rover.

“It’s not gone twelve yet.” Gemma gave the frustrated driver an apologetic smile as she got out and joined Will on the pavement.

“Tell that to my stomach.” Will took her elbow, steering her towards the High Street. “I know a good pub.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. But no fish and chips,” Gemma admonished, remembering the last lunch they’d shared. As they walked along the busy street, bumping shoulders with the crush of lunchtime shoppers, she realized she was hungry. She couldn’t remember what she’d eaten since hearing the news about Jackie yesterday morning, but she supposed she must have gone through the motions.

It was indeed a nice pub, and a favorite with the locals, as the early crowd demonstrated. When they’d placed their meal orders at the bar and settled into a corner table with their drinks, Will said, “You know the first rule of good policing: Eat first. You never know when you might have another chance.”

“You’ve certainly taken it to heart.”

“Could be the army had something to do with that.” Will stared out the window as he sipped the foam from his pint. “Living on the edge tends to make priorities easier to recognize.”

“On the edge?” Gemma repeated, puzzled.

“I served in Northern Ireland for two years.”

The barmaid brought their food—jacket potato with prawn mayonnaise for Gemma, chicken basket for Will. As Gemma mixed the topping into her potato, she glanced up at Will through the rising steam. She imagined him in fatigues and boots, still looking like a red-cheeked Surrey farm boy.

“When I went over I was just as ambitious as you,” continued Will, swallowing a mouthful of chicken. “Don’t bother arguing,” he added with a grin. “Women don’t reach your rank in the Met otherwise. You want to make DCI, don’t you, or even superintendent?” He waved a chip at her for emphasis. “So did I, only I had my sights set on a county force, preferably this one.”

Gemma paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I don’t understand, Will. Surely it’s not too late. You’re only … what?” Remembering what he’d said about his birthday, she did the math in her head. “Thirty-four? And you’re a good cop—I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Thanks all the same.” Wiping his fingers with his napkin, Will smiled at her. “And I imagine I’ll eventually rise up a rank or two by the sheer force of attrition above me. The thing is, it doesn’t really matter to me anymore. Two of my best mates were working routine border checks one night.” He put his hand on his pint but didn’t lift it. “Unfortunately, the last lorry they stopped happened to be carrying a bomb.” His voice level, only the stillness of his hand on the glass betrayed him.

“Oh, no,” Gemma breathed.

Will shrugged. “We’d all been grousing about our posting. The usual complaints—boredom, lousy food, shortage of girls.” A hint of a dimple appeared in his cheek. “We were going to have such great adventures when we got out. My mum used to tell me that it was the journey that counted, not arriving at the station. It’s a well-worn platitude, I know, but that day I saw the truth of it.”

Gemma put her fork down beside her half-eaten potato. “They told you about Jackie, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” Will reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

Finding she couldn’t meet the frank sympathy in his eyes, she picked up her fork again and pushed at her food. She thought of
Jackie’s stubborn refusal to leave her beat, because she had loved what she called “everyday policing,” the regular contact with the people for whom she was responsible. “Jackie would have liked you, Will,” Gemma said. Watching him as he returned his attention to his lunch, she wondered if he, too, had felt somehow responsible for his friends’ deaths.

The nameplate on the bank manager’s desk read
AUGUSTUS COKES,
and he so befitted the image it conjured up that Gemma wondered if names left an inescapable imprint, like an extra chromosome. A small man with a round, bespectacled face and thinning hair, he rose to greet them with an expression of puzzled concern.

“This is most unusual,” he said, when they had introduced themselves. “I don’t know how I can help you, but fire away.”

Gemma settled herself a bit more comfortably in the hard chair and brushed at the lapel of her jacket. Taking her cue from Will’s slight nod, she began, “I’m afraid it’s a bit delicate, Mr. Cokes. You see, it concerns a murder investigation. You will have read about the death of Commander Alastair Gilbert in the papers, I’m sure.” Watching Cokes’s full, pink lips assume a fishlike gape, Gemma pressed on. “It’s come to our attention that the commander’s wife, Claire Gilbert, kept an account here, and we believe there may be some … irregularities. We’d like to—”

“Well, I never. A commander’s wife—a common criminal. Who’d have thought it.” Cokes shook his head with relish, lips pursed now in a tut-tut pout. “And such a well-bred woman, too.”

Will answered Gemma’s querying glance with a look of surprised incomprehension.

“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Cokes?” asked Gemma. “We haven’t suggested that Mrs. Gilbert has done anything criminal. We’d just like to clear up some questions about Gilbert himself.”

“But the other policeman—” Cokes looked from Gemma to Will. “The one who came in last week.”

“What other policeman?” Will asked patiently.

“You people really should learn to coordinate your efforts a bit better,” Cokes said a little smugly, as if he were beginning to enjoy their discomfort. “No wonder they have all those exposés on the telly.”

“I think we should start from the beginning, Mr. Cokes.” Will pulled out his wallet and extracted the photo he and Gemma had shown around with so little success at the Friary. “I take it that you met Mrs. Gilbert personally?”

“When she opened her account. I often handle new accounts—it keeps my hand in, and I like to know a bit about the customers.” Cokes took the photo from Will and examined it for a moment before handing it back. “Oh, yes, that’s Mrs. Gilbert, all right. She’s quite unmistakable. Of course, I did wonder when she asked that her statements be sent to her at work.”

“At work?” repeated Gemma. “Did she say why?”

“I’d never have asked—we respect our clients’ privacy—but she told me quite confidentially that she meant to save up enough money to surprise her husband with a holiday.” The echo of Claire Gilbert’s charm still resonated in the man’s voice and faintly wistful expression. “You can imagine how surprised I was when the first policeman came inquiring about her. And even then I’d no idea her husband was a policeman.”

Will sat forwards, and the standard-issue visitor’s chair creaked dangerously. “Tell us about this other policeman, Mr. Cokes. When did he come to see you, and what did he want with Claire Gilbert?”

Cokes made a little humming noise as he squinted at his desk calendar. “We’d had our regional branch meeting on the Tuesday last week, and I think it was the day after. Wednesday, it would have been, just before closing. He requested a
personal interview with me, but once we were alone in my office he showed me his ID and said he was investigating something very hush-hush.” Leaning forwards, Cokes lowered his voice. “A check fraud ring. He said they hadn’t any hard evidence to connect our customer, but a quick look at her file would probably clear the matter up. Of course, I told him that as much as I wished to assist the police in any way, I was also under an obligation not to divulge details of a customer’s account.” Cokes gave a sniff of disapproval.

“So you’re telling us that this policeman did
not
see Claire Gilbert’s file?” Will asked.

Cokes cleared his throat and slid the paperweight on his desk over a fraction of an inch. “Well, I can’t be absolutely certain …” he said, refusing to meet their eyes. “I was called out of my office for a few moments, a little problem that needed my immediate attention …”

“Don’t tell me,” said Gemma. “You just happened to leave Claire Gilbert’s file on your desk. How tactful of you.”

“Well, I …” Cokes’ upper lip glistened with perspiration. “It seemed the best solution at the time.”

“I’m sure.” Gemma smiled at Cokes, thinking that she doubted Claire Gilbert would have seen his solution in quite the same light. “This policeman, Mr. Cokes. What was his name?”

Cokes cleared his throat again. “I don’t remember. I only saw the ID for a moment, and I was so startled that it quite flew out of my head.”

“What force did he say he was with?”

Cokes shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I’m sorry.”

Persisting, Gemma said, “Then tell us what he looked like, Mr. Cokes. Surely you can remember that.”

“Thin and dark.” Moistening his pink lips, Cokes added, “There was something a bit predatory about him.”

Kincaid filled Deveney in as they drove towards Holmbury St. Mary. The morning overcast had lifted to a high haze that
muted the landscape and burned his tired eyes as he squinted at the road. “Claire Gilbert’s had two broken bones in the last year or so, and perhaps other injuries as well. The wrist and the collarbone just happen to be the ones I heard about in casual conversation. It’s enough to raise the possibility of spousal abuse.”

“Are you telling me that you think Commander Gilbert
beat
his wife?”

Kincaid glanced at Deveney. “Don’t look so shocked, Nick. It happens all the time.”

Deveney shook his head. “I know. But I wouldn’t have thought—”

“You think Gilbert’s uniform and position gave him some sort of automatic immunity?”

“I think if you mean to get anything out of Doc Wilson, you’ll get short shrift,” Deveney countered. “But if you’re right, it gives Brian Genovase a damned good reason to want to bash Gilbert’s head in. Unfortunately, we still haven’t found a shred of physical evidence to connect him to the scene.

“The records of the on-line service confirm what Geoff told us, by the way, and our interviews with the other customers in the pub that night agree with Brian’s account of his movements. So that leaves us with a less than ten-minute window when either Brian or Geoff could have popped across the lane and done the dirty.”

Kincaid downshifted as they entered the village. “That leaves the Ogilvie end. I’ll be damned if I know how he fits into it, but I’m sure he does.” He grinned at Deveney. “Maybe I should take lessons from Madeleine Wade.”

“You seem destined to catch me in the middle of my lunch,” Doc Wilson said when she opened the door. “Oh well, can’t be helped, I suppose,” she added resignedly as she stepped back and Kincaid and Deveney crowded into the hall with its welter of gum boots, dog leads, and walking sticks.

On reaching the kitchen Kincaid and Deveney once again went through the ritual of clearing a place to sit while the doctor wasted no time getting back to her lunch.