Mourn Not Your Dead (7 page)

As they continued down their list of shops, the spotty-faced boy grew more appealing in retrospect. No one else had any recollection of mother or daughter, together or alone. “At least we’re warm and dry, which is more than some can say,” offered Will, dragging Gemma’s attention from the window of a boutique. They’d parked the car in the Bedford Road car park, just as Claire had done, and crossed over Onslow Street into the
Friary by the covered pedestrian walkway. Gusts of wind had shaken the bridge as the first drops of rain slicked the street below.

“Mmmm,” she answered, eyes on the dress in the window again. It was short, clingy, and black, the kind of dress she never bought, never had occasion to wear.

“Nice dress. You’d look great in it.” Will studied her, and she felt conscious of her unremarkable trousers and jacket. “How long has it been since you’ve bought something you didn’t need for work?”

Gemma frowned. “I can’t remember. And I’ve never had a dress like that.”

“Go on,” Will urged, grinning. “Treat yourself. Have a quick look while I ring the station and check in.”

“You’re a bad influence, Will. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t…” She was still grumbling as Will waved at her and ambled off in the direction of the phone box, but there didn’t seem much point without an audience. Will was uncannily on the mark. She bought good quality, serviceable clothes, neutral enough to wear over and over, conservative enough not to hinder her career prospects—and she suddenly hated them. “The condemned went quietly,” she said under her breath and entered the shop.

She emerged feeling a decade older—the teenage sales clerk had been dreadfully condescending—and considerably lighter in her bank balance. Thrusting the plastic carrier bag at Will, she said accusingly, “I can’t go around making inquiries carrying my shopping. Now what will I do?”

“Roll it up and put it in your handbag.” Will demonstrated patiently. “You could hide an army in this thing. I’ve never understood why women don’t get permanently lopsided from carrying around the equivalent of a suitcase all day.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve still Sainsbury’s to try, but I’m starving. Let’s get a bite of lunch first, and maybe the rain will stop.”

After some debate they settled on the fish and chip shop in
the food court and carried their trays to one of the molded plastic tables in the common area. Will tucked into his food with relish, but with the first bite of fish, grease coated Gemma’s mouth and ran down her throat, threatening to gag her with its rancid slickness. She pushed the tray away, and when Will looked up and frowned she snapped, “Don’t lecture me, Will. I’m not hungry. And I hate mushy peas.” She pushed at the distasteful mess with the tines of her plastic fork.

When he returned to his lunch without comment, Gemma felt a rush of shame. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m not usually like this. Really. It must be something about this case. Makes me feel all jumpy. And it’ll be worse once the press get in full swing.”

“Sensitive, are you?” Will said as he loaded his fork with fish and peas, adding a chip for good measure. “It’s your guv and mine who’ll have to tread carefully. Heads could roll if things aren’t sorted out fast enough to please the powers that be. I’d just as soon not be in their shoes. Give me door-to-door in the rain any day.” He smiled and she felt restored to his good graces.

When he’d mopped up the last of his lunch, she said, “Sainsbury’s then?”

“And afterwards we’ll stop in at the station and you can get acquainted with the lads in the incident room.”

Neither the deli clerk nor the checkout girl at Sainsbury’s proved the least bit helpful. Gemma and Will came out into the High again discouraged, but at least Will had got his wish and the rain had receded to a soft drizzle. The pavements were thronged with shoppers, and a columned passageway held banks of flower stalls. At the bottom of the steep street, Gemma could see the soft colors of the trees lining the riverbanks.

“You’ll have to see it in better circumstances,” said Will. “It’s lovely when the sun shines, and there’s a first-class museum in the castle.”

“You’re mind reading again, Will.” Gemma ducked away from a woman wielding an umbrella. “It is a pretty town, even
in the rain. Good place to grow up,” she said, thinking of Toby learning to fend for himself in the London streets.

“But I didn’t—not in Guildford itself, anyway. We lived in a village near Godalming. I’m a farm boy—can’t you tell?” He held up a broad hand for her inspection. “See all those scars? A little tangle with the hay baler.” Touching the pale streak that sliced through his eyebrow, he added, “Barbed wire, that one. My parents must have despaired of raising me to adulthood in one piece.”

“You’re an only child,” Gemma said, guessing.

“A late blessing, they always said, in spite of the trips to the doctor’s surgery.”

It was on the tip of Gemma’s tongue to ask him what had become of the farm, but something in his expression stopped her. They walked the rest of the way back to the car park in silence.

Having asked Will to run her back to Holmbury St. Mary in case she was needed, she felt a fool when the constable on the Gilberts’ gate said that Kincaid and Deveney hadn’t returned, nor had Kincaid left her a message.

“I’ve some phone calls to make,” she assured Will. “I’ll wait at the pub.” She waved him off with a smile, then slowly crossed the road. The rain had stopped, but the tarmac felt greasy beneath her feet and moisture hung heavily in the air.

The odor of stale cigarette smoke lingered inside the pub, but there was no sign of human presence. Gemma waited for a few minutes, warming her hands at the embers of the lunchtime fire. Her stomach rumbled emptily, and once she’d become aware of it, the pang quickly became ravenous hunger. Another trip to Surrey flashed in her memory, a day when she and Kincaid had shared sandwiches in a tea shop garden, then walked along the riverbank.

Unshed tears smarted behind her eyelids. “Don’t be a stupid bloody cow,” she said aloud. Lack of sleep and low blood
sugar, that’s all that was wrong with her—nothing that a snack and nap wouldn’t fix, and she might as well take advantage of the time on her own. Scrubbing at her eyes, she marched over to the bar, but the reconnaissance didn’t turn up so much as a packet of stale crisps. She had some biscuits in her overnight bag—they would have to do.

She’d trudged halfway up the stairs, feeling as if her calves carried lead weights, when a body flew around the landing and cannoned into her. As the blow against her right shoulder spun her around, she lost her footing and sat down with a thump.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming—are you all right?” The flying body resolved itself into an anxious-faced young man, broad shouldered and sporting shoulder-length tumbling blond curls. He peered up at her, holding out a hand as if he weren’t sure whether to help her or protect himself from her ire.

“I saw you last night,” she said, still too dazed to come up with anything more appropriate, “when I came out of the bathroom.”

“I’m Geoff.” He dropped his hand and ventured a smile. “Look, are you sure you’re all right? I didn’t hurt you? I didn’t know anyone else was around—” Rolling his eyes, he added under his breath, “Brian’ll have my head on a platter.”

Gemma looked down, past his tatty sweater and jeans. He wore thick socks but no shoes. No wonder she hadn’t heard him. “I’m fine, really. I wasn’t paying attention, either.” She studied him, liking his oval face and clear gray eyes. Although the mustache adorning his upper lip was a mere downy wisp, Gemma thought he must be in his mid-twenties, at the least. Tiny lines had begun to radiate from the corners of the gray eyes, and the creases between nose and mouth spoke of accumulated living.

Her stomach rumbled again, loudly enough for him to hear, and she groaned. “If you can tell me how to rustle up something to eat around here, I’ll call us even.”

“Come down to the kitchen and I’ll fix you a sandwich,” he said, looking pleased to be let off the hook so easily.

“You will? But … are you sure it’s okay?” As she wondered why a guest would be so free with the pub’s kitchen, a wave of light-headedness swept over her.

They stared at one another in consternation for a moment, then his face cleared and he said. “I live here. I should have said. It’s Geoff Genovase—Brian’s my dad.”

The information took a moment to click into place, then she said, “Oh, of course. Silly of me not to have twigged.” Now that she knew, she could see it in the set of his shoulders, the shape of his head, the quick flash of his smile. “That’s all right, then.”

A little unsteadily, she followed him down to the kitchen. He seated her at a small table wedged into a space near the gas cooker, then opened the refrigerator and studied the contents. “Cheese and pickle okay? That’s what I was thinking of having.”

“Lovely.” As he rummaged in the fridge, she looked around the room. The kitchen was small but professionally equipped, from the stainless-steel cooker to the scarred worktable.

Geoff sliced the crumbly cheddar and assembled the ingredients with the deftness of one who had grown up helping out in the kitchen, and in a few moments carried two plates of thick wholemeal sandwiches to the table. “Go ahead,” he urged her. “Don’t be polite. I’ve put the kettle on, and I’ll have us some tea in a minute.” As Gemma bit into her sandwich, he ran hot water into a brown earthenware pot to warm it. She made herself chew slowly, closing her eyes and tasting the buttery richness of the cheddar against the dark, sweet sharpness of the pickle. After the first few bites she felt her muscles begin to relax.

Geoff emptied the warm water from the pot and spooned in tea. With his back to her, he said, “You’re the lady copper, aren’t you? Brian told me you came last night.” He added boiling water from the kettle on the cooker, then brought the pot and two mugs to the table. “Milk?” Mouth too full to speak, Gemma nodded, and he returned to the fridge for a
pint bottle. “Sugar’s on the table,” he said as he slid into the chair across from her.

“Did you know him?” Gemma asked, having managed to swallow. “Commander Gilbert, I mean.”

“Course I did. Place like this, you can’t
not
know people.” Even around a mouthful of bread and cheese, his tone held disgust.

“It must be hard for you,” said Gemma, her curiosity aroused. “Living in such a small village, I wouldn’t think there’d be a lot going in the way of social life.”

Lots of young people stayed on with their parents when they couldn’t find work—it was an economic fact of life. There’d been times after Rob left that she’d been afraid she and Toby might have to go back to her parents’ small flat above the bakery, and the idea had horrified her. Geoff merely shrugged and said, “It’s all right.”

“The sandwich is super,” she said, washing down a bite with a mouthful of the tea he’d poured her. When he gave her a gratified smile, she ventured, “What do you do? For a job, I mean?”

He waited until he’d finished chewing before answering. “Oh, this and that. Mostly I help Brian out around the pub.” Pushing away from the table, he stood up and reached into the cupboard above the cooker. “Look.” He snagged a package of biscuits and held it out for her inspection. “I know just what we need to finish up.”

“Chocolate digestives?” Gemma said with a sigh of contentment. “The plain ones, too. My favorite.” She ate in silence for a few minutes, and when she’d finished her sandwich, she separated a biscuit from the stack and nibbled on its edge. Geoff had undoubtedly shied away from the personal—she’d try the general again. “You must have been pretty shocked when you heard about the commander. Were you here last night?”

“I was in my room, but Brian saw the pandas go by, lights and sirens. He called me down to help with the bar, then he went straight across the road, but they wouldn’t let him
through. ‘There’s been an accident’ was all they’d tell him, and he came back in a right state. We didn’t know until Nick Deveney sent a constable over to make arrangements for you that it was the commander, not Lucy or Claire.”

“And that made a difference, did it?” asked Gemma, thinking how much people revealed unwittingly, just by the construction of their sentences, their emphasis on certain words.

“Of course it did.” Geoff sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Like I said, it’s a small place, and everybody knows everybody, especially neighbors. Lucy’s a nice kid, and Claire … everyone likes Claire.”

Odd, thought Gemma, if Claire Gilbert was so well thought of, that she had leaned on Will Darling rather than accepting comfort from a sympathetic neighbor. “But not Alastair Gilbert?” she asked. “You didn’t mind so much about him?”

“I didn’t say that.” Geoff frowned at her, their pleasant camaraderie definitely damaged. “It’s just that he’s not
here
—I mean he wasn’t here—what with his job and being in London most of the time.”

“I knew him,” said Gemma, putting her elbows on the table and propping her chin in one hand. She wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it to Kincaid, then shrugged. She hadn’t felt inclined to volunteer anything remotely personal.

“He was my super at Notting Hill when I first joined the force,” she continued. Geoff relaxed, looking interested and settling more comfortably into his chair, as if Gemma’s admission had put them back on equal footing. Sipping her tea, she said, “But I didn’t really
know
him, of course—there were more than four hundred officers at Notting Hill, and I was too lowly to come to his attention. He might have spoken ten words to me in all that time.” The man she remembered seemed to have little connection to the body sprawled so messily on the Gilberts’ kitchen floor. He’d been small and neat, soft-spoken and particular in his dress and his diction, and had occasionally given little pep talks to the ranks about
the importance of rules. “‘A tight ship,’ my sergeant used to say. ‘Gilbert runs a tight ship.’ But I don’t think he meant it kindly.”

“He did like things his way.” Geoff broke another biscuit in two and popped one half into his mouth. Indistinctly, he said, “He was always on the outs with the village council over something, wanting them to enforce the parking restrictions round the green, things like that.” The second biscuit half followed the first, then he refilled both their cups. “And he had a row with the doctor a couple of weeks ago. If you can call it rowing when no one raises his voice.”