Having seen her maintain her control when almost incoherent with shock and exhaustion, Gemma felt surprised at Claire’s distress, yet thought she understood. Even though she had dealt with the bloody aftermath, Claire hadn’t wanted to imagine what had happened to her husband. Her mind had avoided it until she confronted a physical reminder. Funny how the mind played tricks on you. “Mrs. Gilbert,” Gemma began, wanting to offer some comfort, “don’t-”
“Please don’t keep on calling me that,” said Claire with sudden vehemence. “My name is Claire, for God’s sake.” Then she covered her face with her hands, muffling small hiccuping sobs.
With a warning shake of his head, Will mouthed, “Let her cry.” He went to the fridge, and after a moment’s rummaging, retrieved a loaf of bread, butter, and marmalade. Popping two slices in the toaster, he assembled plate and cutlery, putting things together so efficiently that by the time Claire’s tears had subsided, her belated breakfast was ready.
“You barely touched your supper last night,” he said accusingly. “And I bet you’ve had nothing but tea this morning.” Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “You can’t go on this way and expect to cope, now can you?” As he spoke he spread the butter and marmalade, then handed Claire a slice of toast.
Obediently, she took a small bite. Will sat beside her, watching with such concentration that Gemma could almost hear him urging Claire to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.
After a moment, Kincaid caught Gemma’s eye and motioned towards the garden. She followed a pace behind him through the narrow mudroom, careful not to bump against him, determined not to notice the faint smell of his soap, his aftershave, his skin. But she couldn’t help seeing that his hair needed cutting-he’d forgotten, as he often did, and it was beginning to creep over the edge of his collar in the back.
A wave of irrational anger swept through her, as if those wayward hairs had deliberately meant to offend her. When they reached the garden, she pounced on the first unrelated grievance that came to mind. “Did you have to upset Claire Gilbert like that? She’s been through enough as it is, and the least we can do is-”
“The least we can do is try to find out who killed her husband,” he interrupted sharply. “And that means covering every possibility, however unlikely. And how was I supposed to know that the sight of the garden shed hammer would send her into a dead faint?” he added, sounding aggrieved. “Either that or my face needs an overhaul.” He tried on a smile, but when she merely scowled back at him he said crossly, “What the hell is the matter with you, Gemma?”
For a moment they stared at each other. She wondered how he could ask such a stupid question, then realized she didn’t know the answer. All she could sort from the jumble of her feelings was that she wanted her confusion to go away, her world to right itself again. She wanted things to be as they were, safe and familiar, but she didn’t know how to make it so.
She turned away and walked across the grass to the dog’s run. Lewis wagged his tail in happy greeting, and she touched his nose through the wire mesh.
Kincaid’s voice came from behind her, neutral now. “And have you forgotten that the spouse is always the most likely suspect?”
“There’s no evidence,” Gemma said, hooking her fingers through the fence. “And besides, she has an alibi.”
“Too true, I’m afraid. Who’s this Malcolm fellow Claire mentioned, by the way?” When she’d told him, he considered for a moment, then said, “We’d best divide up the labor for the rest of the day. You and Will go over her tracks in Guildford. I’ll wait here for Deveney, then perhaps we’ll have a word with Malcolm Reid before we tackle the village.” He waited, and when she didn’t answer, didn’t turn, he said, “We’ll keep a PC on the gate until the furore dies down, so Claire won’t have to deal with the press unless she goes out. I hope that puts your mind at rest,” he added as he walked away, and he didn’t quite manage to suppress the sarcasm.
Buckled into the passenger seat of Will’s car, Gemma fumed silently. Who the hell did Duncan Kincaid think he was, ordering her about like some raw recruit? He hadn’t discussed it with her, hadn’t asked her opinion, and when a small voice in her head suggested that perhaps she hadn’t given him the opportunity, she said aloud, “Shut up.”
“Sorry?” said Will, taking his eyes off the curve of the road to give her a startled glance.
“Not you, Will. I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“Not a very pleasant conversation you were having,” he said, sounding amused. “Want to add a third party?”
“It seems to me you take on enough without adding my troubles,” Gemma answered in an attempt to change the subject. “How do you do it, Will? How can you stay objective when you seem to feel such empathy for the people involved?” She hadn’t meant to speak so plainly, but something about him eased the normal safeguards off her tongue. Hoping he hadn’t taken offense, she glanced at him, but he met her eyes and smiled.
“I have no trouble remaining objective when I’m presented with evidence of wrongdoing. But until then I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat people with as much decency and consideration as possible, especially when they’ve been through an experience as difficult as Claire Gilbert’s and her daughter’s.” He looked at her again and added, “You’ve brought out my upbringing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. My mum and dad were staunch supporters of the Golden Rule, though people don’t set much stock by it nowadays.”
He kept his attention on the road after that, for they had reached the A25 and the morning traffic was heavy.
Gemma watched him curiously. She didn’t often hear men talk willingly of their parents. Rob had been ashamed of his-hardworking tradespeople with unpolished accents-and she’d been furious with him when she’d heard him tell someone once that they were dead. “Will… earlier you said the cathedral always had special significance, and just then you said your parents were… are your parents dead, then?”
Will coaxed the car around a grumbling farm lorry before answering. “Two years ago, Christmastime.”
“An accident?”
“They were ill,” he said. Then with a grin he added, “Tell me about your family, Gemma. I couldn’t help noticing the set of plastic keys in your handbag.”
“Very professional of me, isn’t it? But if I don’t keep them handy Toby loses the real thing,” and before she knew it she had launched into a detailed account of Toby’s latest escapades.
The snapshot showed Claire and Lucy together, arms round one another, laughing into the camera, against a background that looked like the pier at Brighton. Gemma had borrowed it from a frame on the dresser in the conservatory. The spotty-faced clerk at Waterstones studied it, then tossed his hair back and looked at Gemma and Will with bright, intelligent eyes. “Nice bird. Bought a copy of Jude the Obscure. Wasn’t inclined to stay for a chat, though.”
“You do mean the daughter?” said Gemma a bit impatiently.
“The younger one, yeah. Though the other’s not bad, either,” he added with another considering glance at the photo.
“And you’re sure you didn’t see them both?” Gemma fought the urge to snatch the photo back, sure that he was smudging it with his fingerprints.
He tilted his head and eyed them speculatively. “Can’t swear to it, can I? It was a fairly busy afternoon, and I might not have even remembered her”-he tapped the paper Lucy-“if she hadn’t come to the register.” With an exaggerated little sigh of regret he returned the photo to Gemma.
Will, leafing idly through a volume on the sale table beside the register, looked up. “What time was it?”
For a moment the boy dropped his pose as he thought. “After four, because that’s when I take my break, and I remember I’d had it already. Nearer than that I can’t say.”
“Thanks,” said Gemma, making an effort to sound as if she meant it, and Will gave him a card with the usual instructions to call them if he remembered anything else.
“Prat,
” said Gemma under her breath as they left the store.
“You’re not feeling very charitable this morning, are you?” Will asked as they dodged shoppers laden with bags and parcels. “Your boy will be just like that in a few years.”
Recognizing the tease, Gemma said, “God forbid,” and smiled. “He’d better not be. I hate men who leer. And boys.”
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 radiat
e 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.
Mourn Not Your Dead Page 5
