Just then Brian brought their salads. Once he’d set them on the table, he wiped his perspiring brow. “Can’t imagine what’s kept John,” he said. Then he added, “He helps out behind the bar, and I’m that strapped without him tonight.”
“But what about Geoff?” asked Gemma.
“Geoff? What has Geoff got to do with it?” Brian said impatiently, then hurried away as another customer called to him.
“But-” Gemma said to his retreating back, then subsided, a flush creeping up her cheekbones. “I know he said he worked for his dad, and it seemed a logical assumption that he tended bar.”
“So what do you make of Geoff, then?” asked Deveney, drawing attention from her embarrassment, and she launched into an account of their meeting that afternoon.
Kincaid listened, watching her animated face and hands as she talked to Deveney, and felt more excluded by the minute. He toyed with the ubiquitous cress and iceberg lettuce of his salad, wondering if he had really known her at all. Had he lain next to her, felt her skin against his, her breath on his lips? He shook his head in disbelief. How could he have been so wrong about what had happened between them?
The word “quarrel” pulled him back to the conversation and he said, “What? I’m sorry.”
“Geoff told me that he overheard Gilbert and the village doctor quarreling a couple of weeks ago,” she answered a bit too patiently, as if Kincaid were a not-too-bright child. “But he didn’t know what it was about, only that they both seemed angry and upset.
“It’s odd,” she added a moment later as she speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “I don’t remember ever seeing Gilbert angry. There was just this sort of unspoken knowledge that if he spoke even more quietly than usual, you were in big trouble.”
“What?” Kincaid said again, glass halfway to his mouth. “You knew him? You worked under Alastair Gilbert?” He felt a complete fool as Deveney looked at them with a puzzled expression.
“He was my super when I was a rookie at Notting Hill,” Gemma said dismissively. “I didn’t know it was important.” Into the awkward silence that followed, she added, “I think we should definitely interview this doctor first thing tomorrow, along with the burglary victims.”
“Wait, Gemma,” said Kincaid. “Someone needs to get on to Gilbert’s office, check out that end of things. And you’ll be needing to look after Toby. Why don’t you go up to London tomorrow, and Nick and I will do the interviews here.”
She didn’t speak as she pushed her plate away and carefully laid down her knife and fork, but the look she gave him could have frozen lava.
CHAPTER 6
Morning commuters packed the Dorking-to-London train. “There’s no direct service from Guildford,” Will Darling had explained as he picked her up from the pub. “So there’s usually a bit of a crunch.” Gemma bumped more than one briefcase before she reached the only available seat. The immense woman opposite left no room for Gemma’s knees and she had to wedge herself in sideways. But as the train came to life with a jerk, she settled herself against the window contentedly enough, grateful for the journey’s quiet minutes.
A good night’s sleep had restored some of her perspective, and as Will dropped her at the station she’d apologized again for yesterday’s behavior.
“Don’t give it another thought,” he’d assured her, his friendly face unperturbed. “It’s a difficult case for us all. It’ll do you good to get home for a bit.”
She’d had every intention of apologizing to Kincaid, too, but he and Deveney had left for a meeting at Guildford Police Station before she came down for breakfast. Over solitary toast and boiled egg she tried to convince herself that she really hadn’t any reason to feel guilty. Kincaid had excused himself after dinner with a too-polite reserve, and she’d been left to fend off the good-natured Deveney.
She hadn’t deliberately set out to make Kincaid jealous-she’d always despised women who used such tactics-but Deveney’s interest and Kincaid’s growing discomfort had fueled her like water on a grease fire. In the more sober light of day, she realized she’d have to be a bit more careful with Nick Deveney. He was an attractive single man, but to have him making overtures was the last thing she needed just now. And Kincaid-the reasons she had enjoyed making him squirm didn’t bear too close an examination.
Deliberately, she turned her attention to more comfortable subjects.
Now, as the Surrey countryside gradually disappeared into the suburban sprawl of London, she thought about Alastair Gilbert, who had taken this same train every morning. She pictured him sitting where she sat, watching the world with careful eyes, briefcase close to his lap. What had he thought about as the miles clicked away? Or had he buried himself in his Times and not thought at all? Had any of the other passengers noticed his absence, wondered what had happened to the small, dapper man? Her eyes drifted closed until the squeal of brakes announced their arrival at Victoria.
Gemma walked up Victoria Street towards Buckingham Gate, taking her time, enjoying the thin sunshine that had followed last night’s downpour. As she turned into Broadway, she found the sight of the Yard surprisingly welcome. For once, its stark aspect proved comforting, and it felt good to be on firm ground again.
Having made a brief report to Chief Superintendent Childs, she appropriated Kincaid’s office, but found none of her usual satisfaction in it. It allowed her the peace she needed to organize her day, however, and soon she had made an appointment with Commander Gilbert’s staff officer, Chief Inspector David Ogilvie, and was on her way to the Divisional Headquarters in Notting Dale.
She remembered Ogilvie from her Notting Hill days, before he, like Gilbert, had transferred to Divisional Headquarters. He’d been an inspector then, and she’d felt a bit frightened of him. His dark hawkish looks had made his reputation as a ladies’ man plausible, but he seldom smiled, and his tongue was known to be as sharp as the jut of his nose.
Steeling herself for an unpleasant interview, she introduced herself to the duty officer and sat down in the reception area to wait until Ogilvie sent for her. Much to her surprise, Ogilvie appeared himself a few moments later, hand outstretched in welcome. He hadn’t changed much, she thought, studying him as she shook his hand. Flecks of gray had appeared in his thick, dark hair, and the angles of his face were a bit more prominent, his body a little leaner.
He led her to his office, seated her cordially, then surprised her again by taking the initiative before she could get her notebook and pen out. “This business about Alastair Gilbert is shocking. I don’t think any of us have quite taken it in yet. We keep waiting for someone to tell us it was all a mistake.” He paused while he aligned some loose papers on his desk, then gazed at her directly.
His eyes were a very dark pure gray, set off to perfection by the charcoal herringbone of his jacket. Gemma looked away. “I’m sure it must be hard for you, having worked with-”
“You were part of the team called to the scene,” he interrupted, ignoring her condolence. “I want you to tell me what happened.”
“But you’ll have seen a report-”
Shaking his head, he leaned towards her, his eyes dilated. “That’s not good enough. I want to know what it looked like, what was said, down to the last detail.”
Gemma felt a prickle of sweat break out under her arms. What in hell was he playing at? Was this some sort of test of her abilities? And was she obliged to answer him? The silence stretched, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. What harm could it do, after all? He had access to the incident files anyway, and she needed to establish some sort of rapport with him. She took a deep breath and began.
Ogilvie sat very still while she talked, and when she’d finished he relaxed back into his chair and smiled at her. “I see we trained you very well at Notting Hill, Sergeant.” Gemma started to speak, but he held up his hand. “Oh, yes, I remember you,” he said, and his grin grew wolfishly wide. “You were quite determined to get on, and it seems that you have. Now what can I do f
or you, since you’ve been so obliging? Will you be wanting to go through the things in the commander’s office?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions first.” Having succeeded in retrieving her pen and notebook, Gemma flipped to a new page and headed it with determination. “Had you noticed anything different about the commander’s behavior recently?”
Ogilvie swiveled his chair towards the window a little and appeared to give the matter serious thought. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I did, but then I knew Alastair for many years and I could never have guessed what he was feeling at any given time. He was a very private person.”
“Any difficulties at work? Could someone have threatened him?”
“You mean some villain threatening to do for the copper as nicked ’im? I do believe you’ve been watching the telly, Sergeant.” Ogilvie gave a bark of amusement and Gemma flushed, but before she could retort, he said, “As you are aware, Gilbert had little to do with day-to-day operational policing. And as he was always better at administration than tactics, I dare say it suited him.” He stood up with a swift grace that increased Gemma’s impression of his fitness. “I’ll take you-”
“Chief Inspector.” Gemma didn’t budge from her chair. “Tell me about the commander’s last day, please. Did he do anything out of the ordinary?”
Rather than sit again, Ogilvie went to the window and fiddled absently with the lever on the blinds. “As far as I can remember he was in and out of departmental meetings all day. The usual drill.”
“It was only two days ago, Chief Inspector,” Gemma said softly.
He turned back to her, hands in his trouser pockets, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m getting old, Sergeant. And I had no reason to pay particular attention to the commander’s movements that day. Have a word with the department secretary, why don’t you? And I know Alastair kept a desk diary. He liked to know where he stood.” As he came around the desk and opened his door, he said, “I’ll just get you started.”
Gemma smiled and thanked him, all the while aware of a distinct feeling that she’d been led a merry dance.
Alastair Gilbert’s office furnishings befitted a commander. Good quality carpeting covered the floor, and the furniture was the impressive sort only senior officers could requisition. A heavy bookcase against one wall held volumes of philosophy and military history as well as police manuals, but other than that Gemma found the room devoid of personality. Of course, she hadn’t really expected Gilbert to accumulate the flotsam that cluttered most people’s work spaces, but the order of this room was not even marred by family photographs. With a sigh she settled down to work.
Not until her stomach growled did she realize she’d missed lunch by several hours. She replaced the papers in the last file and levered herself up from the floor, her joints stiff and aching. Her fingertips felt dry and grimy from handling so many pieces of paper, but her search had yielded absolutely nothing of interest. Gilbert’s meticulous appointment book merely outlined a day that sounded as dull as she felt at that moment.
He had started his last morning with a senior officers’ briefing, then taken care of his correspondence. Before lunch he’d met with a representative from the local council and after lunch with officials from local pressure groups and the Crown Prosecution Service. There was no reference to an after-work meeting, nor had there been any notation for the evening before.
Stretching and smothering a yawn, Gemma conceded for the first time that Kincaid might have a point in not wanting further promotion. She retrieved her handbag from beneath the desk and went to find the loo.
Feeling better once she’d washed her hands and splashed water on her face, she emerged from the building to find the sun miraculously still shining. She stood still and tilted her face up, soaking in the faint warmth obliviously until the door flew open and someone bumped her from behind. “Sorry,” she said automatically, taking in an impression of a stocky female body in a blue uniform, then the face clicked into focus and she gasped. “Jackie? I can’t believe it! Is it really you?” After a moment’s laughing and hugging, she held her friend at arm’s length and studied her. “It is you. I’d swear you haven’t changed a bit.”
She and Jackie Temple had been in the same class at the academy, and when they were both posted to Notting Hill a pleasant acquaintanceship had merged into real friendship. They had stayed close, even when Gemma transferred from uniform to CID, but since Gemma had been posted to the Yard they’d seen each other very rarely. Now she realized with a shock that she hadn’t spoken to Jackie since Toby’s conception.
“Neither have you, Gemma,” Jackie said, a smile lighting her dark face. “And now that we know we’re both god-awful liars, what are you doing here? And how long has it been? How’s Rob?” Gemma’s expression must have betrayed her, because Jackie said immediately, “Oh, no, I’ve put my foot in, haven’t I?” She lifted Gemma’s left hand and shook her head when she saw her bare finger. “I’m so sorry, love. Whatever happened?”
“You couldn’t have known,” Gemma reassured her. “And it’s been more than four years now.” Rob had found the demands of family life a bit more than he’d bargained for and hadn’t proved much better as an absentee father. The child-support checks, regular at first, became sporadic, then stopped altogether when Rob left his job and changed his address.
“Look,” said Jackie as the door swung open again and narrowly missed them, “we can’t stand about on the bleedin’ steps all day. I’m just off duty, but I ran some paper work over from Notting Hill as a favor to my sarge. Now I’m off home. Come with me and we’ll have something to drink and a good old natter.”
Gemma had a moment’s guilt, quickly buried as she told herself that she had, after all, followed Kincaid’s instructions to the letter. And she could always quiz Jackie about Alastair Gilbert. Smiling, she said, “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Jackie still lived in the small block of flats Gemma remembered, near Notting Hill Police Station. It was a bit of an ugly duckling in an area of terraced Georgian houses, but Jackie’s second-floor flat was pleasant enough. Wide windows opened onto a south-facing balcony, a profusion of green plants grew among the clutter of African prints, and bright-patterned throws covered the casual furniture.
“Do you still share with Susan May?” Gemma called from the sitting room as Jackie disappeared into the bedroom, shedding her uniform sweater as she went.
“We rub along all right. She’s had another promotion-fancies herself a bit these days,” Jackie said affectionately as she reappeared in jeans, pulling a sweatshirt over her tight curls. “I’m starved,” she added, heading for the tiny galley kitchen. “Hang on a bit and I’ll put something together for us.”
When Jackie refused her offer of help, Gemma wandered out on the balcony, admiring the snapdragons and pansies that bloomed cheerfully in terra-cotta pots. She remembered that Susan, a willowy woman who worked as a production assistant for the BBC, was the one with the green thumb. When the three of them had gathered together for makeshift suppers in the flat, Susan had teased Jackie about her ability to kill anything by just looking at it.
This had been her patch, Gemma thought as she leaned over the railing and gazed out at the broad tree-lined streets-not all of it as elegant and pleasant as this, of course-but it had been a good place to start life as a copper, and she had grown fond of it. Once she’d walked a beat that stretched from the crayon-box of Elgin Crescent to the bustle of Kensington Park Road. It felt odd to be back, as if time had telescoped in on itself.
When she returned to the sitting room, Jackie had set out plates of sandwiches, fruit, and two bottles of beer. As they pulled their chairs nearer the window so they could sit in the last of the sun while they ate, Jackie echoed Gemma’s thoughts. “A bit like old times, isn’t it? Now tell me about you,” she added as she bit into an apple with a resounding crunch.
By the time Gemma had brought her up to date and Jackie had promise
d to visit Toby soon, they’d mopped up the crumbs. “Jackie,” Gemma said tentatively, “look, I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch. When I was pregnant with Toby it was all I could do to fall into bed at night, and afterwards… with Rob… I just didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I understand.” Jackie’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “But I envy you your baby.”
“You?” It had never occurred to Gemma that her tough and self-sufficient friend might want a child.
Jackie laughed. “What? You think I’m too crusty to want to change nappies? But there it is. And I’d never have thought you’d let a baby interfere with your career. Speaking of which”-she punched Gemma lightly on the arm-“who would have thought you’d end up such a big shot, investigating a commander’s murder. Tell me all about it.”
When Gemma had finished, Jackie sat quietly for a moment, swirling the dregs of her beer in its amber bottle. “Lucky you,” she said at last. “Your guv sounds like a good one.”
Gemma opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. That was a can of worms she didn’t dare open.
“I could tell you some stories about mine that would make your hair stand on end,” Jackie said, then added philosophically, “Oh, well, I made my bed when I decided I wanted to stay on the street.” She finished her beer in one swallow and changed the subject abruptly. “I saw Commander Gilbert at Notting Hill not too long ago-one day last week, I think it was. Can you believe he had a spot on his tie? Must have got caught in the crossfire of a canteen food fight, that’s the only reasonable explanation.”
They both laughed, then inspired by the mention of such juvenile behavior, settled into a round of “do you remember’s?” that left them giggling and wiping their eyes. “Can you believe how ignorant we were?” Jackie asked finally, blowing her nose in a tissue. “Sometimes I think it’s a wonder we survived.” She studied Gemma for a moment, then added more soberly, “It’s good to see you again, Gemma. You were an important part of my life, and I’ve missed you.”
Mourn Not Your Dead Page 8