Mourn Not Your Dead

by Deborah Crombie

  “I’ll meet you at the station, then. Cheerio.” The line clicked and went dead in her ear.

  She hung up slowly, piecing together the wine drunk at Hazel’s, the first part of the night spent sleeping in the chair, Toby in her lap. This was the first night she’d slept in her own bed for a week-no wonder she’d been so exhausted.

  With that thought, memory returned to her sleep-fogged brain, and she realized that Duncan was no longer her comfortable, dependable friend and partner but unknown territory to be navigated with the greatest care.

  She might never have been away, thought Gemma as she walked into Notting Hill Police Station. The blue wire chairs in reception were the same, as was the black-and-white-speckled lino on the floor. She had always loved this place, had forgiven it the awkward partitioning of its interior for the symmetrical grace of its exterior. As it was a listed building, no changes were allowed to the outside and very few to the inside, so they managed the best they could.

  As she stood awaiting her turn at reception, she imagined the rhythm of the four hundred officers moving through the four floors, the gossip, the boredom, the sudden spasms of frantic activity, and she felt a moment of acute longing for her old life. It had all seemed so much less complicated, then.

  “The superintendent said to send you up to CID as soon as you came in,” said the friendly but unfamiliar girl behind the counter. “He’s in Interview Room B. First floor.” Gemma thanked her with tactful restraint, considering that she could have found CID drugged and blindfolded.

  Kincaid looked up and smiled as she opened the door. “I brought you some coffee. Sniffed out the good stuff, too, from the department secretary’s office.” He gestured at a still-steaming mug standing on the table beside a stack of file folders. His chestnut hair, which always started out the day neatly brushed, now stood on end-due no doubt to the recent exercise of his habit of running his hand through it when he read or concentrated.

  As she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, he tapped at the open folder before him. “It’s all here.”

  Gemma forced herself to concentrate. If he had intentionally set out to distract and disarm her he couldn’t have succeeded better. His thoughtfulness in timing the coffee with her arrival, his attempts at cheerful normality, and worst of all, that damned wayward lock of hair. She clasped her hands tightly around the mug to keep from reaching out and brushing the hair back, then said, “What’s all there?”

  “The death of Stephen Penmaric, twelve years ago this coming April.”

  “Penmaric? But that’s-”

  “Lucy Penmaric’s father. They lived here in Notting Hill, in Elgin Crescent. He was struck and killed crossing the Portobello Road, on his way to get some medicine for Lucy at an all-night chemist.”

  “Oh, no…” Gemma breathed. Now she understood Claire Gilbert’s oblique comment during their interview, and her heart went out in sympathy to mother and daughter. “That’s too much for anyone to bear, surely. But what has it to do with this?”

  “I don’t know.” Kincaid sighed and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “But Alastair Gilbert was superintendent here then. A Sergeant David Ogilvie was the investigating officer.”

  Gemma closed her mouth when she realized she was gaping, then said, “I spoke to Ogilvie yesterday at Divisional Headquarters. He’s a chief inspector now, and he was Gilbert’s staff officer.” She recounted the interview, then her visit with Jackie Temple.

  “They go back a long way, then,” said Kincaid. “And it most likely has nothing to do with anything… but I think we should have a talk with David Ogilvie about it.”

  “What about Stephen Penmaric? Did they find out who ran him down?”

  Kincaid shook his head. “Hit and run. It was late at night, there were no witnesses. The copper on the beat saw taillights disappearing around the corner, but by the time he radioed for help the car had vanished.”

  “How dreadful for Claire. And for Lucy.”

  “He was a journalist, and from what Lucy told me I’d say that, unlike Alastair Gilbert, he was sorely missed.” Gathering up the loose papers, Kincaid closed the file and stacked it neatly with the others. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s walk for a bit.”

  It promised to be another clear day, and even in mid-November the trees arching over Ladbroke Grove made a lacy canopy of green. Gemma had followed Kincaid without question and now paced beside him, breathing deeply of the still air but hugging her coat together against the cold.

  He glanced at her as if gauging her mood, then said, “I wanted to see it-the house in Elgin Crescent. For some reason I felt a need to meet the ghosts.”

  “Only Stephen’s dead,” Gemma said logically.

  “You could argue that the Claire and Lucy of twelve years ago no longer exist, either, if you wanted to get into the semantics of time.” He flashed her a grin, then sobered. “But I don’t want to argue with you at all, Gemma.” His steps slowed as he spoke. “I admit I had a double motive-I wanted a chance to talk to you. Look… Gemma… if I’ve done something to offend you, it wasn’t intentional. And if I’ve taken our partnership for granted in the past, I can only say I’m sorry, because the past few days have made me realize how much I depend on your support, on your interpretation of things, on your gut reaction to people. I need you on this case. We need to be communicating, not bumping around in the dark like blind fish in a barrel.” They reached an intersection and he stopped, turning to her. “Can’t we be a team again?”

  Thoughts rattled around in Gemma’s head, as disorganized as her emotions. How could she explain to him why she’d been so angry when she didn’t know herself? She knew he was right-they were likely to make a real balls-up of the case if they kept on as they were-and she also knew neither of them could afford that. She, who prided herself on her professionalism above all else, had been behaving like an ass, but the words of an apology stuck in her throat and refused to budge.

  Finally, she managed a strangled, “Right, guv,” but she kept her eyes firmly on the pavement.

  “Good,” he said. Then as the light changed and they stepped into the street, he added so softly that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly, “That’s a start.”

  As they turned into Elgin Crescent a few minutes later, she searched for a safe subject. “It’s got more yuppified since I left.” Every house in the terrace boasted a different-hued stucco unified by gleaming white trim, and each sprouted its baby satellite dish and displayed a plaque announcing the possession of an alarm system.

  Kincaid consulted a scrap of paper, and they soon found the house where the Penmarics had occupied the top-floor flat. “And this is one of the victims,” Kincaid said as they surveyed the peach exterior and brilliant black front door. “Lucy said it had a yellow door.” He sounded disappointed.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing”-with her toe Gemma poked at a bit of plasterboard that had strayed from the rubbish tip and the scaffolding in the garden next door-“this gentrification. Improves the neighborhood and all that, but somehow I miss the character of the old one. It was comfortable and just a wee bit shabby, someplace where you could come home, take your shoes off, and eat your chips right out of the paper.

  “But this, now”-she gestured at the curve of the terrace-“this is intimate dinner parties after work with wine and just the right gourmet goodies from Fortnum’s. Not exactly conducive to ghosts.”

  “No ghosts,” Kincaid agreed as they turned away and retraced their steps. “We’ll have to try farther afield.”

  * * *

  Gemma hadn’t expected to find herself in David Ogilvie’s office again so soon, but this time she pulled out her notebook with a sense of relief and let Kincaid conduct the interview.

  “Do you remember the Stephen Penmaric case?” Kincaid asked, when they had concluded the formalities.

  Ogilvie drew his dark brows together in a puzzled frown. “Claire Gilbert’s first husband? Of course I do. Hadn’t thought
of it in years, though.” His smile seemed merely a baring of teeth. “What are you on about? You think Claire had some old flame with a penchant for getting rid of husbands?”

  Kincaid chuckled appreciatively. “It’s as good as anything we’ve come up with so far.” Shifting position slightly, he clasped his hands around his knee and regarded Ogilvie with what Gemma thought of as his getting-down-to-business expression. “I’ve read the files, of course,” he said. “Inconclusive as hell. You were the investigating officer, and you and I both know”-his smile suggested an understood camaraderie-“that the officer in charge of a case can’t put impressions in a report, but that’s exactly what I want from you now. What didn’t you say? What did you think of Claire? Was Stephen Penmaric murdered?”

  David Ogilvie leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together before replying with deliberation. “I think now exactly what I thought then. Stephen Penmaric’s death was a tragic accident. There was nothing in the report because there was nothing to find. You know as well as I do,” he added with evident sarcasm, “the odds for tracing an unwitnessed hit-and-run. And I don’t see how any of this could possibly have any bearing on Alastair Gilbert’s death.”

  “Did Gilbert know Claire Penmaric before her husband’s death?” countered Kincaid.

  “You’re not suggesting that Alastair had anything to do with Penmaric’s death?” Ogilvie’s eyebrows rose in an expression of incredulous surprise. Tufts of hair on the inner edge of the brows grew straight up, giving them an odd, hooked aspect, making Gemma think absently of horns. “Surely, Superintendent, you’re not that desperate. I realize that you’re under some pressure to solve this case, but no one who knew Alastair could possibly think him capable of bending the law to suit his own ends.”

  “Chief Inspector, I’m at liberty to think whatever I like. And I have the advantage of not having known Commander Gilbert well, so that I’m not inclined to let personal opinions cloud my judgment.”

  Gemma looked at Kincaid in surprise. It wasn’t like him to pull rank, but Ogilvie had certainly deserved it.

  Ogilvie’s lips tightened, and although his olive coloring made it difficult to be sure, Gemma thought his cheeks darkened slightly with an angry flush. After a moment, however, he said civilly enough, “You’re quite right, Superintendent. I apologize. Perhaps one should stretch one’s parameters.”

  “I’m trying to form a clear picture of Alastair Gilbert, and I thought it might be helpful to learn a bit of his history. It seemed logical to suppose that he might have met Claire during the investigation of her husband’s death.”

  “Alastair did meet Claire during the course of the investigation,” Ogilvie conceded. “Young, pretty, and very much alone in the world-not many men would have resisted the temptation to offer her comfort and support.”

  “Including Gilbert?”

  Shrugging, Ogilvie answered, “They became friends. More than that I can’t tell you. I’ve never been in the habit of prying into the private lives of my superior officers-or anyone else’s, for that matter. If you want the more intimate details, I’d suggest you ask Claire Gilbert.”

  Gemma glanced at Kincaid, wondering how he would react to Ogilvie’s thinly veiled disdain, but he merely smiled and thanked him.

  They said good-bye, and as they left the building, Gemma said, “I wonder why he dislikes us so much?”

  “Are you feeling paranoid today?” Kincaid gave her a sideways grin as they walked down the steps. “I suspect it’s nothing personal-that David Ogilvie dislikes everyone equally. But why don’t you stop by the station again? Have a word with your friend Jackie if you can track her down, see what she thinks about Chief Inspector Ogilvie.

  “Then meet me at the Yard and we’ll take a car from the pool for the drive back to Surrey.” For a few minutes they walked in silence, then, as they reached the intersection where their ways parted, he mused aloud, “I do wonder, though, if Ogilvie was entirely immune to Claire Penmaric’s appeal.”

  Jackie Temple eased a finger into the waistband of her uniform trousers and took a deep breath. She found it difficult to believe that anyone who walked as many miles a day as she did could possibly put on weight, but the physical evidence was undeniable. Time to get out the sewing box and hope that the seam held a generous amount of fabric, she thought with a sigh. She did so look forward to her elevenses, and she only had a few blocks to go before she reached the stall just off the Portobello Road where she usually stopped for her break. Ordering one sticky bun rather than two with her tea would make her feel as though she’d taken a stand against the creeping pounds, but she’d be ravenous by the time she finished her shift at three.

  Slowing her pace, she scanned the knot of pedestrians blocking the pavement just ahead. It sorted itself out quickly enough-just a case of too many people going in opposite directions at the same time-and left her free to pursue her thoughts. In her years of walking the beat she’d developed a facility for dividing her mind. One half was ever alert for anything out of the ordinary in her territory. It responded to greetings from familiar residents and shopkeepers, made routine checks, noticed those loitering a bit too conspicuously, and all the while the other part of her mind lived a life of its own, speculating and daydreaming.

  She thought of her unexpected meeting with Gemma yesterday. Although she had to admit she envied her friend’s status as a sergeant in the CID just a bit, she’d never really wanted to do anything more than walk a beat. She’d found her niche, and it suited her.

  Not that she’d mind having Gemma’s figure, she thought with a smile as she passed the homeopathic chemist’s and saluted Mr. Dodd, the owner. In fact, she mused as she turned the corner and saw the stall’s cheerful red awning ahead, it seemed to her that Gemma was thinner than she remembered and had a transparent quality, as if she were stretched beyond her resources. Jackie suspected that this was not entirely due to pressure of work, but she’d never been one to force confidences.

  A few minutes later, holding her steaming tea in its polystyrene cup in one hand, and her solitary and virtuous bun in the other, Jackie leaned her back against the stall’s brick wall and surveyed the street. She blinked as she saw a flash of red hair, then a familiar face coming through the crowd towards her. It occurred to her that she should feel surprise, but instead she had an odd sense of inevitability. She waved, and a moment later Gemma reached her.

  “I was just thinking about you,” said Jackie. “Do you suppose I conjured you up, or is this one of those coincidences you read about in the tabloids?”

  “I don’t think I’d last long as a genie,” Gemma answered, laughing. Her cheeks were pink with the cold, and her copper hair had been teased from its plait by the wind. “But maybe you should nominate your guv’nor. He has you timed down to the minute.” Eyeing Jackie’s bun, she pinched a currant from it. “That looks wonderful. I’m starved. One thing about CID-you learn never to pass up an opportunity for a meal.”

  As she examined the stall’s menu board, Jackie studied her. Gemma’s loosely cut rust-colored blazer and tan chinos looked casual yet smart, something that Jackie never felt she quite managed to achieve. “Nice outfit,” she said, when Gemma had ordered tea and a croissant with ham and cheese. “I guess I’m just fashion-impaired, which is probably one reason I stayed in uniform.” With a mouthful of bun, she added, “You look much better today, by the way, roses back in your cheeks and all that. I’d just been thinking that you looked a bit done-up yesterday.”

  “Put it down to a good night’s sleep,” Gemma said easily, but she looked down, twisting the ring she wore on her right hand. Then she smiled brightly and changed the subject, and they nattered on about mutual friends until Gemma’s sandwich was ready.

  When Gemma had taken a couple of bites and washed them down with tea, she said, “Jackie, what do you know about Gilbert and David Ogilvie?”

  “Ogilvie?” Jackie thought for a moment. “Weren’t he and Gilbert partners? That was before our
time, but it seems to me there was some rumor about bad blood between them. Why?”

  Gemma told her what they had learned about Stephen Penmaric’s death, then added, “So it seems that both Gilbert and Ogilvie met Claire at the time of the investigation, then a couple of years later she married Gilbert.”

  Jackie licked the last of the crumbs from her fingers. “I know who might be able to help-you remember Sergeant Talley? He’s been at Notting Hill for donkey’s years and knows everything about everybody.”

  “He told me where to find you.” Gemma looked down at the sandwich in one hand and the tea in the other. “Here.” She handed the sandwich to Jackie and fished her notebook from her handbag. “I’ll stop back at the station and see if I can-”

  “Wait, Gemma, let me do it,” Jackie said, the temptation of a second bun forgotten. “You’ve got to understand about Talley. He may be the world’s worst gossip, but he doesn’t see himself that way. He’d never be willing to drag up any dirt on someone in our nick to an outsider-and you’re an outsider now.”

  “Ouch.” Gemma winced.

  “Sorry,” Jackie said with a grin. “But you know what I mean.” And it was true, she thought. She could see in Gemma now what hadn’t been apparent yesterday-the focus, the drive that made her CID material. It was not so much that Gemma had changed, for those qualities had always been there, but rather that she’d found the job which utilized her talents, and in doing so had moved away from Jackie and the life they’d shared.

  “You wouldn’t mind talking to him about it?” Tucking her notebook under one arm, Gemma retrieved her sandwich and nibbled at it again.

  “I’ll try to get him in the canteen for a cuppa when I get off shift, get him reminiscing. And I don’t mind a bit,” Jackie added slowly. “You’ve got my curiosity roused. I hope this detective stuff isn’t catching.”