Mourn Not Your Dead

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid whistled as he read the bottle’s label. “You didn’t find this at Sainsbury’s.” The platter looked an equal treat-cheeses, smoked salmon, fresh fruit, and biscuits. “You’ll spoil me,” he said, sniffing the wine before taking his first sip.

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” Madeleine watched the deep purple-red stream of wine as she filled her glass. “You won’t be around long enough to spoil. You’ll bring this case to a conclusion-I have no doubt.” She met his eyes. “Then you’ll go back to whatever life you lead when you’re not working, and you’ll forget all about Holmbury St. Mary.”

  For a moment Kincaid fancied he heard a trace of regret beneath the amusement in her voice. “I’m not sure I have a life when I’m not working,” he said as he positioned a slice of salmon on a biscuit. “That’s the problem.”

  “But that’s your choice, surely.”

  Kincaid shrugged. “So I thought. It seemed enough for a long time. In fact, after my wife and I split up, anything seemed preferable to going through that sort of emotional turmoil again.”

  “So what happened to change things?” Madeleine asked as she spread a crumbly white cheese on a biscuit. “You should try this one. It’s white Stilton with ginger.”

  “I don’t know.” Kincaid polished off his salmon while he considered her question. “Last spring I lost a friend and neighbor. I suppose it was only when I couldn’t seem to fill the hole she left that I realized I was lonely.” He felt astonished even as he spoke. These were things he hadn’t really articulated to himself, much less shared with anyone else.

  “Sometimes grief takes us by surprise.” Madeleine lifted her glass and held it in both hands, tilting it gently. Tonight she wore tunic and trousers in olive-green silk, and the wine looked blood dark against the earthy green. Kincaid heard the experience in her voice, but he didn’t ask what loss she’d suffered.

  When he’d sampled the Stilton, he said, “Do you suppose Claire Gilbert will grieve for her husband?”

  Madeleine thought for a moment. “I think that Claire did her grieving for Alastair Gilbert a long time ago, when she discovered that he was not what she’d thought.” Behind her, the farmyard animals seemed to cavort across the curtains in the flickering light. “And I don’t think she ever stopped grieving for Stephen. She hadn’t time to do it properly when she married Alastair, but we often make choices out of necessity that we later regret.”

  “And have you?”

  “More times than I can count.” Madeleine smiled. “But never because the wolf was at my door, like Claire. I’ve been financially fortunate. My family was comfortably off, then I went straight from college into a well-paid job.” With a delicate twist of the stem, she picked a grape from its cluster.

  “What about you, Mr. Kincaid? Have you made decisions you’ve regretted?”

  “Out of the necessity of the moment,” he said softly, echoing her earlier words. Had she sensed what was on his mind and led him to this, all unsuspecting? “I’d say this was odd, except I’m beginning to think that nothing concerning you is quite… ordinary. Yes, I made that sort of decision once, and it concerned Alastair Gilbert.”

  “Gilbert?” Madeleine spluttered, choking on her wine.

  “It was years ago-probably quite near the time that Gilbert met Claire. I was taking a development course, just after I’d been promoted to inspector, and he was the instructor.” Kincaid stopped and drank some wine, wondering why he had got himself into this tale and why he felt compelled to continue. “We had the weekend at home in the middle of a two-week course. That Sunday evening, just as I was about to leave for Hampshire again, my wife told me that she desperately needed to talk.” Pausing, he rubbed his cheek. “You have to understand that this was very out of the ordinary for Vic-she wasn’t a tempest-in-the-teapot type at all. I rang Gilbert, told him I had a family emergency, asked for a little leeway in returning. He told me he’d see me thrown out of the course.” He drank again, swallowing the bitterness that rose in his throat.

  “I think he’d already taken a dislike to me because I hadn’t sucked up to him, and I wasn’t experienced enough then to know that the threat was mostly hot air.”

  “So you went?” Madeleine prompted when he paused again.

  Kincaid nodded. “And when I came home she was gone. Of course, I’ve enough perspective now to realize that it wouldn’t have made any difference in the long term. She wanted me to choose her over the job, and if I’d stayed with her on that Sunday, she’d have picked another occasion for the same test-when I had an important case, perhaps.

  “But for a long time I needed someone to blame, and Alastair Gilbert provided a very convenient scapegoat.” He smiled crookedly and began spreading cheese on a biscuit.

  Madeleine refilled his glass. “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that others besides you and the Genovases will have had scores to settle with Gilbert. How do you know where to start?”

  “We don’t. The man was like a bloody virus-he infected everything he touched. How could we possibly trace every contact he ever made?”

  “I can sense your frustration rising,” Madeleine said, smiling. “And that wasn’t my intent.”

  “Sorry.” Studying her as she concentrated on arranging slivers of salmon on a biscuit, he found himself intensely curious about this woman, but he hesitated to test her boundaries. After a moment, he said carefully, “Madeleine, are you ever really comfortable with anyone?”

  “There have been a very few exceptions.” She sighed. “The needy are the worst, I think, those that cry out constantly for attention, for affirmation of their right to exist. They are even more disturbing than the angry.”

  “Is that what Geoff is like?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. Geoff isn’t a sucker-that’s how I think of them-or if he is, he only takes his security from a select few. His father, and perhaps Lucy.”

  Kincaid thought of the scene he’d witnessed in the bar. “Madeleine, how do you think early emotional, and probably sexual, abuse would affect a young man’s responses to sex?”

  “I’m no psychologist.” She bit into a slice of green apple.

  “But you’re probably more perceptive than most.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

  “If you’re talking about Geoff, and considering his history I assume you are, I’d say there are two likely avenues. He might become an abuser himself. Or…” She gazed into space, frowning, as she thought. “He might associate sex with failure and abandonment.”

  “So that he’d never take that risk with someone he cared about?”

  “I wouldn’t take my word for it. That’s pure amateur speculation.” Pushing her plate away, she sat back and cradled her wineglass.

  “Tell me more about what you do in your professional capacity, then,” Kincaid said, still nibbling. “Do you treat injuries with massage therapy?”

  “Sometimes. It’s not just a relaxation technique-it stimulates the body’s lymphatic system to function more efficiently, and that speeds up toxin disposal and healing.” Madeleine spoke directly, almost earnestly, and without what he was beginning to recognize as her self-protective veneer of amusement.

  “I’ll take your word for it. I hope you’ll be around if I should ever need your ministrations. You must have been a godsend to Claire when she had that bad break.” He tossed it in casually, hoping Madeleine wouldn’t read the stab of guilt he felt at this betrayal of their mutual trust.

  “The collarbone gave her hell. It’s surprising how much trouble a silly thing like a clavicle can be.” She smiled easily at him.

  As much as it went against his inclination, he let it slide. There were other sources of information, and pursuing it now wasn’t worth the loss of Madeleine’s confidence. “I broke mine when I was kid. Fell off a chair, of all things, but I don’t remember it. My mum says I was a right little pain in the bum about it-wouldn’t keep my sling on.”

  They talked on, refilling the
ir glasses as Madeleine opened a second bottle of wine, and he told her things about his childhood in Cheshire that he hadn’t remembered in years. “I was lucky,” he said at last. “I had loving parents, a safe and stable environment filled with the love of learning for its own sake. I see so much-so many kids never have a chance. And I don’t know if I could give a child what my parents gave me. This job’s not conducive to family life… ask my ex-wife.”

  He tried on a grin and glanced at his watch. “Bloody hell. Where did the time go?”

  “Would you make the same choice again, between a relationship and your job?”

  Pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth, he stared at her.

  “There is someone, isn’t there?” Madeleine asked, and her green eyes held him like a vise.

  He put his glass down, the wine untasted. “Was. I thought there was. But she changed her mind.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “You know,” he said with certainty.

  “Say it anyway.”

  He looked away. “Pissed as hell. Betrayed.” His mouth had gone dry from the wine, and he rubbed a hand across it. “It was so good-we were so good together. How could she slam the door in my face?” He shook his head and stood a bit unsteadily. “I think I’d better go before I get maudlin on you. And I think I’m well over the limit. It’s not gone closing time quite yet-hopefully Brian will take pity and put a poor copper up for the night.”

  He raised the dregs of wine in his glass to her. “You are a witch, Madeleine. You’ve bewitched me into crying on your shoulder, and I can’t remember when I’ve inflicted that on anyone-and you’re still as enigmatic as the bloody Cheshire Cat.”

  Madeleine saw him to the door, and just before closing it she reached up and touched his cheek. Using his name for the first time, she said, “Duncan. Everything will sort itself out. Be patient.”

  The light narrowed to a slit, disappearing with a click as the door shut, and Kincaid found himself alone in the dark.

  Brian gave him a bed with good grace, and as Kincaid carried his bag up and undressed it came to him that he hadn’t answered Madeleine’s question. What if Gemma were to change her mind-would he make the same choice he’d made with Vic? Was he capable of putting anything before his job? Would he be willing to risk hurting her, and himself?

  He fell quickly into the heavy but unrestful sleep brought about by the consumption of too much alcohol. His dreams were strange and disjointed, and when his pager started its strident beeping in the wee hours of the morning, he woke with pounding heart and a mouth like sandpaper.

  He fumbled for the pager’s off switch, then squinted blearily at the LED readout. Swearing under his breath, he sat up and turned on the light. What on earth could Scotland Yard want with him this time of the night? Any call concerning a breakthrough on the Gilbert case would have come from Guildford. And what had prompted him to drink so much? He was not ordinarily given to such excess. Madeleine, he thought with a wan smile, must have a wooden leg. He retrieved his jacket from the chair back and patted the pockets for his phone, then realized he must have left it in the car. Bloody hell.

  In dressing gown and slippers he made his way down the stairs to the phone in the alcove next to the bar. When the switchboard put him through to the duty sergeant at the Yard, he listened in growing dismay. When the sergeant had finished, Kincaid said, “No, don’t. I’ll take care of it myself. Right.”

  Hanging up, he stood for a moment numb with shock, then made an effort to pull himself together. He looked at his watch. If he drove like all hell was after him, he could make it to London by daylight.

  CHAPTER 12

  Kincaid pulled up in front of Gemma’s garage flat at exactly seven o’clock. Red-eyed and stubble-chinned, he climbed stiffly out of the car, dreading what he had to do.

  His light tapping at the door brought Gemma, who blinked at him in sleepy confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Surrey.” Peering at him a bit more closely, she added, “You look absolutely dreadful, guv. No offense.” Yawning, she stood aside to let him in. She wore a ratty, toweling dressing gown in an unflattering maroon which made her tousled copper hair look orange by contrast.

  “Toby’s still asleep,” she said softly, with a glance in the direction of his room. “I’ll make us some coffee, then you can tell me about it.”

  “Gemma.” Kincaid reached out and held her shoulders as she started to turn away. “I’ve got some very bad news. Jackie Temple’s dead.”

  He’d never thought to see that blank, stunned look on Gemma’s face, as if she’d just been slapped with an open palm.

  “What? Jackie can’t be dead. I just saw her yes-”

  “It must have happened just as she finished her beat last night. She’d checked in by radio about a quarter past ten. When she didn’t log in after her shift and they couldn’t raise her by radio, they sent a patrol out to look for her.”

  “What…” Her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked like black holes against the chalk of her skin. Through the thick, nubby fabric of the dressing gown he felt her begin to tremble.

  “She was shot. In the back of the head. I doubt she knew anything at all.”

  “Oh, no.” At that Gemma’s face crumpled and she covered it with her hands.

  Kincaid drew her to him and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. She smelled faintly of sleep and talcum powder. “Gemma, I’m so sorry.”

  “But why?” she wailed into his shoulder. “Why would anybody want to hurt Jackie?”

  “I don’t know, love. Susan May, her flatmate, asked that you be notified, but when the call came through to the Yard, old George happened to be on the desk and he rang me instead.”

  “Susan?” Gemma pulled away from him and stepped back. “You don’t think… Surely it was just some yobbos doing a burglary… Oh, my God…” She fumbled behind her for a chair and sat down hard. “It wasn’t, was it? You don’t think it had anything to do with-”

  Toby padded out of his room, looking like a chubby yellow bunny in his pajamas. “Mummy, whatsa matter?” he said sleepily, butting up against her.

  Gemma gathered him into her lap and rubbed her face against his hair. “Nothing, sweetheart. Mummy just has to go to work early, after all.” She looked up at Kincaid. “You will go with me to see Susan, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded, then said, “I’ll tell you about… yesterday on the way.” Studying him for a moment, she added, “They rang you in Surrey? This morning?”

  “About half past four.”

  “Who’s Susan, Mummy?” asked Toby. He squirmed around until he could straddle her knees, then made swooping motions with his arms. “Look, Duncan, I’m a airplane.”

  “A friend of a friend, lovey. Nobody you know.” Gemma’s eyes filled with tears and she scrubbed at them, sniffing.

  “I’ll wait outside until you’re ready,” said Kincaid, suddenly feeling that he had intruded long enough.

  “No.” Gemma set Toby down and patted his bottom. “I’ll change in Toby’s room. You can play airplane with him in the meantime. Then I’m going to fix you both some breakfast.” With a critical glance at him and an attempted smile, she added, “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

  A half hour later, Gemma had showered and dressed, then lent Kincaid the use of her tiny bathroom to shave and put on a clean shirt. As he sat at the half-moon table finishing off buttered toast and hot coffee, he felt considerably more human. With Toby, dressed now in corduroy overalls and little trainers, playing happily at his feet, Kincaid wished that he might be there under different circumstances.

  He accompanied Gemma across the garden and was briefly introduced to Hazel, then Gemma kissed Toby good-bye and they were on their way to Notting Hill.

  As they crept through the rush-hour traffic, Gemma told him haltingly about Jackie’s revelations of the previous day.

  Kincaid whistled when she’d
finished. “Ogilvie bent? You think Gilbert found out somehow and Ogilvie decided to shut him up?”

  “And Jackie.” Gemma’s mouth was set in a straight, uncompromising line.

  “Gemma, Jackie’s death probably had nothing to do with this at all. These things happen, and they are usually utterly senseless. We both know that.”

  “I don’t like coincidences, and this is too much of a coincidence. We both know that, too.”

  “I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. Don’t you think we should stop in at Notting Hill and get the details before we talk to Susan May?”

  Gemma didn’t answer for a moment, then she said, “No. I’d like to see Susan first. That’s the least I owe her.”

  Glancing at her profile as he idled at a traffic light, he wished he could offer her some comfort. But despite his reassuring words, he didn’t like this coincidence, either.

  He found a curbside parking spot near the flat, and as they walked up to the door he saw Gemma pause and take a breath before ringing the bell. The door swung open so quickly that Kincaid thought the woman who answered must have been standing just inside it. “Can I help you?” she said brusquely.

  “I’m a friend of Jackie’s, Gemma James. Susan asked to see me.” Gemma held out her hand and the woman took it, her face breaking into a smile.

  “Of course. I’m Cecily Johnson, Susan’s sister. I was just on my way out to the shops for her. Let me tell her you’re here.”

  The word that came to Kincaid’s mind as they followed Cecily Johnson up the stairs was handsome. She was a tall woman, large-boned, with café-au-lait skin, fine dark eyes, and a wide smile. They waited on the landing for a moment while Cecily went in. Returning to them, she said, “Go right in. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Susan May stood with her back to them, staring out the sitting room window at the small terrace with its bright pots of pansies and geraniums. In silhouette, she looked a more slender, willowy version of her sister, and when she turned Kincaid saw that she had the same creamy skin and dark eyes, but she didn’t quite manage a smile.