Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

3

The hurt had been evident on his face. Gemma hadn’t expected it, and it had almost caused her to lose her resolve. During the days she’d spent hiding at her sister’s, watching Toby play in the park with his cousins and thinking furiously of what she should do, she’d managed to convince herself that he would be glad to ignore what had happened, relieved, even grateful. So she had prepared her little speech, giving him a graceful out that he would accept with a slightly embarrassed grin, and rehearsed it so often in her mind she could almost hear him saying, “Of course, you’re absolutely right, Gemma. We’ll just go on as before, shall we?”

Experience should have taught her that Duncan Kincaid never quite behaved as expected. Shivering a little in the cold room, she turned back the bed and laid out her nightdress. She fumbled in her carryall until she found the zip bag containing her toothbrush and cleanser and turned resolutely towards the door.

Then suddenly, limply, she sat down on the edge of the bed. How could she have been foolish enough, in the days that had passed like aeons since the night at his flat, to think she could grant herself an instant immunity to his physical presence? Memory had flooded back with a jolt like a boxer’s punch the moment she saw him, leaving her breathless and shaken. It had been all she could do to hold on to her wavering defenses, and now she couldn’t bear the thought of bumping into him in the corridor outside her room. She had no armor left—a kind word, a gentle touch, and she would be undone.

But she must get to bed, or she would feel even less capable of dealing with things in the morning. So she listened, alert for the creak of a tread on the stairs or the sound of a door opening. Reassured by the silence, she slipped from her room and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom.

When she emerged a few minutes later, the door to the room opposite the bathroom was closing. She stopped, heart thumping, chiding herself for being absurd, until the glimpse before the door swung shut assured her that the person inside was not Kincaid. Frowning, she tried to fit together pieces of the brief image—curling fair hair falling over a surprisingly masculine pair of shoulders. She shrugged and returned to her room, letting herself in with a grateful sigh.

And if, once she had put on her warm nightdress and tucked herself under the puffy duvet, there was a kernel of disappointment hidden in the relief, she buried it deeper still.

The sight of the Royal Surrey County Hospital did nothing to brighten the atmosphere in the small car. Gemma studied the sprawl of muddy-brown brick, wondering why it had not occurred to the architects that ill people might need a bit of cheering up.

“I know,” said Will Darling, as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s bloody institutionally awful. It’s a good hospital, though. They combined several smaller facilities when they built this one, and it offers just about every sort of care you could imagine.”

Darling had arrived at the pub just as Gemma and Kincaid had finished their breakfasts. They had eaten in uncomfortable silence, served by an equally subdued Brian Genovase. “Not much of a morning person,” he’d said with a shadow of last night’s smile. “Goes with the territory.” The breakfast had been good, though—the man could still cook even when his social skills were not at their best—and Gemma had forced herself to eat, knowing she’d need the sustenance to get through the day.

“The chief inspector should have been here before us,” said Darling, scanning the parked cars as he pulled the car around to the back of the hospital and stopped it in a space near the mortuary doors. “I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid stretched as he emerged from the cramped backseat. “At least we get to enjoy the view while we wait, unlike the clientele.” He nodded towards the unremarkable glass doors.

Gemma slid from the car and moved a few steps away, considering the prospect. Perhaps if you were inside the building looking out, it wasn’t such a bad place after all. The hospital was high on the hill rising to the west of Guildford, and below, the red-bricked town hugged the curve of the River Wey. Pockets of mist still hovered over the valley, muting trees ablaze with autumn. To the north, higher still, the tower of the cathedral rose against a flat gray sky.

“It’s a new cathedral, did you know that?” asked Darling, coming to stand beside her. “Begun during the war and consecrated in nineteen sixty-one. You don’t often have a chance to see a cathedral built in our lifetime.” Glancing at Gemma, he amended with a smile, “Well, perhaps not yours. But it’s lovely, all the same, and well worth a visit.”

“You sound very proud of it,” said Gemma. “Have you always lived here?” Then she added, with the frankness he seemed to inspire, “And you can’t be old enough to have seen it built, either.”

Chuckling, he said, “Got me to rights, there. I was born on consecration day, as a matter of fact. May seventeenth, nineteen sixty-one. So the cathedral always had a special significance for us—” He broke off as a car pulled up beside theirs. “Here’s the chief, now.”

Suddenly aware that Kincaid had been standing quietly against the car, listening to their conversation, Gemma flushed with embarrassment and turned away.

The few hours sleep seemed to have rejuvenated Nick Deveney. He hopped out of the battered Vauxhall and came over to them with a quick apology. “Sorry about that. I live south of here, in Godalming, and there was a bit of a holdup on the Guildford road.” His breath formed a cloud of condensation as he rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Heater’s out in the bloody car.” He gestured towards the doors. “Shall we see what Dr. Ling has in store for us this morning?” Smiling at Gemma, he added, “Not to mention getting warm.”

They trailed Deveney through the maze of identical white-tiled corridors, passing no one, until they reached another set of double doors. A very official-looking sign above them read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—RING BELL FOR ADMITTANCE, but the doors stood slightly ajar and Deveney pushed on through them. A faint smell of formalin tickled Gemma’s nose, and then she heard the murmur of a voice. Following the sound to the autopsy room, they found Kate Ling sitting on a stool with a clipboard on her lap, drinking coffee from a large thermal mug. “Sorry, my assistant’s out with flu, and I couldn’t be bothered manning the portals. And it’s not as if anyone’s dying to get in here,” she added, looking at Deveney as if waiting for his groan.

Deveney shook his head in mock amazement, then turned to the others, who had squeezed into the small room behind him, none of them venturing too close to the white-sheeted form on the table. “Did you know that all pathologists have to undergo a special initiation into the Order of Bad Puns? Won’t let ’em practice without it. The doc here is a Grand Master and loves to show off.” He and Kate Ling grinned at each other, completing what was obviously a practiced and much-enjoyed routine.

“Just finishing up my notes on the external,” Ling said, scribbling a few more words, then setting her pad aside.

“Anything interesting?” Deveney asked. He studied the pad as if he might decipher it upside down, although Gemma thought it unlikely that the doctor’s scrawl was legible even right-side-up.

“Lividity corresponds perfectly with the position of the body, so I’d say he wasn’t moved. Of course, we expected that from the blood spatter, but they pay me to be thorough.” She gave them a wry smile over the rim of her mug as she drank, then continued, “So if we calculate the drop in body temperature using the temperature of the Gilberts’ kitchen, I’d say he was killed between six and seven o’clock.” Swiveling around towards the countertop behind her, Ling exchanged her coffee for a new pair of latex gloves. As she pulled them on, she added thoughtfully, “One odd thing, though. There were some tiny rips in the shoulders of his shirt. Not large enough that I could hazard a guess as to what made them or why.” Sliding from the stool, she checked the voice-activated mike hanging over the autopsy table, then lifted the lid from the stainless-steel instrument box on a nearby rolling trolley. “All set, then? You’ll need to gown and glove.” She regarded them quizzically. “You lot are jammed in here like sardines in a can. I’ll need some elbow room.”

Will Darling touched Gemma on the shoulder. “I can take a hint when I hear it. Come on, Gemma, we’ll wait in the corridor. Let them have all the fun.”

Having appropriated two folding chairs from a nearby room, Will set them up just outside the postmortem room door and left Gemma for a moment. “I’ll find us a cuppa,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.

Gemma sat, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall. She felt a little resentful of having been so easily excluded, yet she was glad not to have to summon the resources watching an autopsy always required. With half her mind she listened to the murmured voices and the clink of instruments, imagining the methodical exploration of Alastair Gilbert’s body, while with the other half she thought about Will Darling.

He had an easy assurance not consistent with his rank, yet there was no aggressiveness to it, and no sense of the desire to impress one’s superiors that she so often saw and knew she’d been guilty of herself. And there was something comfortable about him, maybe even comforting—something more than the ease provided by his friendly, slightly snub-nosed face, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She opened her eyes as he reappeared beside her, holding two steaming polystyrene cups. Expecting institutional sludge, she tasted the tea, then looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you get this? It’s actually decent.”

“My secret,” Will answered as he settled himself beside her.

Kate Ling’s voice came clearly through the open door. “Of course, we were fairly certain from the blood velocity and external examination of the head wounds that we were looking at blunt force trauma, but let’s see what things look like when we get under the scalp.”

In the silence that followed, Gemma cradled the warm cup in her hands, taking an occasional sip of tea. She knew that Dr. Ling would be peeling Gilbert’s scalp from his skull, folding it forwards over his face like a grotesque mask in reverse, but it seemed distant, not logically connected to the feel of the chair’s cold metal against her back and thighs or the faint shapes she fancied she saw in the distempered wall opposite.

Her eyelids drooped and she blinked, fighting the fuzzy blanket stealing over her. But her lethargy had the overwhelming quality born of exhaustion and emotional stress, and Dr. Ling’s words floated disjointedly in and out of a haze.

“… blow just behind the right ear … several overlapping blows nearer the crown … all slightly to the right … never be sure—some lefties perform gross motor skills with their right hand.”

Gemma’s eyes flew open as she felt Will’s fingers against her hand. “Sorry,” he said softly. “You were about to tip your cup.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She grasped it more firmly in both hands, making a huge effort to stay alert and concentrate, but the voice began again, its precise intonation as soporific as a warm bath. When Will took the cup from her slack hands a few minutes later, she couldn’t manage a protest. The words came to her now with a clarity and an almost physical presence, as if their existence outweighed all surrounding stimuli.

“… most likely conclusion is that the blow behind the ear was the first, struck from behind, and the others followed as he fell. Ah, now take a look at this … see the half-moon shape of the indentation in the bone? Just here? And here? Let’s take a measurement just to be sure, but I’d be willing to bet that’s the imprint of a common or garden-variety hammer … quite characteristic. Nasty things, hammers, though you wouldn’t think it. Never forget a case I had in London—a little old lady living alone, never done anyone a moment’s harm in her life, opens her door one day and some bloke bashes her in the side of the head so hard with a hammer it lifts her right out of her slippers.”

“Did they catch him?” Some part of Gemma’s mind recognized the voice as Deveney’s.

“Within a week. Silly bugger wasn’t too bright, talked about it all round the pubs. Hang on a bit while I take some tissue samples.”

Gemma heard a saw, and a moment later smelled the sickening odor of burning bone, but still she couldn’t reach the surface of consciousness.

“…commander’s medical records, by the way, he was taking an anticoagulant. Had heart surgery two years ago. Let’s see how well things had held up.”

In the silence that followed Gemma drifted deeper still. Muttered phrases such as “constricted arteries” and “type A personality” no longer had any meaning, then awareness of the postmortem faded away all together.

When Will nudged her with a whispered “They’re finishing up now, Gemma,” she jerked awake with a gasp. She had dreamed that Kincaid stood before her with his most mischievous grin, and in his hand he held a hammer, wet with blood.

For the first time Gemma saw Holmbury St. Mary in full light. The pub faced on an immaculate triangle of green, with the Gilberts’ lane to the right and the church on its left. Across the green, a few rooftops and red-bricked gables peeked from among the trees.

Deveney had gone back to Guildford Police Station to oversee incoming reports, delegating Will Darling to drive Gemma and Kincaid back to the Gilberts’. “Meet you there in an hour and we’ll compare notes,” he’d said as he got into his car and gave a mock shiver. “Looks like I won’t be getting the bloody thing in the shop any time soon.”

Will parked in the car park behind the pub, and they walked across the lane slowly, studying the house and its surroundings as they went. The thick hedge almost met over the curved iron gate, and above it only the upper floor of the house showed, black beams against white-trimmed red brick, creeper softened. “A suburban fortress,” Kincaid said softly as Will nodded to the uniformed constable on duty at the gate. “And it didn’t protect him.”

“Any too-curious onlookers?” Will asked the constable.

“I’ve passed through a couple of neighbors wanting to help, but that’s been it.”

“No press?”

“A few sniffers is all.”

“Won’t be long, then,” said Will, and the constable agreed resignedly.

“I hope Claire Gilbert and her daughter are ready for a siege,” said Kincaid as they took the path towards the back of the house. “The media won’t let this go easily.”

When they reached the mudroom door, Kincaid hesitated, then said, “Gemma, why don’t you and Will find Mrs. Gilbert and take a detailed statement of her movements yesterday afternoon, so that we can run a check. I’ll be along in a bit.” Gemma started to protest, but he had already turned away, and for a moment she stood watching him walk across the garden towards the dog’s run. Then, sensing that Will was watching her, she turned and opened the mudroom door a little more forcefully than necessary.

The white-tiled kitchen floor winked at Gemma as she entered, its glossy surface pristine, unmarred. Someone had cleaned away the blood.

Gemma looked suspiciously at Will, remembering he’d made some excuse to stay behind when they’d left for the pub last night, but he merely gave her an innocent smile. The fingerprint technician was still busily dusting the cabinet surfaces, but aside from that Gemma could almost imagine it an ordinary room on an ordinary day, waiting for the smell of toast and coffee and sleepy breakfast chatter. A colorful place mat and napkin lay on the table before the garden window, along with a copy of the Times. The paper bore yesterday’s date, Gemma discovered when she examined it, yet she hadn’t seen it last night—in fact, she’d barely noticed the breakfast alcove. That wouldn’t do at all, she told herself, and interrupted Will’s quiet conference with the technician more sharply than she’d meant.

“Mrs. Gilbert made herself a cup of tea, said she’d be in the conservatory if anyone wanted her,” the fingerprint man said in answer to Gemma’s question, then went back to his tuneless whistling.

Recalling the glassed extension she’d seen from the garden, Gemma led the way through the kitchen and turned to the right. She tapped lightly on the door at the end of the hall, and when she heard no answer after a moment, opened the door and looked in.

Although a profusion of green plants gave the room the proper conservatory ambience, it was obviously very much lived in. Two squashy sofas faced each other, separated by a low table covered with books and newspapers. A woolly throw drooped from one sofa back, and reading glasses sat jauntily on a side table. A pair of Doc Martens peeked from under the other sofa, the first sign Gemma had seen that Lucy Penmaric lived in this house.

Claire Gilbert sat in the corner of the near sofa with her back to the door, stockinged feet curled up beneath her, a yellow legal pad in her lap. Her gaze rested not on the pad, however, but on the garden, and even when Will and Gemma stepped into the room she didn’t stir.

“Mrs. Gilbert?” Gemma said softly, and then Claire turned her head with a start.

“I’m sorry. I was miles away.” She gestured at the pad in her lap. “There are so many things to be done. I thought I’d make a list, but I can’t seem to keep at it.”

“We need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” said Gemma, directing a silent and unflattering epithet towards Kincaid for leaving her with this task. She never grew inured to the grief of bereaved relatives, had in fact given up hope of becoming so.

“Sit down, please.” Claire slipped her feet into her shoes and smoothed her skirt over her knees.

“You’re looking a bit better this morning,” said Will as he sat on the sofa opposite her. “Did you sleep, then?”

“I didn’t think I possibly could, but I did. Strange, isn’t it, how the body makes its own decisions.” She did look better, less drawn and fragile, her skin porcelain-fine even in the mercilessly clear morning light.

“And Lucy?” he asked as Gemma sat beside him and took out her notebook.

Claire smiled. “I found the dog stretched out on the bed with her this morning, but she didn’t stir even when I took him out. I insisted she take a sedative last night. She’s stubborn as a mule, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her, and she doesn’t like to admit when she’s reached her limit.”

“Takes after her mum, does she?” said Will with a familiarity that Gemma, daunted by Claire Gilbert’s rather formal good manners, would have found impossible to attempt. She remembered Claire’s distress when she realized Will had left the room last night, and marveled that he had managed to establish such rapport in only a few hours.

Claire smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I was never as single-minded about things as Lucy. I fluffed my way through school, although I dare say I could have done better if I’d had some idea what I wanted to do. Dolls and house …” she added softly, looking out into the garden again and pleating the fabric of her skirt with her fingers.

“I’m sorry?” said Gemma, not sure she’d heard correctly.

Focusing on her, Claire smiled apologetically. “I was one of those little girls who played house and nursed her dolls. It never occurred to me that marriage and family might not be the center of my life, and my parents encouraged that, my mother especially. But Lucy … Lucy’s wanted to be a writer since she was six years old. She’s always worked hard at school, and now she’s studying to sit her mocks in preparation for her A levels in the spring.”

Will leaned forwards, and Gemma noticed absently that the elbow of his tweed jacket was wearing thin. “She goes to the local comprehensive, then?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” Claire answered quickly, then she seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. “She’s a day student at the Duke of York School. I suppose I’ll have to ring the headmaster sometime today and explain what’s happened.” Exhaustion seemed to wash over her at the thought. Her mouth quivered, and for a moment she covered it with her fingers. “I think I’m managing well enough until I have to tell someone, and then …”

“Isn’t there someone who can make these calls for you?” Gemma asked, as she had before, but hoping that with rest Claire would have reconsidered.

“No.” Claire straightened her shoulders. “I won’t have Lucy do any of it. This is difficult enough for her as it is. And there’s no one else. Alastair and I were both only children. My parents are dead, and Alastair’s father. I’ve been to his mother already this morning, first thing. She’s in a nursing home near Dorking.”

Gemma felt a rush of sympathy for Claire Gilbert. Telling an old woman that her only son was dead could not have been easy, yet Claire had done what was necessary, alone and as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”

Claire gazed out the window again, touching her fingers to the silk scarf at her throat. In the reflected light her pupils shrank to pinpoints, and her irises were as gold as a cat’s. “She’s eighty-five and physically a bit frail, but her mind’s still sharp. Alastair was very good to her.”

In the silence that followed, they heard Lewis bark, then came a good-natured shout from Kincaid. Claire gave a tiny, startled jerk and dropped her hand to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at them again. “Where were we?”

“If you could just tell us a little more about your movements yesterday afternoon and evening?” Gemma uncapped her pen and waited, but Claire seemed puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You said you and Lucy did some shopping,” prompted Gemma. “Where exactly did you go?”

“But what difference could it possibly—” Claire’s protest died as she looked at Will.

He shook his head gently. “How can we know at this point what’s important and what isn’t? Some detail, something someone said, something you saw, could prove the glue that holds all the pieces together, so please be patient.”

After a moment, Claire said, “Oh, all right,” with some grace and settled back into the sofa. “I’ll give it a try.

“About half past four we left the house and drove into Guildford. Lucy drove—she’s only had her license a few months and likes to practice whenever she can. We left the car in the Bedford Road car park and crossed over the pedestrian bridge to the Friary.”

“A shopping precinct,” Will explained to Gemma. “A conversion of the old Friary Meaux brewery site, very upmarket.”

Claire smiled a little at Will’s description. “I suppose it is, but I have to confess that I like it. Staying warm and dry while one goes round the shops has its advantages.” Her smile faded as she returned to her story. “Lucy needed a book from Waterstones … it’s Hardy she’s reading for her exams, I think. After that …” She rubbed her forehead, then gazed out the window for a moment. Gemma and Will waited patiently until she sighed and began again. “We bought some coffee at the specialty shop, then a bottle of Badedas at the C&A. After that we window-shopped for a bit, then had some tea at the restaurant in the court, I can’t think of its name. It’s absurd. I seem to have these gaps in my mind where things I know perfectly well should be, but instead there’s a perfect blank. I remember when—” Claire paused on the shudder of an indrawn breath, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Lucy and I left the center from the far side and walked up the High Street to Sainsbury’s, where we picked up a few things for our dinner. By the time we finished and drove home it was almost half past seven.”

Gemma’s pen flew over the page until she caught up, but before she could frame a question, Claire spoke. “Must I … the next bit … must I go over it again?” Her hand hovered near her throat once more, and Gemma saw her fingers tremble slightly. She had small, slender hands, with fine, unmarked skin, and although her nails were very short, they were buffed to a healthy pink.

“No, Mrs. Gilbert, not just now,” said Gemma a bit absently as she thumbed back through her notes. When she reached the beginning of the interview she paused, then looked up at Claire Gilbert. “But tell us about the earlier part of the afternoon. You didn’t say what you were doing before going to Guildford.”

“I’d been at work, of course,” Claire said with a touch of impatience. “I’d just got home minutes before Lucy arrived back from school—oh, my God …” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t ring Malcolm. How could I have forgotten to ring Malcolm?”

“Malcolm?” Will raised an eyebrow.

“Malcolm Reid.” Claire rose and went to the window, where she stood looking out into the garden, her back to them. “It’s his shop—his business—and I work in the shop, but I also do some consulting.”

Forced to turn around awkwardly, Gemma squinted at Claire’s outline, haloed by the light. “Consulting?” She hadn’t thought of Claire Gilbert working, had automatically categorized her as a pampered housewife with no duties more demanding than attending meetings at the Women’s Institute, and now she chided herself for her carelessness. Assumptions in an investigation were dangerous—and an indication that she didn’t have her mind on her job. “What sort of business is it?” she added, resolving to give Claire Gilbert her undivided attention.

“Interior design. The shop’s in Shere—it’s called Kitchen Concepts, but kitchens aren’t all we do.” Claire glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s just getting on for nine o’clock—Malcolm won’t have missed me yet.” The smooth fall of her fair hair caught the light as she shook her head, and when she spoke her voice wavered for the first time. “Telling Gwen was all I could think of from the time I woke this morning, then once I’d done that … I feel such a ninny—” She broke off suddenly and laughed. “When have you heard that expression? My mother used to say that.” Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she sniffed.

Will had taken advantage of Claire’s retreat to the window to rise and explore the room. He’d wandered over to a dresser that stood against the back wall and now idly rearranged a collection of seashells. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself,” he said, turning to Claire. “You’ve had a dreadful shock and you can’t expect to go on as if nothing had happened.”

“Those are Lucy’s.” Coming to stand beside him, Claire picked up a small green-and-red-speckled shell and turned it in her hands. “She had a book about the seaside she loved as a child, and she’s collected shells ever since. This one’s called Christmas. Apt, isn’t it?” She replaced the shell, aligning it carefully, then gave an odd little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “I keep thinking that Alastair would expect me to cope, and then I remember …” Her words trailed off and she stood for a moment, staring at the shells, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Then, seeming to gather herself with an effort, she turned to them and smiled. “I’d better ring Malcolm as soon as possible. The shop opens at half-past and I’d not want him to hear it from someone else.”

Gemma gave in gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she said as she tucked her notebook into her bag and stood. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to get on with things.” The rote phrases came easily, while underneath she wondered furiously where in hell Kincaid had got to and what he could have been doing poking about in the garden all this time. Claire came with them to the door, and as Gemma stepped into the hall Will stopped and murmured something to her that Gemma didn’t quite catch.

The fingerprint technician had packed up his equipment and gone, leaving only his dust to mar the impression that normal life in the Gilbert household would resume at any time. The light came more strongly through the bay window, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Gemma went to the window and looked out into the garden—there was no sign of Kincaid.

“What’s next?” asked Will as he came in from the hall. “Where’s our super got himself off to?”

Gemma thanked whatever guardian angel made her bite her lip rather than venting her bad temper, because just at that moment Kincaid came in through the mudroom door and smiled broadly at them both. “Waiting for me? Sorry. I got a bit carried away in the garden shed.” He wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead and brushed ineffectually at the cobwebs on his jacket. “How did you—”

“Was the dog giving you a hand?” interrupted Gemma. As soon as the words left her mouth she heard their shrewishness and would have called them back if she could. Flushing with shame, she drew a breath to explain, apologize, and then she saw that in his left hand he held a hammer.

The hall door flew open and Claire Gilbert came in as if propelled, her cheeks pink-stained. “Malcolm says they’ve been round to the shop already,” she said breathlessly, looking from one of them to the other in appeal. “People saying things and reporters. They’re coming here. The reporters are coming here—” Her gaze fixed on Kincaid, the quick color drained from her face and she crumpled upon the white tiles.