Mourn Not Your Dead

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 for 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 promised 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.”

Rob hadn’t cared for any of Gemma’s friends, especially those in the force, and after a bit she’d lost the energy to face the inevitable arguments that followed her contacts with them. Nor had he liked her to talk about her life before she met him, and gradually even her memories seemed to fade from disuse. “I seem to have lost bits of my life in the last few years,” she said slowly. “Maybe it’s time I made an effort to find them again.”

“Come have dinner with us sometime soon, then,” said Jackie. “Susan would love to see you, too. We’ll drink a bottle of wine to our misspent youth—and remember when all we could afford was the worst plonk imaginable.” She stood up and went to the window. “How odd,” she said a little absently, “I’ve just remembered that I thought I saw Commander Gilbert someplace else recently. It must have been the plonk brought it to mind, because I’d just come out of the wine shop in the Portobello Road, and there was Gilbert talking to this West Indian bloke who’s a known informant. At least I thought it was Gilbert, but a lorry came between us then and by the time the light changed, they’d both disappeared.”

“You didn’t check it out?”

“You’ve been in CID too long, love,” said Jackie, clearly amused. “Just who was I supposed to ask? Commander Gilbert himself? I know enough to keep my nose out of my elders’ and betters’ business, ta very much. Still”—she turned back to Gemma and smiled—“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to put in a word or two in certain quarters. I’ll let you know if anything interesting turns up, shall I?”

Gemma hated the escalators at the Angel tube station. She was sure they must be the longest and steepest of any in London, and the prospect of facing that dizzying descent every day had almost deterred her from taking her flat. At least, she told herself as she hugged the rail, going up wasn’t nearly as bad as going down—as long as you didn’t look back.

A plastic bag wrapped itself around Gemma’s legs as she emerged from the station. Disentangling herself, she saw rubbish blowing all along Islington High Street. A sheet of newspaper clung tenaciously to a nearby lamppost, and a plastic bottle rattled discordantly along the pavement. The rubbish collection had failed again, Gemma thought, frowning in irritation, and she certainly didn’t have time to complain to the council about it.

The sight of the black man sitting on the bench beside the flower stall snapped her out of her bad temper. Dwarfed by the towering glass office building behind him, he cradled a paper-wrapped whiskey bottle against his thin chest and sang to himself as he smiled up at her. His ragged clothes looked as though they had once been of good quality, but they offered little protection from the wind that made his red-rimmed eyes water.

She stopped and bought a bunch of yellow carnations, then handed her change to the drunk before sprinting across the zebra crossing. Looking back, she had a glimpse of his head bobbing like a mechanical toy as he gabbled something incomprehensible after her. When she’d started in the force, a rookie constable, she’d almost unconsciously shared her parents’ disdain for those who could “better themselves if they made the effort,” but experience had quickly taught her that the equation was almost never that simple. For some the most you could do was try to make their lives a little more comfortable, and if possible leave them a bit of dignity.

To her right as she entered Liverpool Street lay the Chapel Market. It was closing time, and with an occasional cheerful curse the vendors were tearing down stalls and packing up boxes. Too late to pick up anything there for supper, she’d have to stop in Cullen’s or brave the crush in the enormous new Sainsbury’s across the street.

One thing drew her to Sainsbury’s, much as she disliked its sterile, gleaming interior. The busker stood on his usual patch outside the doors, his dog watchful beside him. She always had a few coins for him, sometimes a pound if she could manage it, but this ritual was not motivated by pity. Tonight she stopped as she usually did and listened to the liquid notes spilling from his clarinet. She didn’t recognize the piece, but it made her feel sweetly sad, leaving a gentle melancholy as the sound died away. The heavy coin clinked satisfyingly as she tossed it into the open case, but the young man merely nodded his thanks. He never smiled, and his eyes were as aloof as those of the mongrel lying quietly at his feet.

Laden carrier bags bumped her leg as she emerged from the supermarket and hurried up the Liverpool Road with her collar pinched together against the wind. Her anticipation built as she thought of catching Toby up in her arms, hearing him squeal with delight as she nuzzled his neck, breathing in the warm smell of his skin. Turning into Richmond Avenue, she passed the grammar school, gates shut against the darkening day, play yard still except for the movement of an empty swing. Before she knew it Toby would be old enough to join the children there. Already his plump softness was melting away, little boy sturdiness emerging in its place, and Gemma felt a pang of loss for his babyhood. Thrusting back the guilt that always hovered near the surface of her mind, she assured herself that she did the best she could.

At least the move to the Islington flat had brought with it an unexpected benefit—her landlady, Hazel Cavendish, had offered to keep Toby while Gemma worked, and Gemma no longer had to depend on her mum or indifferent child minders.

Thornhill Gardens came into view and Gemma slowed, catching her breath so as not to arrive on the doorstep panting. Almost home, and lights were coming on in the houses along the gardens now, offering a tantalizing vision of comfort and warmth behind closed doors. The Cavendishes’ house backed up to the gardens, and Gemma’s adjoining flat faced Albion Street, almost directly across from the pub.

She let herself into the back garden by the gate at the side of the garage, not stopping to leave the groceries in the flat. She’d called ahead so that Hazel would be expecting her, and as she reached the back door she squinted at the small sticky-note fluttering in the dimness. IN BATH, H., it read, and Gemma smiled as she looked at her watch. Hazel ran an orderly house, and by this time the children would have had their tea and been bustled upstairs to the tub.

A wave of warmth and spicy smells greeted her as she opened the door, a sure sign that Hazel was cooking one of her “vegetable messes,” as her husband affectionately called them. Hazel and Tim Cavendish were both psychologists, but Hazel had taken an indefinite leave from her lucrative practice to stay at home with their three-year-old daughter, Holly. They had absorbed Toby into their household effortlessly, and although Hazel accepted the going rate for child minding, Gemma suspected it was more balm for her pride than a financial necessity for the Cavendishes. Following the distant sound of voices, she deposited her purchases on the kitchen table and dodged the toys littering the floor as she made her way upstairs.

She tapped on the bathroom door, and hearing Hazel’s cheerful, “Come on in,” she slipped inside. Hazel knelt by the old-fashioned claw-footed tub, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up over her elbows, her chin-length brown hair forming curly tendrils from the steam.

Both children were in the tub, and when Toby saw her he shrieked, “Mummy!” and smacked his hands palm-down against the water.

Laughing, Hazel jumped back from the spray. “I think you little munchkins are clean enough. Welcome home, Gemma,” she added, wiping the sudsy droplets from her cheek.

Gemma felt a sudden spasm of jealousy, but it faded as Hazel called out, “How about giving a hand with the towels?” and she soon had her arms full of wet and giggling children.

When the children had been dried and dressed in their footed pajamas, Hazel settled them with some toys on the kitchen rug and insisted on making Gemma some tea. “You look knackered, to put it tactfully,” she said with a smile as she waved away Gemma’s offer to help and busied herself with kettle and cups.

Gemma sank into a chair at the kitchen table and watched the children as they cranked toy cars up and down in the lift of a plastic garage with complete absorption. They played well together, she thought. Dark-haired Holly had inherited her mother’s sweet disposition as well as her dimples. A few months older than Toby, she ruled him with a bossy kindness that he tolerated good-naturedly. Just now, though, with his still-damp fair hair sticking up in spikes, he looked a proper little imp.

“Stay to dinner,” said Hazel as she set a steaming mug before Gemma and slid into the chair opposite. “Tim’s got a therapy group tonight, so it will just be us and the kids. And as a further enticement, I’m making Moroccan vegetable stew with couscous. And besides,” she added with a pleading note, “I have selfish reasons—I could use some adult conversation.”

“But I picked up some things at the supermarket…” Gemma made a halfhearted gesture in the direction of her carrier bags.

Wrinkling her snub nose, Hazel expressed her opinion of that. “Macaroni and cheese out of a box, I’ll bet, or something equally ghastly. You need something that hasn’t been thrown together at the last minute. Food is comfort for the soul as well as the body” The last she intoned with great weight, then laughed. “So says the philosopher of the kitchen.”

With a shamefaced smile, Gemma confessed, “It was the first thing I saw on the shelf.” She stretched, relaxed now from the warmth of the room and the tea, and looked around the pleasant kitchen. The old glass-fronted cabinets had been rubbed with a soft green stain, the walls were covered with peach paper, and any spare spaces on counters and table held Hazel’s baskets of jumbled knitting yarns. Suddenly finding herself loath to leave, she said, “It does sound lovely. Are you sure we wouldn’t be imposing? I’m always afraid we’ll wear out our welcome.” Seeing Hazel’s emphatic reassurance, she added, “And I’ll admit it’s been a hellish week.”

“Rough case?” Hazel asked sympathetically.

“You could say that.” Cradling the hot cup in her hands, Gemma told her about Alastair Gilbert.

When she’d finished, Hazel shuddered, concern evident in her expression. “How awful. For them and for you. But there’s more than that, isn’t there, Gemma?” she asked, with the direct gaze that must have made her patients squirm. “You disappear for days without notice, show up again, then leave Toby without a word of explanation—what’s going on?”

Gemma shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”

Shaking her head, Hazel leaned forwards earnestly. “Who are you trying to convince? You know it’s not good to bottle things up. You don’t have to be superwoman all the time. Let someone else share a little bit of the burden—”

“I don’t need a therapist, Hazel,” Gemma interrupted, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me lately. I’ve been sniping at everyone. You didn’t deserve that.”

Sitting back with a sigh, Hazel said, “I don’t know—maybe I did. Old habits, you know. I’m sorry if I overstepped your boundaries, but I care about you, and I want to help if I can.”

The kindness in Hazel’s voice brought an ache to Gemma’s throat, and she felt a sudden longing to pour out her troubles and be comforted. Instead, she swallowed and asked tentatively, “How could you bear it, Hazel? Giving up your job like that? Weren’t you afraid of losing yourself?”

Hazel watched the children for a long moment before answering. “It hasn’t been easy, but I haven’t regretted it, either. I’ve learned from experience that it’s a great emotional risk to ground one’s identity entirely in one’s work. Life is entirely too tumultuous for that—you can lose a job or a career tomorrow, and then where are you? The same is true of marriage and motherhood. You have to rely on something deeper than that, something inviolate.” She looked up and met Gemma’s eyes. “Easier said than done, I know, and I’m not avoiding the personal question. I waited until fairly late to have a child, and as much as I enjoyed my work I decided that being with Holly the first few years of her life was an experience I wouldn’t have a chance to repeat. I sometimes feel guilty about that, knowing so many women who don’t have that option—like you.” Hazel’s dimples appeared as she grinned at Gemma. “But then I’m not sure you’d take it if you could.”

Brow furrowed, Gemma studied her mug as if the contents held an answer. “No way, I’d have said in the beginning. I saw being pregnant and having a baby as a bloody nuisance, to tell the truth—just another way I’d let Rob’s carelessness spill over into my life. But now …”

Toby, perhaps sensing some current of unease in his mother’s voice, stopped his play and came to stand beside her, butting his head against her arm.

Gemma cuddled him and tousled his hair. “But now I don’t know. There are days when I envy you.” She thought of Jackie Temple’s unexpected revelation. Was anyone ever satisfied with her lot?

“And there are days when I think I’ll go mad if I hear another toy advert,” countered Hazel, laughing. “So I cook. That’s my defense.” She stood up and carried their empty mugs to the sink. “And I think it’s time to switch from restoratives to sedatives.” She pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “This Gewurztraminer’s lovely with the spices in North African food.” Retrieving a corkscrew from a drawer, she started to peel the foil cap off the bottle, then stopped and turned back to Gemma. “Just one more thing. I’ll not push you, but I want you to know that I’m always here if you want to talk. And I’ll not let the therapist get in the way of the friend.”

Gemma fell asleep that night in the curving leather chair in the flat, Toby sprawled across her lap, only to wake in the wee hours, chilled, numb from the weight of her son’s relaxed body, with Claire Gilbert’s face burnt into her mind like the bright afterimage of a flare.