Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

8

The burring sound came from a great distance, its insistent repetition dragging her up from the cottony depths of sleep. Her arm felt leaden, treacle-slow, as she freed it from the duvet and felt for the telephone. “Hullo,” she mumbled, then realized she had the handset wrong way round.

Once she’d got it right-side-up, she heard Kincaid saying cheerfully, “Gemma, I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to ring you last night, but you weren’t in.”

Focusing on the clock, she groaned. She’d overslept by an hour and she had absolutely no memory of turning off the alarm. Fuzzily, she was trying to remember whether or not she had set it when she realized Kincaid was saying, “Meet me at Notting Hill.”

“Notting Hill? Whatever for?” She shook her head to clear it.

“I want to have a look at some records. How long?”

Making an effort to pull herself together, she said, “An hour.” Quick mental arithmetic confirmed that she should be able to shower, leave Toby with Hazel, and get the tube to Notting Hill. “Give me an hour.”

“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.”

“He’s got a record.” Nick Deveney looked up at Kincaid and Gemma as they entered the incident room in Guildford Police Station. He and Will Darling had been bent over a computer printout, and the quick smile he gave Gemma was his only greeting. “I didn’t manage to get in touch with your friend Madeleine Wade until this morning, and it turned out he worked for her, too. Did some heavy lifting in the shop and a bit of painting in the flat.”

Wondering at the barb implied by the emphasis on “your friend,” Gemma glanced at Kincaid, but he only looked amused. “Who has a record?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Geoff Genovase,” said Will. “Done for burglary five years ago. He was managing a hi-fi shop in Wimbledon, and it seems he and a mate from the shop decided to liberate some of the merchandise in the supplier’s warehouse. Unfortunately they hadn’t quite got the knack of disabling alarm systems, so Genovase did time in one of Her Majesty’s best hotels.”

Gemma sat down in the nearest chair. “I don’t believe it.”

“He did some sort of odd job for everyone in the village who reported a theft,” said Deveney. “Coincidences like that don’t manufacture themselves. And if he did the others, why not the Gilberts’, only this time something went wrong.”

She thought of the gentle young man who had fed her cheese and pickle so solicitously, whose face had lit with eagerness when she inquired about his computer game. “Why didn’t you tell me?” her voice rose as she turned to Kincaid.

His face registered surprise as he looked up from the printout he’d taken from Deveney. “It was just a hunch. I had no idea it would pan out.”

“I’ve applied for a warrant,” said Deveney. “Hope we don’t have to search the whole bloody pub.”

Kincaid returned the printout to Will and stood staring into space, his eyes slightly unfocused. After a moment he straightened and said decisively, “Listen, Nick, I’m not willing to drop everything else to run with this. I still think we should follow up on Reid and the London angle.” He turned to Gemma. “Why don’t you and Will go to Reid’s shop in Shere and have a word with him while Nick and I handle the search?”

Her anger rose with frightening speed, closing her throat, making her heart pound, but she fought it back and managed to say evenly, “Um, could I have a word, guv?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow but followed her into the empty corridor, and when the door clicked shut she said through clenched teeth, “Shall I assume you have some reason for this?”

“What?” he said blankly.

“Sending me off on some fool’s errand while you and Nick Deveney take the important job. Do you think I’m not capable of being objective? Is that it?”

“Christ, Gemma,” he said, backing up a step. “I’ve tried to sort things out, but you’re as prickly as a bloody hedgehog these days. What am I supposed to do with you? Ask your permission before I decide how to conduct an investigation?

“I have two reasons, in fact, if you want to know.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, you haven’t met Malcolm Reid and I wanted your reaction to him, wanted to know if you thought there was anything in Percy Bainbridge’s allegations that Claire’s having an affair with him. Two, you’ve established a positive contact with Geoff Genovase, and I’d like to keep it that way. You know as well as I do how useful that can be in an interrogation, and going in with a search warrant is certainly not going to reinforce his confidence in you.” He took a breath. “Is that good enough for you, or do I need more?”

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come. She leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes, feeling deflated and shaken.

An echo of his words took her back, and for a moment she was a child again, in her tiny bedroom above the bakery. She’d had one of her frequent and furious rows with her sister, and her mother had come in to her, sitting down on the bed where she lay with her hot, tear-streaked face buried in the pillow. “What am I to do with you, Gemma?” her mum had said with weary exasperation, but the fingers stroking her hair had been gentle. “If you can’t learn to control that redheaded temper, love, you’d best learn to apologize gracefully. And if you have a particle of the sense God gave you, you’ll do both.” It had been good advice—given from experience, Gemma had realized as she grew older—and she’d tried to take it to heart.

She opened her eyes as a breath of air touched her face. Kincaid had turned away, his hand on the doorknob, face set in a tight scowl. Gemma reached out and touched his arm, attempting a smile. “You’re right, of course. Guess I did overreact a bit. Look … I know I’ve been an awful bloody cow lately.” She glanced away, bit her lip. “Duncan … I’m sorry.”

Tall and tanned, his close-cropped silver-blond hair molded to his finely shaped head, Malcolm Reid was a sight to make any woman’s heart flutter. He would make a perfect complement to Claire Gilbert’s fair, delicate prettiness, and Gemma could easily imagine why tongues would wag.

He’d greeted them pleasantly, offering coffee from a sleek, German pot plugged into an outlet at the back of one of the display countertops.

“I thought this was all just for show.” Gemma gestured at the kitchen area as she accepted a mug.

“Might as well make use of the facilities.” Reid grinned as he pulled up wrought-iron stools for Will and Gemma. “Actually, this is very much a working kitchen. My wife uses it for demonstration cooking classes, but she has nothing on just now. ‘Healthy Cooking from the Mediterranean’ finished last week, and ‘Italian Classics’ starts this coming Tuesday.”

The names of the courses conjured up exotic ingredients, warm climates awash with garlic-laden smells, and Gemma felt a little shiver of longing. Although her parents had turned out excellent baked goods, their business had left them little time or energy for anything but the most conventional of English cooking, and Gemma hadn’t had much opportunity to venture further afield. “Sounds lovely,” she said a bit wistfully.

“It is.” Malcolm Reid regarded her with interest. He’d propped himself against the countertop with an air of much practice, cradling his coffee in both hands. “You should give it a try sometime. Now how can I help you?”

Will shifted position on a stool seat not made for thighs the size of hams. “Mr. Reid, can you tell us what you were doing on Wednesday evening?”

Reid’s mug made an almost imperceptible pause in its journey to his mouth. He took a sip, then said, “Wednesday evening? Are you asking me for an alibi? I know, I know”—he held up a hand before they could speak—“I heard it from your … chief inspector, wasn’t it? Routine inquiries, just like the telly, not to worry. I must say I don’t find that reassurance very comforting, but I’ve no reason not to tell you. I’m afraid you may find it rather a disappointment, however.” He looked at Gemma, a gleam of humor in his eyes. “I closed up the shop at half past five and went straight home, where I spent the entire evening with my wife.”

Will nodded encouragingly. “Your wife will verify this, Mr. Reid?”

“Of course she will. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Mr. Reid,” began Gemma, wondering how she might ease into this tactfully, “does your wife get on well with Claire Gilbert?”

“Val?” Reid appeared genuinely puzzled. “Val’s known Claire longer than I have. That’s how Claire came to me as a client—she’d taken one of Val’s classes.”

“Were both your wife and Alastair Gilbert comfortable with your working relationship with Claire?”

For a moment Reid looked at her blankly, then his face hardened. “Just what exactly are you getting at?”

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, thought Gemma, since her attempt at tact had not come off a resounding success. “Apparently, Mr. Reid, there have been some rumors in the village that your relationship with Claire Gilbert was a little more personal in nature and that her husband was made aware of that.”

“Bloody hell,” exploded Reid, his knuckles white on the coffee mug. “I hate bloody gossip. It’s so insidious, and one’s so bloody powerless against it. You’re damned as a sneak if you say nothing, damned even more if you speak out or challenge the whisperers—’methinks he doth protest too much.’

“It’s all nonsense, and nonsense about Alastair, too.” Suddenly he relaxed and sighed. “Oh, it’s not your fault, Sergeant. Sorry if I took it out on you. But tell me you don’t have to thrust this on Claire, too. Surely she’s had enough to deal with as it is.”

Painfully aware of its inadequacy, Gemma trotted out her stock answer. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Reid, and the truth must take precedence. I dislike—”

She was spared finishing by the opening of the shop door, and she recognized Claire Gilbert’s voice even as she turned.

“Malcolm, I—” Claire stopped in midstride as she took in Will and Gemma, but Gemma had the distinct impression that she had been about to rush straight into Malcolm Reid’s arms.

“Claire, what are doing here?” Reid crossed to her and took her hands, his face creased with concern. “You’ve no business being out.”

Letting go Reid’s hands after a brief contact, Claire recovered enough poise to greet Will and Gemma with her usual graciousness. “I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t seem rude.” She nodded at them, with a half smile for Will. “It’s just that I couldn’t bear it anymore. We’ve had the phone off the hook to stop it ringing, and the constable is still on the gate, but they’re waiting out there in the lane, watching us.” A shudder ran through her body and she clasped her hands together tightly.

“Here. Sit,” Reid instructed her as Will slid from his stool and positioned it for her. “Who’s watching you? What are you talking about?”

“Reporters.” Gemma made a face. “Like bloody vultures. But it will pass, Mrs. Gilbert, I promise you. They have relatively short attention spans—I’m surprised they’ve stuck it out this long, actually.”

“So how did you escape the siege?” asked Will.

The half smile flashed again. “I put my hair up under one of Alastair’s caps to complete the disguise.” Claire gestured at her clothes, and Gemma noticed she’d exchanged her usual elegant attire for jeans and an old tweed jacket. “Then I sneaked out the back and through Mrs. Jonsson’s garden, slouched across to the pub, and borrowed Brian’s car.” Her voice held a note of sheepish pride as she added, “It felt quite unexpectedly liberating, to tell you the truth.”

The clothes made Claire look younger, bringing out what Gemma had begun to recognize as her toughness, as well as emphasizing her fragility. Would she continue to shed her respectable-suburban-housewife trappings like a snake sloughs an old skin?

“But why are you here?” She turned to Will and Gemma as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I don’t know why you’d need to talk to Malcolm.” She hugged herself as if cold, and a note of fear crept into her voice as she added, “Has something happened? What’s go—”

“Routine inquiries,” Reid said with a grin before Gemma could answer. “Nothing to worry about. Right, Sergeant?”

“Mrs. Gilbert,” said Gemma, “could I have a word with you?”

Having suggested a walk, Gemma led the way across the bridge and took the path along the little Tillingbourne River. Birches grew right along the water’s edge, and their bare silvery branches reached towards the sky as if seeking the last of the pale sun.

Gemma wondered how best to frame her questions. Claire seemed at ease, content to walk in silence. She smiled at Gemma, then stooped for a stone and stood hefting it in the palm of her hand. Shaking her head, she bent and looked for another one. The wind parted her hair as she knelt, revealing a flash of pale and slender neck. The sight made Gemma feel oddly and uncomfortably protective, and she looked away.

Claire found another stone, stood, and skipped it expertly across the water. When the last set of ripples had stilled, she said, “I haven’t done that in years—I’m surprised I remember how. Do you think it’s like riding a bike?” Then, as if continuing a conversation, “Thank God for Becca. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’ll make all the arrangements for the funeral when … when they release Alastair’s body.”

“Becca?”

“Our vicar, Rebecca Fielding.”

Gemma saw an opening. She was willing to abandon Malcolm Reid for the moment in order to delve into the past. “I don’t suppose experience makes these things any easier. I didn’t know about your first husband when we talked the other day. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for you to be—you couldn’t have known. And Stephen was always a great one for getting on with things. I tried to remember that on those days it didn’t seem worthwhile getting up.” Claire stopped and turned towards the river. Hands shoved in her trouser pockets, she stared into the water where it ran like molten pewter over the stones. “But that all seems a very long time ago. I’m not even sure I know her anymore, that distant Claire.”

“That was when you met Commander Gilbert, after Stephen died?”

Claire’s smile held no mirth. “Alastair thought I needed looking after.”

“And did you?”

“I thought I did,” answered Claire, walking again. “Stephen and I married very young, just out of school. Childhood sweethearts. He was a journalist, you know, a brilliant one.” With a glance at Gemma she added fiercely, “We had a good life. And after Lucy was born it was even better, but it wasn’t what you’d call secure, living from assignment to assignment.

“So there I was, my husband dead, my parents dead, no job skills at all, and a five-year-old daughter to care for. Stephen had a bit of life insurance, not enough to last more than a year or two even if we pinched every penny.” The path had narrowed and now stopped abruptly against a stone wall. Claire turned and started back. “Alastair seemed safe.”

Gemma followed her silently as they reached the road again and crossed over. They followed the lane leading to the church, skirting the tubs of bright flowers that half blocked the pavement.

What would she have done without her job and her parents’ support when Rob left? Would she, like Claire, have chosen security had it been offered her? “What about David Ogilvie?” she asked. “Was he in love with you, too?”

“David?” Claire stopped with her hand on the church gate and gave her a startled glance.

“We had to interview him as your husband’s staff officer. There was something in what he didn’t say that made me wonder.”

“Oh, David …” Claire said on a sigh that echoed the creak of the gate. As they picked their way through the tall grass surrounding the gravestones, she plucked a spear and twisted it in her fingers. “David was … difficult. At the time I convinced myself that I was just another of David’s potential conquests, a notch on his belt. He was very much against my marrying Alastair, but that I put down to peacock rivalry. You know how men are when they feel their territory’s threatened.” They had come to the river again, and stopping on the little wooden footbridge, Claire ran her fingers over the grass’s feathery head, stripping it bare. She watched the seeds drift down towards the water. “But looking back on it now I’m not sure that was true. I’m not sure of anything.”

“That must have caused friction between them, and yet they had to keep working together,” said Gemma, thinking of the bad blood Jackie had mentioned. “Did the three of you remain friends?”

“David never spoke to me after Alastair and I were married. I don’t mean that quite literally—when we were thrown together in social situations he made civil responses—but he never spoke to me again as a friend.”

It still hurts her after all these years, Gemma thought as she watched the tightening of Claire’s lips and heard the careful control in her voice. Perhaps she should have asked a different question—was Claire in love with David Ogilvie when she married Alastair Gilbert?