Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

9

“Got the list?” Kincaid asked as they pulled into the empty pub car park. Deveney had asked to drive the Rover from the Yard pool, finding it a damn sight better than his heaterless Vauxhall.

Deveney patted his pocket. “Every last trinket. It does make an odd assortment when you put them all together.” He killed the engine and looked around as he unsnapped his seat belt. “The little van Brian uses for running about seems to be missing. Hope someone’s here.”

Getting out of the car, Deveney glanced in the window at the back of the pub, then said, “We’re in luck, at least as far as Brian’s concerned.”

As they made their way single file along the path that ran from the car park around to the front door, he added, “Okay if I handle him?”

“Be my guest,” said Kincaid.

The pub’s door and windows were thrown open to the mid-afternoon air. They found Brian whistling as he wiped down the bar, preparing for the evening customers. The room smelled of lemon polish. “You back for the night, Superintendent? And your sergeant, too?” He flipped his towel over his shoulder and began sliding clean glassware into the racks. “My son will be pleased. She seems to have impressed him no end.”

“It’s Geoff we want to talk to you about, Brian,” said Deveney. “Why don’t we have a seat?”

As gentle as Deveney’s words had been, he might as well have punched Brian Genovase in the gut. The color drained from his face, and he froze with one hand on the glass rack, his big body still with dread. “What’s happened? I just sent him over to the shop for some lemons—”

“Nothing’s happened to him, Bri. Just come sit down and let me explain.”

Brian followed him slowly to the nook beside the bar, the forgotten tea towel hanging jauntily over his shoulder. When Kincaid had pulled up a stool and joined them, Deveney said, “We have reason to believe Geoff may have had something to do with the string of thefts in the village. We need—”

“What do you bloody mean you have reason to believe? You’ve looked him up, found out about that shop business, and you’re persecuting him. Well, it’s not bloody fair and I bloody well won’t have it.” Brian pushed against the table, trying to rise, but they had boxed him in.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Brian,” Deveney said. “We’d never have run a check on him if we hadn’t discovered that Geoff worked for everyone who reported things missing. He’s the only common factor. We have to follow through, if only to clear him.”

It dawned slowly on Brian. His eyes widened with shock and his lips went bloodlessly white. “You think Geoff murdered the bugger,” he said hoarsely.

“The sooner we get on with this, the better, Brian. We have a warrant, and we’ll have to search his room. If it turns out to be a coincidence, we can cross him off and no one need be the wiser. If you’ll just show us—”

“You don’t understand. Geoff’s had this problem since he was a kid. He takes things, but there’s no meanness in it. He doesn’t even do it for the money, he just keeps them.” Brian leaned towards them, entreating.

“What happened in Wimbledon, those two yobbos who clerked in the shop blackmailed him into helping them. They’d seen him take a tape that belonged to the owner, said they’d report him if he didn’t join in.”

“You’re telling me that Geoff is a kleptomaniac?” Deveney sounded surprised, but Kincaid merely nodded as Brian confirmed his suspicion. He’d come across the magpielike pattern once when he’d worked burglary—that time it had been an older woman in a posh neighborhood, who visited her neighbors regularly for tea.

“He saw a doctor while he was serving his sentence, and he’s seemed so much better since he came home.” Brian slumped in his seat as if all the fight had gone out of him.

“I’m sure they must have told you that the disorder is very difficult to treat,” Kincaid said. “You must have wondered when things began to go missing.”

Brian didn’t answer, and after a moment Deveney said softly to Kincaid, “Let’s get this over with. We’ll find the room on our own.” They left Brian motionless at the table, his head sunk in his hands.

“Looks like he’s been in the army,” said Deveney. “Too neat.”

“Or prison.” Kincaid ran his hand over the smoothly tucked corner of the single bed. Fantasy posters covered the walls, but rather than being stuck up with the usual pushpins, they were framed in simple unvarnished wood. “Do-it-yourself, I should think,” Kincaid said to himself.

“Hmmm?” Deveney looked up from the computer monitor. He’d been staring, mesmerized, at the ever-changing mandala pattern of the screen saver. “He mustn’t have meant to be away long if he’s left things running. We’d better dig in.”

“Right.” Kincaid sat down at the desk and opened the first drawer. He found snooping through the minutiae of people’s lives both distasteful and weirdly fascinating, but the enjoyment always brought with it a slight stirring of guilt.

The top drawer held tidily organized desk paraphernalia, a few letters on flowery stationery, computer game manuals. In the bottom drawer he found a faded photograph of a young woman, dressed in the hip-hugging bell-bottoms of the late sixties. Bare midriff, long straight brown hair parted in the middle, huge bangle earrings, a serious and slightly bored expression. He wondered who she was and why Geoff Genovase had kept the photo.

A bookcase by the window held mostly paperbacks—fantasy, sword and sorcery, a few historical novels. Kincaid thumbed through them, then stood at the window, gazing at the tile roof of St. Mary’s rising disembodied over the vicarage hedges. He tried to analyze the difference between the order of this room and that of Alastair Gilbert’s study. Gilbert’s spoke of control exerted for its own sake, while this room evoked a carefully guarded and deliberate serenity, he decided after a moment.

“Pay dirt,” said Deveney, sounding less than jubilant. Kneeling on the carpet, he lifted a carved wooden box from the bottom drawer of a pine chest and brought it to the desk. He swore softly as he opened it. “Bloody hell. Poor Bri.”

The bits of jewelry were neatly arranged on the velvet lining.

They found Madeleine Wade’s silver and Percy Bainbridge’s photos behind a shoe box on the shelf in the small closet.

“He didn’t make much effort to hide things,” Deveney said as he pulled the list from his pocket.

“I’m not sure hiding’s the point of this.” Kincaid fingered an intricately carved antique brooch, then a pair of delicate pearl and gold filigree earrings. “Do these pearl earrings match the description of the vicar’s?”

Deveney ran down the list. “Looks like it.”

“But there aren’t any others. Unless we’ve missed them, Claire Gilbert’s aren’t here.”

“So maybe he threw them in a hedge somewhere, panicked after what he’d done,” said Deveney. Then he added, as they heard faint voices from downstairs, “Sounds like the prodigal’s returned. We’ll radio the station for the lads to come take this place apart board by board. It’s time we had a word with wee Geoff.”

Brian Genovase held his son in a bear hug, and at first sight Kincaid thought he intended restraint. But as they came closer and Brian stepped away, Kincaid saw that the young man trembled so violently he could barely stand unaided.

“Geoff.” Deveney’s flat tone told all, and Geoff’s knees buckled as Kincaid watched.

“Good God, man, he’s going to pass out.” Kincaid leaped towards him, but Brian had already grasped his son around the waist and guided him to a bench.

“Head down, between your knees,” ordered Brian, and Geoff obeyed, his blond curls swinging near the floor. His breath whistled audibly.

Deveney slipped out the door, and when he returned a few moments later, he said, “I’m sorry, Bri. We’ll have to take him along to headquarters. I’ve radioed for a squad car,” he added quietly to Kincaid.

Brian stood with his hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “You can’t. You can’t take him away from here. You don’t understand.”

“We’ll have to charge him, Brian,” Deveney said gently. “But I promise you he’ll come to no harm at the station.”

Geoff lifted his head and spoke for the first time, his teeth clenched to stop them chattering. “It’s all right, Dad.” He brushed his hair from his face and took a shuddering breath. “I’ve got to tell the truth. There’s nothing else for it.”

Brian Genovase insisted on accompanying his son to Guildford Police Station. By the time they climbed into the back of the panda and Deveney joined the driver in the front, a handful of neighbors had gathered and stood watching from a distance. Doc Wilson hurtled by the green in her little Mini, then braked hard as she peered at the police car.

Kincaid wished now that he’d not sent Gemma to inter-view Malcolm Reid, but he’d had no way of anticipating Geoff’s quaking terror. Glancing at his watch, he hoped she’d at least be back at the station by the time they were ready to begin the interview.

He retrieved the Rover and was reversing it from its space in the car park when he saw a blur of motion in his mirror and heard a thumping on the boot. A moment later Lucy Penmaric pounded on his window, shouting at him. When he’d killed the engine and rolled down the window, the words became comprehensible.

Between sobs she wailed, “Why are they taking him? You mustn’t let them—please don’t let them take him away from here. He couldn’t bear it.” As he slipped out of the car to stand beside her she clung to him, pulling at his sleeve with force enough to rip it.

“Lucy.” He clasped her hands in his, holding her balled fists tightly. “I can’t help you if you don’t calm down.” She gulped, nodding, and he felt her hands relax a bit. “Now. Take it slowly. Tell me exactly what’s wrong.”

Still hiccuping, she managed, “Doc Wilson stopped at the house. She said they were taking Geoff away in a—” before her face contorted again.

Kincaid squeezed her hands. “Hush now. You must help me sort this out.” She seemed a frightened child, far removed from the poised young woman he’d seen on the night of Alastair Gilbert’s murder. “We just need to ask him a few questions, that’s all. There’s nothing to—”

“Don’t treat me like a baby. You think Geoff killed him! Alastair. You don’t understand.” She wrenched her hands free and pressed her knuckles against her mouth, fighting for control.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Geoff couldn’t hurt anybody. He won’t even kill spiders. He says they have as much right to exist as he does.” Her words poured over one another in her eagerness to explain. “‘Might is not right.’ He says that all the time—it’s from his favorite book. And ‘The end never justifies the means.’ He says we can always find a peaceful solution.”

Kincaid sighed as he recognized the quotations. It had been one of his favorite books, too, and he wondered how much of the young King Arthur’s vision he had managed to retain in the face of everyday policing.

“Maybe Geoff wouldn’t hurt anybody,” he said, “but would he take things that didn’t belong to him?”

Lucy’s eyes skittered away from his. “That was a long time ago. And he didn’t hate Alastair for what—”

“Hate Alastair for what, Lucy?”

“For being a cop,” she said, recovering quickly. She scrubbed at her face and sniffed. “Though he probably should have, after the way they treated him.”

Kincaid regarded her quizzically for a moment, then decided to let that one pass for the moment. “I’m not talking about what happened when Geoff was sent to prison, Lucy. I’m asking about here, now, taking things from the people he works for in the village.”

In a small, bewildered voice she said, “Geoff?”

“Nothing terribly valuable, mostly keepsakes, really. Do you know that he may not be able to help himself?” He touched her cheek. Her eyes looked enormous and dark, even in the fading light, and the pupils were dilated with distress.

She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe it. It’s just jumble sale stuff he collected for the game.”

“What game?” He could read her withdrawal in the half step she took away from him and the tight set of her mouth. “Lucy, if you don’t tell me, I can’t help him. I have to know what this is all about.”

“It’s just a computer game we were playing,” she said, shrugging. “Roles, you know, and a quest. In the game you have to find certain objects, talismans, to help you along the way, and Geoff said that if we had representations, it would help us visualize better.”

“And these things that Geoff collected were the representations?” When Lucy nodded, he said, “Would he have taken things from your house, too?”

“Never!” Her hair swung as she shook her head.

Such fierce loyalty was admirable, thought Kincaid, but he wondered if it were justified.

“It wouldn’t have worked, you see,” she said earnestly, trying to convince him. “It can’t be your own things—that would negate any help they might provide in the quest.”

Deciding to accept Lucy’s explanation of game logic for the moment, Kincaid went back to something that had been niggling at him. “Lucy, what did you mean when you said Geoff couldn’t bear to be taken from here?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said slowly, “He’s frightened. I don’t know why. Brian says it has something to do with being in prison, but he never leaves the village if he can help it, and sometimes on bad days he doesn’t leave the pub. And he doesn’t like serving behind the bar—says the noise makes him feel funny—and that gets right up Brian’s nose when he’s short-handed,” she added with a ghost of a smile. “I wish I could—”

A small white van turned into the car park and jerked to a stop beside them. The windows were darkly tinted, so Kincaid didn’t recognize Claire Gilbert until she jumped out and started round the van’s bonnet towards them. In her casual clothes she looked almost as young as her daughter, but her expression was both frightened and furious.

“Lucy! What are you doing out? I’ve told you—”

“They’ve taken Geoff away. They think he’s stolen things and that he killed Alastair.” She stepped forwards until her nose nearly touched her mother’s. “And it’s all your fault.”

Claire recoiled visibly, but when she spoke her voice remained level and controlled. “Lucy, that’s enough. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m sorry about Geoff, and I’ll do whatever I can to help him, but right now I want you to go home.”

For a moment mother and daughter stood face-to-face, the air between them vibrating with tension, then abruptly Lucy turned on her heel and walked away

Claire watched until Lucy disappeared into the lane, then she sighed and rubbed at her face as if to ease strained muscles.

“What’s all your fault?” asked Kincaid, before she could regain her equilibrium.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” She leaned against the van and closed her eyes. “Unless … Did she say you thought Geoff had stolen things?”

“We discovered that Geoff had worked for everyone in the village who reported jewelry and other small items missing over the last year.”

“Oh, dear.” Claire mulled this over for a moment. “Then it may be that she’s angry with me because I mentioned my missing jewelry. But it never occurred to me that Geoff might be responsible, and I still don’t believe it. And I won’t even consider the possibility that Geoff killed Alastair.”

“Have he and Lucy been friends long?”

Claire smiled. “Lucy and Geoff formed an odd alliance from the time we came to the village. Lucy must have been eight or nine, and Geoff well into his teens, but there’s always been something a bit childlike about him. Not childish,” she clarified, frowning, “but he has a sort of innocence, if you know what I mean.

“He even looked after Lucy for me until she was old enough to stay alone in the house. Of course, when Geoff left school and took that job in Wimbledon they drifted apart a bit, but since he’s come back they’ve seemed closer than ever.”

Kincaid wondered if they were sleeping together—Lucy was certainly over the age of consent—but his instinct told him no. There had been something almost monastic in the atmosphere of Geoff’s room. “It must have been hard for Lucy when he went to prison.”

“They wrote to each other. It was a difficult time, but she never talked about it. Lucy’s always been a bit of a loner. She gets along with kids at school and in the village well enough; she just never forms close attachments. Geoff seems to be her anchor.” She looked towards the pub. Dusk had crept upon them, and light shone visibly from the back window. “Look, I must see if there is anything I can do for Brian. He’ll be frantic with worry.” She stepped forwards, but Kincaid touched her arm.

“There’s nothing you can do here. Brian’s gone to headquarters with Geoff They’ll make him cool his heels in reception, but he insisted on it.”

“He would.” In the light spilling from the pub, her shirt flared white between the lapels of her jacket. Kincaid saw it rise and fall as she sighed. “And you’re right, of course. I need to deal with my own child.”

Kincaid sat with his hand on the key for a moment, started the car, then turned it off and reached for his pocket phone instead. When he had Deveney on the line, he said, “Don’t start without me, Nick. I’ll be along in a bit.”

The first customer’s car pulled into the pub car park as he pulled out, but the houses clustered around the green looked dark and silent, as did the shop when he reached it. He could just make out the CLOSED sign, but yellow light filtered through the curtain chinks in the upstairs windows.

The stairs were inky, invisible but for the white rail under his hand, but he persevered to the top and knocked smartly on Madeleine Wade’s door. “You really should do something about a light,” he said when she answered.

“Sorry,” she said, frowning at the fixture. “Must have just burned out.” She motioned him inside and shut the door. “Should I assume this is a social call, Superintendent, since you are unaccompanied by minions?”

He gave a snort of laughter as he followed her into the kitchen. “Minions?”

“Such a nice word, isn’t it? I do like words with descriptive power.” As she spoke she rummaged in various cupboards. “Most people’s vocabularies are dismally bland, don’t you think? Ah, success,” she added as she fished a corkscrew triumphantly from a drawer. “Will you have some wine with me, Mr. Kincaid? Sainsbury’s is remarkably up-market these days. You can actually get something quite decent.”

Madeleine filled two slender glasses with a pale gold chardonnay, then led the way back to the sitting room. Candles burned, adding their flickering light to that of two shaded table lamps, and the music he’d admired before played softly in the background. “Expecting a client, Miss Wade?” he asked as he accepted a glass and sat down.

“This is just for me, I’m afraid.” Slipping out of her shoes, she tucked her feet up on the settee, and the marmalade cat jumped up beside her. “I try to practice what I preach,” she said with a chuckle as she rubbed the cat under its chin. “Stress reduction.”

“I could do with a bit of that.” Kincaid sipped his wine, holding it for a moment in his mouth. The flavors exploded on his tongue—buttery rich, with a touch of the oak found in good whiskey, and beneath that a hint of flowers. The sensation was so intense that he wondered if he were suffering from some sort of perceptual enhancement.

“Lovely, volatile molecules.” Madeleine closed her eyes as she sipped, then gazed at him directly. In the candlelight her eyes looked green as river moss. “How can I help you, Mr. Kincaid?”

It occurred to him that in the few minutes he’d been in the flat, he had ceased to regard her as homely. It was not that her features had altered but rather that the normal parameters of judging physical beauty seemed to have become meaningless. He felt light-headed, although he’d barely touched his wine. “Are you a witch, Miss Wade?” he asked, surprising himself, then he smiled, making a joke of it.

She returned the smile with her characteristic wry amusement. “No, but I’ve considered it quite seriously. I know several, and I incorporate some aspects of their rituals into my practice.”

“Such as?”

“Blessings, protective spells, that sort of thing. All quite harmless, I assure you.”

“People keep assuring me of a lot of things, Miss Wade, and quite frankly, I’m getting a bit fed up.” He set his glass on the table and leaned forwards. “There’s a conspiracy of silence in this village. A conspiracy of protection, even. You all must have known Geoff Genovase’s history, must have considered the possibility that he might be responsible for your thefts. Yet no one said a word. In fact, you were reluctant to talk about the thefts at all. Were there others that went unreported, once the word got out?”

He sat back and retrieved his glass, then said more slowly, “Someone murdered Alastair Gilbert. If the truth goes undiscovered, that knowledge will eat away at this village like a cancer. Each person will wonder if his friend or neighbor deserves his loyalty, then wonder if the friend or neighbor suspects him. The snake is in the garden, Miss Wade, and ignoring it won’t make it go away. Help me.”

The music tinkled in the silence that followed his words. For the first time, Madeleine didn’t meet his eyes but stared into her glass as she swirled the liquid slowly around. At last, she looked up and said, “I suppose you’re right. But none of us wanted the responsibility for harming an innocent.”

“Things are never quite that simple, and you are perceptive enough to be aware of that.”

She nodded slowly, acquiescing. “I’m still not sure what you want me to do.”

“Tell me about Geoff Genovase. Claire Gilbert described him as childlike. Is he simple, a bit slow?”.

“Just the opposite, I’d say. Highly intelligent, but there is something a bit childlike about him.”

“How so? Describe it for me.”

Madeleine sipped her wine and thought for a moment, then said, “In the positive sense I’d say that he has a very well-developed imagination and that he still has the capacity to enjoy the small things in life. On the negative side, I think that he may not always face things in an emotionally adult way … that he retreats to his fantasy life rather than face unpleasantness. But then most of us have been guilty of that at one time or another.”

Especially lately, thought Kincaid, then wondered if she could read his flicker of embarrassment. “Madeleine,” he said, deliberately dropping the formality of “Miss Wade,” “can you see the potential for violence?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been presented with a clear before and after example. I can sense chronic anger, as I told you yesterday, but I have no way of knowing when, or if, it will explode.”

He said casually, swirling his wine as Madeleine had done, watching its legs make ribbon patterns on the inside of the glass, “And is Geoff angry?”

She shook her head. “Geoff is frightened, always. Being here seems to ease him—sometimes he just comes and sits for an hour or so, not speaking.”

“But you don’t know why?”

“No. Only that’s he’s been that way as long as I’ve known him. They came to the village some years before I did. Brian gave up a job as a commercial traveler and bought the Moon.” She shifted a little in her seat, and the cat stood up, giving her an affronted look before jumping to the floor. “Look,” Madeleine said abruptly, “if I don’t tell you this, that nasty Percy Bainbridge probably will, and I’d rather you heard it from me.

“You might say that Geoff had good reason to hate Alastair Gilbert. When Geoff got into trouble, Brian begged Alastair to help him. He explained about the blackmail and Geoff’s illness, explained that Geoff would never have participated voluntarily. Just a good word in the magistrate’s ear might have lightened Geoff’s sentence, perhaps even got him off on probation. But Alastair refused. He went on about the sanctity of the law, but we all knew that was just an excuse.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “Alastair Gilbert was a self-righteous prig who enjoyed playing god, and Geoff’s trouble gave him an opportunity to exercise his power.”

They went into the interview room together, Kincaid and Gemma and Nick Deveney. Kincaid had asked Deveney to let Gemma conduct the interrogation and had briefed her on the results of their search. “I’ll be prepared to play bad cop if necessary,” he’d told her, “but terrified as he is already, I’m not sure that would be a very effective strategy.”

Geoff Genovase sat huddled on the hard wooden chair, looking defenseless and uncomfortable in faded jeans and a thin cotton T-shirt. The room’s uncompromising light gave Kincaid his first opportunity to study him closely. High, flat cheekbones gave the young man’s face a slightly Slavic cast, and his eyes, though wary, were large, dark-lashed, and a true, clear gray. It was an honest, guileless visage, with no hint of meanness. Kincaid wondered, as he often did, at how easily one’s perception of others was influenced by the simple combination of genes that made up a human face.

“Hullo, Geoff.” Gemma sat directly opposite him, elbows on the table. “I’m sorry about all this.”

He nodded and gave her a shaky smile.

“I’d like to get this business sorted as quickly as possible, so that you can go home.”

Kincaid and Deveney had flanked her but sat back a bit, allowing Geoff to focus on her.

“I’m sure this must be difficult for you,” Gemma continued, “but I need you to tell me about the things we found in your room.”

“I never meant to—” Geoff cleared his throat and started again. “I never intending keeping them. It was just a game, something to—” He stopped, shaking his head. “You won’t understand.”

“A game you played with Lucy?”

This brought a nod. “Yes, but how did you—” Beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip. “Lucy didn’t know,” he said, his voice rising. “Honestly, I never told her the t-truth about where the talismans came from. Sh-she would have been really angry with me.”

“Lucy told us a little bit about the game. She also told us she thought you collected the things from jumble sales.” A hint of disapproval crept into Gemma’s voice. “She trusted you.”

“Lucy knows about … this?” Geoff whispered, ashen. When Gemma nodded confirmation, he closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his fists in a gesture of despair.

Gemma leaned even nearer, until her face was a mere foot from his. “Listen, Geoff, I understand that you meant to help Lucy. But how could you play with things that were tainted by dishonesty—lying and stealing?”

A pulse ticked in the hollow of Geoff’s throat, and the rise and fall of his collarbone were sharply visible beneath the black-and-white dragon painted on his T-shirt. Gemma, pale and tired but resolutely caring, held his gaze transfixed.

She had a rare and instinctive talent for forming a connection and getting right at the emotional heart of things, and when Geoff’s eyes filled with tears and he covered his face with his hands, Kincaid knew she had done it once again.

“You’re right,” he said, voice muffled. “I hated taking things from my friends, but I couldn’t seem to help it. And the game wasn’t working. I told myself I didn’t know why, but I was just too ashamed to admit it. I kept telling Lucy she wasn’t trying hard enough.”

“Trying hard enough at what?”

Geoff lifted his head. “Becoming the character. Transcending the game.”

“And what would happen then?” asked Gemma, sounding only reasonably curious.

Shrugging, he said, “We’d live this life on a different level, be more engaged, more dedicated—I can’t explain. But then that’s only my idea, and it’s probably total bullshit, anyway.” He sat back in his chair, looking tired and defeated.

“Maybe,” said Gemma softly, “and maybe not.” She pushed a wisp of hair back into her plait and took a breath. “Geoff, did you take anything for the game from Lucy’s house?”

He shook his head. “I don’t go there if I can help it. Alastair doesn’t—didn’t approve of me.”

Kincaid had no trouble imagining how Alastair Gilbert would have felt about Geoff or what he might have said.

“Maybe Wednesday night was an exception,” persisted Gemma. “Maybe there was something you needed, and Lucy wasn’t home. You’ve slipped in and out of other people’s houses easily enough—we have the evidence of that—maybe you thought you’d just nip in for a minute and no one would be the wiser. Except Alastair came home unexpectedly and caught you. Did he threaten to send you to jail again?”

Geoff shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No! I never went near there, I swear, Gemma. I didn’t know anything had happened until Brian saw the police cars, and then I was frantic because I thought something must have happened to Lucy or Claire.”

“Why?” asked Gemma. “Why not assume that the commander, a middle-aged man in a high-stress job, had dropped dead of a massive coronary?”

“I don’t know.” Geoff wound a finger in his hair and tugged at it, a curiously feminine gesture. “I just didn’t think about him, I suppose because he’s not often home that time of day.”

“Really?” Gemma sounded puzzled. “It was almost half past seven when the nine-nine-nine call came through.”

“Was it?” Shifting in his chair, Geoff rubbed a thumb against his bare wrist. “I didn’t realize. I haven’t worn a watch since I bid Her Majesty’s hospitality farewell,” he said with an unexpected trace of humor.

“You know I have to ask you this—” Gemma gave him an answering smile. “Where were you between six o’clock and half past seven on that Wednesday evening?”

Geoff dropped his laced fingers into his lap. “I’d finished in Becca’s garden—about five, I’d say it was—then I came in and had a bath to get the muck off.”

He’s on firm ground now, thought Kincaid, watching Geoff’s relaxed posture.

“And after that?” asked Gemma, settling a bit more comfortably into her chair.

“I got on-line. I’d been looking for some communications software that might perform a little better than what I’ve been using. Brian stopped by for a word at one point, but I’m not sure when.”

Kincaid met Deveney’s eyes. The on-line connection shouldn’t be difficult to check, but how could they be sure Geoff didn’t leave the computer downloading automatically while he ran across the road long enough to kill the commander?

“I’d just finished when I heard the sirens, then Brian came upstairs to tell me something had happened at the Gilberts’.”

That struck Kincaid as a bit odd. With a bar full of able-bodied customers, why had Brian felt it necessary to inform his son before he charged across the road to investigate?

“Anyone else see you?” Gemma asked hopefully, but Geoff shook his head.

“Can I go home now?” he asked, but his tone held little optimism.

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, then studied Geoff for a moment before she said, “I want to help you, Geoff, but I’m afraid we may need to keep you a bit longer. You do understand, don’t you, that if your neighbors positively identify the things we found in your room, we’ll have to charge you with burglary?”

* * *

Will Darling stood in the corridor outside the interview room, looking as relaxed as if he’d been napping on his feet. “Brian Genovase asked for a word with you in private, sir,” he said as Kincaid came out and shut the door. “I’ve put him in the canteen with a cuppa—thought it might be a bit more comfortable there.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid had left Gemma and Deveney to take Geoff’s statement, in hopes that he might catch up on his own paperwork, but he should have known it wasn’t a likely prospect.

The smell of hot grease made his throat close convulsively. It also made him realize, with a stomach-turning queasiness, that he was ravenously hungry. Vaguely, he remembered lunch, and a look at his watch told him it was after eight o’clock.

The room was almost empty and he quickly spotted Brian, who sat staring fixedly into his cup. Kincaid got himself a cup of tea so dark it might have been coffee and joined Brian at the small orange-topped table. “Disgusting color, isn’t it?” Kincaid asked, rapping the table with his knuckles as he sat down. “Reminds me of baby food. Always wondered who’s in charge of the decorating.”

Brian looked at him blankly, as if trying to decipher a foreign language, then said, “Is he all right?” I’ve called our solicitor, but he’s not in.”

“Geoff is making a statement just now, and he seems to be coping reasonably—”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” said Brian, pushing his cup out of the way. The spoon fell from the saucer with a clatter. “I know you think I’m behaving like a broody old hen over a grown son, but you don’t understand about Geoff.

“You see, his mum left us when Geoff was only six. The poor kid thought it was his fault, and he was terrified I’d leave him, too. I had a good job then as a commercial traveler, and I could afford to pay someone to stay with him when I was away, but he’d panic every time. At first I thought he’d get over it, but instead he got worse. Finally I quit the job and invested my savings in the pub.”

“And did that help?” asked Kincaid, giving his muddy tea a desultory stir.

“After a bit,” said Brian, sitting back in his chair and regarding Kincaid levelly. “But it was only then that I began to find out what she’d done to him. She told him it was his fault she was leaving, that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t ‘measure up.’ And before that, she did …” He shook his head, reminding Kincaid of a frustrated bull. “She did vile things to a small boy. I’ll tell you, Superintendent, if I ever find that bitch, I’ll kill her, and then it’ll be me you’ll have warming your cell.” He stared aggressively at Kincaid, chin thrust forwards, then when Kincaid didn’t respond he relaxed and sighed. “I felt responsible. Do you understand that? I should have seen what was going on, should have stopped her, but I was too caught up in my own misery.”

“You still feel responsible for him.” Kincaid made it a statement.

Brian nodded. “He got better over the years. The nightmares stopped. He did well enough at school, even though he didn’t make friends easily. Then when he went to prison it started all over again. ‘Separation anxiety,’ the prison doctor called it.

“Superintendent, if Geoff is sent to prison again, I don’t think he will recover.”

A movement caught Kincaid’s eye and he looked up. Will Darling threaded his way through the tables towards them like a barge easing its way down the Thames. “Sir,” he said as he reached the table, “there’s a … um, delegation of sorts … to see you.”

They were crowded into the tiny reception area—Doc Wilson, Rebecca Fielding, and behind them, a head taller, Madeleine Wade. The doctor had evidently appointed herself spokesperson, for as soon as he came into the room, she marched up and buttonholed him. “Superintendent, we want a word. It’s about Geoff Genovase.”

“You couldn’t have had better timing,” Kincaid said, smiling. “You’ve saved us asking you to come in, as we need you to officially identify your things.” He looked over his shoulder. “Will, is there somewhere more comfortable—”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Kincaid.” The doctor sounded exasperated, as if he were a recalcitrant patient. The vicar looked worried, and Madeleine looked as though she were enjoying the whole thing but trying not to show it.

Stepping forwards, Rebecca put a hand on the doctor’s arm. “Mr. Kincaid, what we’re trying to tell you is that we don’t wish to press charges. We’ll be glad to identify the things for you, but it won’t make any difference.”

“What the—” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Madeleine?”

“I’m with them all the way. We’ll say we lent him the things and just forgot, if necessary.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin.

“What about Percy Bainbridge?”

“Percy has a tendency to be a bit difficult, all right,” said the doctor, “but Paul’s having a word with him just now. I’m sure he’ll manage to sort him out.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Kincaid eyed them skeptically.

The doctor smiled, and he recognized the battle light in her eyes. ‘We’ll make his life hell.”

Kincaid rubbed the stubble on his chin between thumb and forefinger. “What if you’re wrong about Geoff? What if he went into the Gilberts’ house that night and killed the commander?”

Madeleine stepped forwards. “We’re not wrong. I promise you, Geoff isn’t capable of killing anyone.”

“You have no evidence,” added the doctor. “And if you try to pin this on him, I guarantee you’ll have half a dozen people suddenly remember they saw him doing something else.”

“This is all a bit feudal, don’t you think?” When no one responded, Kincaid said on a surge of anger, “You do realize what you’re doing here? You’re taking the law into your own hands, and you have neither the knowledge nor the impartiality to do so. This is what our justice system is designed to prevent—”

“We are not willing for Geoff Genovase to be sacrificed in order to test the fairness of the law, Superintendent.” The doctor’s brows were set in a straight line, and the faces of the others were implacable.

Kincaid glared at them for a moment, then sighed. “Will, take care of the formalities, would you? I’ll just tell Brian he can take his son home.”

Kincaid scooted in beside Gemma on the bench before Deveney or Will could outmaneuver him, then smiled at the disappointment on Deveney’s face. They had adjourned to a pub near the station, hoping to organize strategy as well as fill their stomachs.

“The chief constable’s been on the blower,” Deveney said conversationally when they had ordered and were sipping appreciatively at their drinks.

No one looked thrilled at the prospect of hearing what that exalted figure had to say, but Kincaid set down his pint and took the plunge. “All right, Nick, put us out of our misery quickly, then.”

“You’ll never guess.” Deveney pulled down the knot on his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He’s ‘very anxious for a resolution,’ and he would be ‘most pleased’ if we were to find reason to charge Geoff Genovase with Gilbert’s murder. Allay any suspicion on the part of the public that we’re sitting around on our duffs, you know.”

Gemma spluttered into her drink. “Is he daft? We don’t have a shred of evidence. Turning the burglary file over to the CPS is embarrassing enough—trying to bring a murder charge against him at this point would make us laughingstocks.”

“Not daft, politically minded,” snorted Deveney

“Gemma’s right, you know,” said Kincaid. “It’s all completely circumstantial, based on the assumption that Geoff might have taken Claire Gilbert’s earrings, which we did not find in his possession. For all we know she lost them or accidentally knocked them down the bloody drain in the lav.

“We’ve checked his prints with the unknowns found in the Gilberts’ kitchen, and there’s not a smudge with a remote resemblance. Nor has forensics come up with any hair or fibers that might provide a link.”

Deveney grinned. “So we assume that in the few minutes it took Geoff to download a file, he equipped himself with hat, gloves, and protective clothing, nipped across the road and killed the commander, then disposed of Claire’s earrings, the murder weapon, and the aforementioned protective clothing on his way back to the pub. Although, of course, we’ve searched every square inch in between and turned up sweet eff-all.” This brought a chorus of groans and much rolling of eyes. “Is that all the appreciation I get for a feat of intellectual daring?” Deveney winked at Gemma, and Kincaid saw her look quickly away.

Before anyone could make a proper rejoinder, the barmaid brought their dinners. They tucked in like starving sailors, and for a while the clink of cutlery was the only sound at the table.

Kincaid watched as Gemma ate her chips and plaice with quiet concentration. He was comforted simply by her proximity. She didn’t flinch if his knee occasionally brushed hers under the table, and he wondered if it heralded a thaw. Looking up at him, she gave him an unguarded smile, and he felt a wave of desire so strong it left him shaking.

“You know,” said Deveney, pushing his plate away, “if that’s the chief’s line on this, maybe our village committee was right in refusing to throw Geoff to the wolves.”

“So now we’re the wolves?” asked Kincaid a bit testily. “Would we let someone we thought innocent serve as a scapegoat?”

“Of course not,” said Deveney, “but these political agendas can very easily get out of hand. We’ve all seen it happen.” He looked questioningly around the table and they all nodded grudging confirmation.

Will wiped up the last bit of his shepherd’s pie with his last chip, then pushed his plate away and regarded them gravely. “It seems to me that we’re all mincing around the real question like little ballerinas. And that is, regardless of the nature of the evidence, do we think Geoff did it?”

Watching his tablemates, Kincaid wondered fleetingly if the four of them were just as guilty of star-chamber behavior as the villagers. But they were all good, honest coppers, and none of them could do their jobs without exercising their judgment. Indecision would paralyze them. “No,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’d say it’s highly unlikely, at the very least, and I’ll not stand by and see him go down for a crime he didn’t commit.” Beside him, he felt Gemma relax as she nodded agreement, and Deveney followed suit. “Will?” Kincaid asked, unable to read the constable’s expression.

“Oh, aye, I’d agree with you on that. It’s too tailor-made by half. But I wonder if we won’t wish we’d found such an easy solution by the time this is all over.” He drained his pint and added, “And what about Percy Bainbridge’s mysterious shadow?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Could have been anybody.”

“More likely a product of Percy’s imagination, dredged up purely for the drama,” said Deveney.

“You’re not going to like this,” Gemma said slowly, “and I don’t like it either. But what if Gilbert went ferreting because he didn’t like his stepdaughter having a … relationship with Geoff? And what if he found out that Geoff was responsible for the thefts? And then what if Gilbert told Brian that he intended to turn Geoff in? Brian had good reason to hate him already. What would he do in order to protect his son?”

“You’re right,” Deveney said after a moment. “I don’t like it a bit. But it’s the nearest thing to a motive we’ve come up with so far.”

Kincaid yawned. “Then I suggest the first thing on our list tomorrow should be discovering if Brian can account for himself the whole of Wednesday evening. We’ll keep picking at Malcolm Reid, too. There’s something in that situation that bothers me. I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Let’s call it a night, then,” said Deveney. “I’m knackered. I’ve booked you a couple of rooms in the hotel on the High.” He put his hand over his heart and grinned at Gemma. “And I’ll sleep better knowing you’re near at hand.”

The hotel turned out to be presentable, if a bit fusty. Having bid the lingering Nick Deveney a definite good night, Kincaid followed Gemma up the stairs at a respectable distance. Their rooms were opposite each other, and he waited in the corridor until she’d turned her key in the lock. “Gemma—” he began, then floundered.

She gave him a bright, brittle smile. If she had allowed a chink to show in her defenses at the pub, she’d pulled her armor firmly into place again. “Night, guv. Sleep well.” Her door clicked firmly shut.

He undressed slowly, hanging up his shirt and laying his trousers across the room’s single chair as if his salvation depended upon a perfect crease. The combination of alcohol and exhaustion had produced a numbing effect, and he felt as if he were watching his own actions from a distance, knowing them to be absurd. But still he kept on, order his only defense, and as he hung his overcoat on a peg in the wardrobe a crumpled paper poppy fell to the floor.

He’d worn the poppy last Sunday, a week ago, when he’d walked up to St. John’s, Hampstead, to hear the major sing the Fauré requiem in the Remembrance Day service. The soaring voices had lifted him, stilling all worries and desires for a brief time, and as he climbed into the narrow hotel bed he tried to hold the memory in his mind.

* * *

It came to him as he drifted in the formlessness just before sleep. He scrambled out of bed, upsetting the flimsy lamp on the nightstand in his haste. When he’d righted the lamp, he flicked it on and began digging through his wallet.

He found the card easily enough and sat squinting at it in the dim light that filtered through the pink, fringed lamp shade. He hadn’t been mistaken. The telephone number on the business card he’d picked up at Malcolm Reid’s shop was the same as the one he remembered seeing penciled in Alastair Gilbert’s diary, next to the notation 6:00 on the evening before Gilbert died.