Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER 10

The press had decamped, the constable had been relieved of his post at the gate, and the lane seemed to dream peacefully undisturbed in the morning sun. As they let themselves through the Gilberts’ gate, Kincaid muttered something that sounded to Gemma like “this Eden…”

“What?” she said, turning back to him as he fiddled with the latch.

“Oh, nothing.” He caught her up and they walked abreast along the path. “Just a half-remembered old quote.” As they rounded the corner, Lewis stood up in his run, but his deep intruder-alert bark changed to an excited yipping when Kincaid spoke to him.

“You’ve made a conquest,” Gemma said as he walked to the fence and scratched the dog’s ears through the wiring.

He turned and met her eyes. “One, at least.”

Gemma flushed and cursed herself for having put her foot in it once again. While she was still trying to think of a suitable reply, the kitchen door opened and Lucy called to them. She came out on the step, visible in all the glory of her baggy red jersey, crumpled socks, and a tartan skirt barely long enough to earn its name.

“Claire’s gone to see Gwen before church,” Lucy said as they reached her, and on closer inspection Gemma could see goose bumps on the expanse of bare flesh between hem and sock.

“Gwen?” asked Kincaid.

“You know, Alastair’s mum. Claire always goes on Sunday morning, and she thought it a good idea not to break the routine. Do you want to come in?” Lucy opened the door and made way for them.

Once in the kitchen, she sat down at the table by a half-empty bowl of cereal but made no move to resume eating. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said a bit awkwardly, clasping her hands in her lap. “I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday, letting Geoff go home and all.”

“Geoff’s friends were responsible for that. He seems to have quite a few.” Kincaid pulled up a chair in the breakfast nook, and Gemma did the same, but she still found it odd to be sitting so casually in this room.

“I don’t think he realized until last night. He never thinks he deserves people caring about him.”

Watching the expression on the girl’s heart-shaped face, Gemma wondered if Geoff felt he deserved Lucy’s love-for she suddenly had no doubt that love him Lucy did and with all a seventeen-year-old’s capacity for passion.

“Lucy,” said Kincaid, “do you think you could help us out with something, since your mother’s not here?”

“Sure.” She looked at him expectantly.

Gemma wondered how Kincaid meant to handle this. When they’d stopped in at the station, a quick check of Gilbert’s impounded diary had confirmed Kincaid’s memory. When he asked, with exaggerated patience, why he hadn’t been informed of the connection, the constable in charge mumbled something about “just assuming the commander had rung his wife.”

“First rule of a murder investigation, mate,” Kincaid had said, an inch from his face, “which you should have learned at your guv’nor’s knee. Never assume.”

Now he tackled the other, unspoken, assumption first. “Is your mum in the habit of working late, Lucy?”

She shook her head, her hair swinging with the movement. “She likes to be here when I get home from school, and she never misses it by more than a few minutes.”

“What about the night before Alastair died? Was there anything unusual about that?”

“That would have been Tuesday.” Lucy thought a moment. “We were both home by five or so, and then later Mum watched an old movie with me.” She shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Kincaid straightened the table mat, aligning it precisely with the edge of the table. “Did Alastair ever ring your mum at the shop?”

“Alastair?” She looked baffled. “I don’t think so. Sometimes he’d have his secretary ring here and leave a message on the answerphone if he were going to be delayed. And sometimes he didn’t let her know at all. Alastair wasn’t one to put himself out for people,” she added. “Even when Mummy broke her wrist last summer, he didn’t leave work. Geoff went with me to pick her up from hospital. I only had my learner’s permit then.”

“How did it happen?” asked Gemma.

“Driving along the road that runs through the Hurtwood. She said she hit a monster pothole, and the wheel jerked so hard it snapped the bone in her wrist.”

“Ouch.” Gemma winced at the thought.

Grinning, Lucy added, “It was her right hand, too. I had to do everything for her for weeks, and she didn’t like it a bit. Poor Mum. Kept her from biting her nails, though.”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “I guess we’d better not wait for her any longer. Do you mind if I make a quick call from Alastair’s study, Lucy?”

When he’d gone, Lucy smiled a bit shyly at Gemma. “He’s very nice, isn’t he? You’re lucky you get to work with him every day.”

Nonplussed, Gemma searched for a response. A week ago she would have agreed easily, perhaps even a touch smugly. She felt a pang of loss so sharp that it took her breath, but she managed a smile. “Of course I am. You’re quite right,” she said finally, trying for conviction, then did her best to ignore Lucy’s puzzled expression.

“Well?” said Gemma when they reached the lane again. “I think we can be fairly sure that it was Malcolm Reid that Gilbert called.”

“I should’ve twigged sooner,” Kincaid said, his face set in an irritated frown.

Gemma shrugged. “That’s a bit pointless. Like saying you should remember what you’ve forgotten. What’s next?”

“I’ve got the Reids’ home address, but first, let’s give Brian a try.”

Leaving the car in the lane, they walked to the pub, but found it shut up tight. Kincaid’s knock on the door brought no response. “First thing Sunday morning’s not the best time to beard a publican in his den, I suppose. I remember Brian saying he wasn’t a morning person.” Turning away, he added, “We’ll have to come back, but just now let’s pay a call on Malcolm and the missis.”

“I think that must have been it.” Gemma looked back at the gap in the hedge they’d just shot past. “Hazel Patch Farm. I saw a little hand-lettered sign on the gatepost.”

“Bloody hell.” Kincaid swore under his breath. “There’s no place to reverse.” He shifted down another gear and crept around the hairpin bends, searching for an accessible drive or farm track. They were high in the tree-crowned hills between Holmbury and Shere, and Gemma supposed they’d done well to find the place at all with only the blithe directions of the Holmbury St. Mary garage attendant to guide them.

A passing place presented itself, and with a little judicious maneuvering, Kincaid managed to turn the car about. Soon they were nosing in through the farm gate, and he pulled the car up in a graveled area just inside the hedge.

“Not exactly a working farm, I’d say,” he commented as they got out of the car and looked about. The house stood back beneath the trees, and what little remained visible beneath the cover of the creeping vines seemed unassuming enough.

Malcolm Reid came to the door in frayed jeans and an old sweater, looking considerably less like a Country Living fashion plate than he had in the shop, but perhaps, thought Gemma, even more handsome. If he were surprised to have his Sunday morning at home interrupted by uninvited coppers, he managed to conceal it, and the two sleek springer spaniels at his heels sniffed at them with equal politeness. “Come through to the back,” he said pleasantly and led them down a dim passageway.

Entering before them, he said, “Val, it’s Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant James.”

Anything else he might have attributed to them, Gemma lost, as she was too busy gaping with delight to take in the conversation. They stood in a terra-cotta-tiled kitchen, and it was much less intimidating than she would have imagined from the high-tech displays in the shop. Dusty-blue cabinets, a sunflower-yellow Aga as well as a gas cooktop, copper pans hanging from a rack in the ceiling, and all open to a solarium whose windows looked down the steep hillside to the Downs rolling away in the distance.

Kincaid gave her a gentle nudge and she focused on the woman rising from amid the pile of newspapers that covered most of a comfortable-looking settee. “You’ve caught us at our Sunday morning vice,” she said, laughing as she came towards them with her hand outstretched. “We read them all-the high, the low, the insufferably middle-brow. I’m Valerie Reid.”

Even barefoot, dressed in leggings and what looked to be one of her husband’s cast-off rugby shirts, the woman radiated sex appeal. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a flash of brilliant white smile made her seem as Mediterranean as her kitchen, but her accent held an incongruous trace of Scots burr. “Do you like it?” she said to Gemma, gesturing at the kitchen. She hadn’t missed Gemma’s rapt stare. “Do you cook-”

“Darling,” said her husband, “they are not here to talk about cooking, as difficult as that may be for you to imagine.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

“Nevertheless, they cannot talk without something to eat and drink. There are wholemeal scones still warm in the oven, and I will make some latte.”

Kincaid opened his mouth to protest. “No, really, that’s quite-”

“Sit,” ordered Valerie, and Kincaid obediently sat in a clear spot on the settee. Gemma lingered in the kitchen, sniffing as Valerie opened the Aga’s warming oven.

“You’re wondering how I manage not to waddle,” said Malcolm as he joined Kincaid. He pointed at the dogs, who had stretched out on the tile floor in a patch of sunlight. “If it weren’t for running those two up and down the bloody hills twice a day, I probably wouldn’t be able to get through the door, much less into my clothes. Val’s cooking is quite irresistible.”

The hiss of the espresso machine filled the room, and when Valerie had filled cups Gemma helped her carry coffee and scones into the solarium. Once settled in a comfortable slipcovered chair, Gemma tasted her scone as Valerie watched expectantly.

“Wonderful,” said Gemma sincerely. “Better than anything from a bakery.”

“It takes ten minutes to mix these from scratch, yet people buy mixes from the supermarket.” Wrinkling her nose disdainfully, Valerie sounded as if she were talking about black-market racketeering. “Sometimes I think the English are hopeless.”

“But you’re English, aren’t you, Mrs. Reid?” asked Gemma through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Valerie, please,” she said, helping herself to a scone. “My parents are Anglicized Italians. They settled in Scotland and opened the most British of cafés, on the anything-you-can-do-we-can-do-better principle. This they even extended to the naming of their children.” She tapped her chest. “You’d think Valerie was bad enough, but they called my brother Ian. Can you imagine anything less Italian than Ian? And they learned to fry everything in rancid grease, in the best British fashion.

“But I forgave them, because every summer they sent me to Italy to stay with my grandmama, and so I learned to cook.”

“Val.” Malcolm’s voice held amusement. “Give the superintendent a chance, would you?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Valerie, sounding not the least bit abashed. “Do get on with whatever it is you need to get on with.” She settled back into her nest of papers, cup of latte in one hand, scone plate balanced on her knee.

Kincaid smiled and sipped his coffee before replying. “Mr. Reid, I believe you told us that you’d had no contact with Alastair Gilbert before his death?” Before Reid could affirm or deny this rather open-ended question, Kincaid continued, “But I think that in fact you misled us. You had an appointment with Gilbert at six o’clock the evening before he died, which he confirmed by telephone. Just what was Gilbert’s urgent business with you, Mr. Reid?”

A smooth bluff, thought Gemma, but would it work?

Malcolm Reid glanced openly at his wife, then rubbed his palms against the knees of his jeans. “Val said at the time that it wasn’t a good idea, but I simply didn’t want to complicate things any more than necessary for Claire. She’s had a difficult enough time as it is.”

When Reid didn’t continue, Kincaid said, “You have to let us do the interpreting. We’ll make every effort to cause Claire as little distress as possible, but the only way she can get on with her life is to have this business resolved. Surely you can see that?”

Reid nodded, glanced at his wife again, started to speak, stopped, then finally said, “I find this all very awkward and embarrassing.”

“What my husband is trying to tell you,” said Valerie, matter-of-factly, “is that Alastair had developed some wild idea that Malcolm was having a passionate liaison with his wife.”

Reid gave her a grateful look as he nodded in agreement. “That’s right. I don’t know what put it into his head, but he was behaving quite oddly. I had no idea how to deal with him.”

“Oddly in what way?” asked Gemma, having finished her scone and rescued her notebook from the depths of her bag. “Was he violent?”

“No… not physically, at least. But he didn’t seem quite rational. One minute he’d be demanding proof and threatening me, then the next he’d be smiling and jocular, and sort of… ingratiating.” Reid gave a slight shudder. “I can’t tell you how creepy it was. He kept talking about his sources”

“Did he mention anything, or anyone, in particular?” Kincaid sat forwards intently.

Shaking his head, Reid said, “No, but he was almost… gloating. As if he were enjoying his secrets. And he kept saying that if I’d just tell him the truth, he wouldn’t take any action against me.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow at that. “Very magnanimous of him. What did you do?”

“Told him there was nothing to tell and that he could bloody well bugger off. He shook his head, as if he were disappointed in me. Can you imagine that?” Reid’s voice rose incredulously.

“And that’s how he left you?”

“No.” Reid rubbed his hands against his jeans again and smiled a bit crookedly. “It’s too melodramatic-I feel an ass just repeating it. ‘Malcolm, my boy, I promise you’ll regret this,’ he said as he reached the door. Just like some character in a bad film.” One of the spaniels raised its head at the change in Malcolm’s voice and gave him a sleepy, puzzled look. Reassured, it flopped down again with a gusty sigh.

“What did you do then?” asked Gemma. “That must have made you feel a bit odd.”

“Laughed it off, at first. But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt. I tried to ring Claire, but no one answered, and once Alastair had time to get home, I was afraid that my ringing up would only aggravate him further.”

“But you discussed it with her the next day.” Kincaid made it a statement rather than a question.

“I never had the chance. She was out on a consulting job in the morning, and we only met briefly in the shop at lunchtime, when there were customers waiting. When I returned from my afternoon appointment, Claire had left for the day.”

“And since then?”

Reid shrugged. “It seemed pointless to worry her with it. How could it possibly matter now?”

The look Kincaid cast at Gemma conveyed his skepticism, but he merely said, “And on Wednesday evening, Mr. Reid, you said your wife had a cooking class, I believe?”

Valerie responded before Reid could get a word in. “No, no, Superintendent. The classes are all finished until next week. On Wednesday night Malcolm was at home with me. We had vermicelli Abruzzesi and a salad.”

“Do you always remember what you had for dinner on a particular night, Mrs. Reid?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course,” she said, rewarding him with a brilliant smile. “And that was a new recipe I’d been wanting to try, but I’d had a bit of trouble getting the courgette flowers.”

“Flow-” Kincaid shook his head. “Never mind. Is there anyone who can corroborate this?”

“Not unless you count the dogs,” said Malcolm, with a weak attempt at humor.

“Well, I appreciate your frankness.” Kincaid set down his empty cup and rose, nodding at them both. “And your hospitality. We’ll let you know if we have further questions.”

Valerie Reid stood up quickly. “If you must go so soon, I’ll see you out. No, darling,” she added as Malcolm started to get up, “I can manage perfectly well.”

When they reached the front door, she came out with them, pulled the door to, and stopped, hand on the knob. “Superintendent,” she said quietly, “Malcolm… my husband sometimes has a tendency to behave nobly. I admire this in him, but I am not willing to see him sacrifice himself to a code of honor.” She bit her lip. “What I’m trying to say is that if you’re interested in Claire Gilbert’s lover, you’d do better to look a bit closer to home.”

With that she slipped back inside and shut the door firmly, leaving them standing in the dim and dappled shade.

“And what do you make of that?” Kincaid said when they’d buckled into their seats and eased out into the road again. “A well-coordinated cover-up, wife supporting husband despite his erring ways?”

Slowly, Gemma shook her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe I’m naive as a just-hatched chick, but I can’t see Malcolm Reid as a straying husband. They have a good life, and the affection between them seems genuine.”

“He was embarrassed by Gilbert’s accusations, but he wasn’t a bit nervous. Did you notice?”

“What about the lover Valerie mentioned?” asked Gemma. “Do you suppose she just made it up to stop us harassing Malcolm? Who could it be?”

“Percy Bainbridge?” suggested Kincaid. “Though I’m inclined to think he prefers schoolboys.”

Gemma took it up. “The vicar?”

“Now there’s a thought. She is rather lovely.” He gave her a swift sideways glance, accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

Wondering what the vicar looked like, Gemma felt a twinge of jealousy. “What about Geoff?” she countered. “Maybe she’s cradle robbing? Or maybe it’s-”

“Brian?” They said it in unison on a rising note of incredulity. Kincaid looked at her and they both grinned.

“Great minds,” he said as he shifted down into another curve.

“But I’d never have thought it. Brian doesn’t seem Claire’s type at all, while Malcolm seemed tailor-made to suit her.”

“One should never fail to take proximity into account,” Kincaid said levelly, his eyes on the road. “Or the unpredictable nature of the human heart. What-” His phone trilled, and he paused while he slipped it out of his pocket, flipping it open with a deft one-handed maneuver. “Kincaid.”

After listening for a moment, he said, “Right. Right. I’ll pass it along,” then disconnected.

He gave Gemma a regretful glance. “It looks like I’ll have to manage Brian Genovase without you. Jackie Temple’s been trying to reach you-says she needs to see you urgently.”

Gemma watched Will’s big, square hands lying easily on the steering wheel and wondered if others found him as restful as she did. A call to Guildford Police Station from the mobile phone had brought him to the village, ready to run her into Dorking for the quickest train to London. He’d made no attempt to disturb her preoccupied reflection, yet his silence held no hint of injured feelings.

She looked out the window again as the car swooped round a curve. Tall, silver-trunked trees closed in on either side of the road, and the falling leaves flickered and swirled through the air like swarms of golden bees. The beauty of it pierced her unexpectedly-sharply, sweetly-and for a moment she felt as exposed and transparent as a jellyfish.

She must have made some involuntary sound, because Will glanced at her and said, “You all right, Gemma?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She took a breath, then said the first thing that came into her head. “Will-do you think we ever really know anyone? Or are we so blinded by our own perceptions that we can’t see past them? I’ve been imagining Brian as a loving father who might do anything to protect his son. But that was only one dimension, and it kept me from seeing the possibility that he might be Claire’s lover, a man who could have killed Alastair Gilbert for reasons that had nothing to do with his son. And I didn’t see Claire as-oh, never mind.”

Will chuckled. “You didn’t see Claire as flesh and blood, as a woman with needs so strong she’d be willing to court social condemnation, at the very least, to satisfy them.”

“You never seem surprised,” said Gemma.

“No, I suppose I’m not, but I’m no cynic, either. This job teaches us not to have faith in people. But in the end, what else is there? I’m still willing to give the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s a fine balance,” she said slowly. But was she capable of achieving it? She studied Will covertly through her lashes, wondering if she’d been deceived by her perceptions once again, and if his placid exterior concealed something entirely different.

His quick glance caught her off guard and she felt herself coloring. “This isn’t really about Brian, is it, Gemma?” he asked. Before she could protest, he added, “You don’t have to tell me. But remember, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

By half past one, Gemma was ascending the steps at the Holland Park tube station, fortified by a cheese and tomato roll bought from the buffet trolley on the train. A brisk walk brought her to Jackie’s flat and she stood on the pavement for a moment, catching her breath and admiring the way the tendrils of creeper flamed orange against the brown brick.

Jackie answered the bell with a smile of pleasure. “Gemma! When I couldn’t get you at home I tried the Yard, but I wasn’t really expecting you to turn up on the doorstep like a lost pilgrim. Come in.” She wore a brightly colored dressing gown and her tight curls looked damp from the bath.

“They said it was urgent,” Gemma explained as she followed Jackie up to the first floor.

“Well, I expect I did lay it on a bit.” Jackie looked sheepish. “But I thought they wouldn’t take me seriously, otherwise. Have a seat and I’ll get you something to drink.”

When Jackie returned from the kitchen with two glasses of fizzy lemonade, cold from the fridge, Gemma said, “What’s it all about, Jackie? And why aren’t you at work?”

Jackie curled up on the settee, her dressing gown spreading around her like the robes of an exotic princess. “I go on at three. They’ve changed my shift. I’ll have to get dressed and be off in a few minutes.

“They said you weren’t in London-I haven’t brought you all the way from Surrey, have I?”

Gemma gave her friend a quizzical look. “Jackie, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalling. And, yes, I did come up from Surrey. Now spill it.”

Jackie sipped at her drink, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles got up it. “I feel a bit of a silly cow, to tell the truth. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. You know I said I’d have a word with Sergeant Talley?”

Gemma nodded encouragement.

“Well, he got quite shirty with me. Told me to mind my own business if I knew what was good for me. I hadn’t expected that, and it got my back up a bit. There are a couple of blokes on the beat that have been at Notting Hill as long as Talley, so this morning I ambushed one of them when he came off duty. Bought him breakfast in the caff next the station.” Jackie paused and drained half her drink.

“And?” Gemma prompted, her curiosity thoroughly aroused.

“He said that the way he heard it, the bad blood between Gilbert and Ogilvie had nothing to do with a woman. Rumor had it that Gilbert blocked Ogilvie’s promotion, told the review board that he thought Ogilvie was too much a maverick to make a good senior officer. They’d been partners, and it was common knowledge among the lads that Gilbert was incompetent and Ogilvie had covered his ass more than once.” Jackie shook her head in disgust. “Can you imagine? Ogilvie did get promoted eventually, when Gilbert was no longer his senior officer, but I doubt he ever forgave Gilbert.”

“Do you suppose Ogilvie hated him enough to murder him, after all these years?” Gemma thought a moment, frowning. “From what I’ve learned about Alastair Gilbert, I wouldn’t be surprised if he blocked Ogilvie’s promotion out of spite, because he was jealous of him. This all happened about the time they both met Claire, didn’t it?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure. You’d have to check the records. Gemma-”

“I know. If I don’t let you get ready, you’ll be late.” Gemma picked up her empty glass, intending to take it to the kitchen.

“That’s not it.” Jackie glanced at the clock on a side table. “Well, only partly, anyway.” She stopped, smoothing the folds of her dressing gown with her fingers, then said hesitantly, “I have some connections on the street, some sources. You know, you work a beat long enough-you accumulate them. When I got curious about this business I started asking some questions, putting out some feelers.”

When Jackie paused again, her eyes on the fabric beneath her fingers, Gemma felt a prick of apprehension. “What is it, Jackie?”

“You’ll have to decide what to do with this, whether to turn it over to C &D.” She waited until Gemma nodded assent before continuing. “Remember I said I thought I’d seen Gilbert talking to a snitch? Well, Gilbert was much too far up the ladder to be running informers, so I asked my bloke if he’d heard Gilbert’s name in connection with anything dirty”

“And?” Gemma prompted.

“Drugs, he said. He’d heard hints of some high-up bloke running protection for the dealers.”

“Gilbert?” Gemma’s voice rose in an incredulous squeak. Jackie shook her head. “David Ogilvie.”

Going back to the Yard had been a mistake, thought Gemma as she walked slowly up Richmond Avenue in the dark. She’d been inundated by piles of paper, and by the time she’d accomplished her own task of looking through every record pertaining to Gilbert or Ogilvie, her eyes burned and her back ached with fatigue. She’d missed Toby’s tea, and now, too tired to shop on the way home, she’d have to settle for whatever she could find in her meager pantry.

Thornhill Gardens came into view, an even darker void against the black bulk of the surrounding houses. She picked her way along the pavement until she reached the Cavendishes’ walk, then stopped. The sitting room window shade hadn’t been pulled quite to the sill, and through the uncovered space she could see the blue flickering light of the telly. But there was an added glow, yellow-warm and wavering. Candles. For a moment she fancied she heard laughter, soft and intimate. Gemma shook herself and marched up the walk, but her knock was tentative.

“Gemma, love!” said Hazel when she opened the door. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.” She looked rumpled, relaxed, and slightly flushed. “Come in,” she said, shooing Gemma into the hall. “The children were knackered, poor dears-I took them to the Serpentine today and wore them out-so we got them down early. Tim and I were just watching a video.”

“I meant to call,” said Gemma, then as Hazel started towards the stairs, “Wait, Hazel. I’ll just nip up and get Toby. You go back to your video.”

Hazel turned. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right, then, love.” Padding back in her stockinged feet, Hazel squeezed Gemma’s shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Toby lay sprawled on his back, arms flung up in the air as if he’d been doing jumping jacks in his sleep. He’d kicked his covers off, as usual, which made it easier for Gemma to slip her arms under him, one hand cradling the back of his head. When she lifted him he barely stirred, and his head flopped against her shoulder as she positioned him in her arms.

She’d turn in early, too, she thought as she carried Toby across the garden, balancing his inert weight against her hip as she let herself into the flat. Then she could get up and enjoy spending some time with Toby in the morning before she had to leave for Holmbury St. Mary again.

But after she had tucked Toby into his own small cot, she went round the flat tidying, unable to settle to anything. Finally, when she had exhausted her repertoire of chores, she searched the fridge until she found a piece of cheddar that hadn’t been attacked by mold, then unearthed a few stale biscuits in the cupboard.

She ate standing at the sink, looking out into the darkened garden, and when she’d finished she poured a glass of wine and eased into the leather chair. Old maid habits, she thought with a wry grimace. Soon she’d be wearing cardies and flannel pants, and then what would become of her?

Jackie usually saved the area near the top of the Portobello Road for the end of her shift. It had been a long time since she’d worked evenings, though, and she wasn’t used to the eerie emptiness of the cul-de-sacs this time of night. The little antique shops that bustled with customers during business hours were dark and barred, and bits of rubbish rattled along the gutters.

As she turned left into the last street, the street lamp at its end flared and died. “Shit,” Jackie said under her breath, but she always finished her rounds, and she wasn’t about to let a case of the rookie spooks stop her doing it tonight. She imagined herself telling her guv’nor that she’d done a bunk because the street was dark and empty, then snickered to herself at the thought of his response.

She’d be home soon enough. Susan, who had to rise with the birds to get to her job at the BBC, would be fast asleep but would have left out a snack and a nightcap for her. Jackie smiled at the prospect. A hot bath, a warm drink, and then she’d curl up with the Mary Wesley novel she’d been saving. There was something rather liberating about being awake in the wee hours while the rest of the world slept.

She stopped, head cocked, listening. The hair on the back of her neck rose in an atavistic response. That soft shuffle behind her-could it have been a footstep?

Now she heard nothing but the slight sigh of the wind between the buildings. “Silly cow,” she said aloud, chasing the shadows. She walked on. A few more steps and she’d reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac, then she’d start the last leg back to the station.

This time the footfall was unmistakable, as was the raw and primitive terror that left her knees like jelly. Jackie spun, heart pounding. Nothing.

She unclipped her radio and thumbed the mike. Too late. She smelled him first, a rancid sweetness. Then the metal burned cold against the base of her skull.