Read Mourn Not Your Dead Online

Authors: Deborah Crombie

Tags: #Yorkshire Dales (England), #Police Procedural, #Police, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #James; Gemma (Fictitious character: Crombie), #Yorkshire (England), #Police - England - Yorkshire Dales, #General, #Fiction, #James; Gemma (Fictitious character : Crombie), #Mystery fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Large type books, #Kincaid; Duncan (Fictitious character), #Traditional British, #Policewomen

Mourn Not Your Dead (3 page)

BOOK: Mourn Not Your Dead
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“That’s why we were surprised to find his car in the garage,” added Lucy, when her mother didn’t continue.

“What did you do then?” Kincaid asked.

After a quick glance at Claire, Lucy went on. “We put Mum’s car in the garage. When we came around the corner of the garage into the garden we could see the door standing—”

“Where was the dog?” asked Kincaid. “What’s his name—Lewis?”

Lucy stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand the question, then said, “He was in his run, in the back garden.”

“What kind of dog is Lewis?”

“A Lab. He’s brilliant, really lovely.” Lucy smiled for the first time, and again he heard that flash of proprietary pride in her voice.

“Did he seem upset in any way? Disturbed?”

Mother and daughter glanced at each other, then Lucy answered. “Not then. It was only later, when the police came. He got so frantic we had to bring him in the house.”

Kincaid set his empty cup on the table, and Claire’s body jerked slightly as the china clinked. “Let’s go back to when you saw the open door.”

The silence stretched. Lucy moved a bit nearer her mother.

The fire settled and a shower of sparks rose, then flickered out. Kincaid waited another heartbeat, then spoke. “Please, Mrs. Gilbert, try to tell us exactly what happened next. I know that you’ve already been through this with Chief Inspector Deveney, but you might remember some tiny detail that could help us.”

After a moment Claire took Lucy’s hand and cradled it between her own, but Kincaid couldn’t tell if she was extending support or receiving comfort. “You saw. There was
blood … everywhere. I could smell it.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, then continued. “I tried to lift him. Then I realized … I had some first-aid training, years ago. When I couldn’t find a pulse, I dialed nine-nine-nine.”

“Did you notice anything unusual as you came into the house?” asked Gemma. “Anything at all in the kitchen that wasn’t quite where it should be?”

Claire shook her head, and the lines of exhaustion seemed to deepen around her mouth.

“But I understand you’ve reported some things missing from the house,” said Kincaid, and Deveney gave him a quick nod of confirmation.

“My pearls. And the earrings Alastair gave me on my birthday … he had them specially made.” Claire sank back against the sofa cushion and closed her eyes.

“It sounds as if they must have been quite valuable,” said Gemma.

When Claire didn’t stir, Lucy glanced at her, then answered, “I suppose they were. I don’t know, really.” She pulled her hand free of her mother’s and held it out in a pleading gesture. “Please, Superintendent,” she said, and at the distress in her voice the dog began to bark, scrabbling against the door with his claws.

“Do shut him up, Lucy,” said Claire, but her voice was listless, and she didn’t move or open her eyes.

Lucy sprang up, but even as she did so the dog’s barking faded to a whimper, then subsided altogether. She sank back to the edge of the sofa, looking in mute appeal from her mother to Kincaid.

“Only one more thing, Lucy, I promise,” he said softly, then he turned to Claire. “Mrs. Gilbert, do you have any idea why your husband came home early?”

Claire pressed her fingers to her throat and said slowly, “No. I’m sorry.”

“Do you know who he was meet—”

“Please.” Lucy stood up, shivering. She crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts and said through chattering teeth, “She’s said already. She doesn’t know.”

“It’s all right, darling,” said Claire, rousing herself. With an apparent effort, she pushed herself to the edge of her seat. “Lucy’s right, Superintendent. It’s not—it wasn’t Alastair’s habit to share details about his work. He didn’t tell me whom he intended seeing.” She stood up, then swayed. Lucy reached out to support her, and as she was the taller of the two, her arm fit easily around her mother’s shoulders.

“Please, Mummy, do stop,” she said, then she looked at Kincaid. “Let me take her upstairs now.” Her voice held more question than command, and she seemed to Kincaid very much a child playing an adult’s part.

“There must be someone you can call,” said Gemma, standing and touching Lucy’s arm. “A neighbor? A relative?”

“We don’t need anyone else. We can manage,” Lucy said a little abruptly. Then her brief bravado seemed to dissolve as she added, “What should I do about the house … and things? What if…”

Deveney answered her gently, but without patronizing her. “Please don’t worry, Miss Penmaric. I’m sure that whoever did this won’t come back. And we’ll have someone here all night, either outside or in the kitchen.” He paused for a moment, and they heard a faint whimpering. “Why don’t you take the dog upstairs with you, if it makes you feel more comfortable?” he suggested, smiling.

Lucy gave it grave consideration. “He’d like that.”

“If there’s nothing else …” Claire’s speech had begun to slur, yet in spite of her exhaustion she still maintained a semblance of graciousness.

“That’s all for tonight, Mrs. Gilbert. And Lucy. Thank you for your patience,” said Kincaid as he stood beside Deveney and Gemma, and they all watched silently as mother and daughter left the room.

When the door had swung shut, Nick Deveney shook his head and ran his fingers through the early gray streaking his hair at the temple. “I’m not sure I’d have held up as well, under the circumstances. Lucky for them, isn’t it, that they have each other?”

The scene-of-crime team was still busily at work in the kitchen, but Alastair Gilbert’s body had been removed. The drying blood had smeared in streaks and swirls, like a child’s exercise in finger paints. Excusing himself to speak to one of the SOCOs, Deveney left Kincaid and Gemma standing in the doorway.

Kincaid felt the adrenaline that had sustained him for the last few hours ebbing. Glancing at Gemma, he found her studying him. Her freckles, usually an almost imperceptible dusting against her fair skin, stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor. He suddenly felt her exhaustion as if it were his own, and the familiar, intimate awareness of her ran through him like a shock. As he lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, she started to speak, and they both froze. They had lost the ease of it, all their carefully established camaraderie had gone, and it seemed to him as if she might misconstrue even his small gesture of comfort. Awkwardly, he dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket, as if removing it from temptation.

As Deveney came back to them, Gemma abruptly excused herself and left the kitchen by the mudroom door without meeting Kincaid’s eyes again.

“Dr. Ling said she’d schedule the postmortem first thing tomorrow at Guildford Mortuary.” As he spoke, Deveney slumped against the doorframe and watched with an abstracted expression as one of the civilian techs scraped up a blood sample from the floor. “Can’t be soon enough, as far as the brass are concerned. I’ll have the plods out door-to-door at first light—” He paused, and for the first time his expression was wary as he glanced at Kincaid. “That is, if it meets with your approval.”

The chain of command when the Yard was called in to work with a regional force could be a bit tricky. Although technically Kincaid outranked Deveney, he had no wish to antagonize the local man at the outset. Nick Deveney seemed an intelligent and capable copper, Kincaid thought as he nodded assent, and he’d be more than happy to let him run his end of things without interference. “You’ll be following up on this intruder business?”

“Maybe at daylight we’ll find he’s left half-inch-deep footprints all over the garden,” Deveney said, grinning.

Kincaid snorted. “Along with a set of perfect prints on the doorknob and a previous a mile long. We should be so lucky. How early is first thing, by the way?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin.

“Sevenish, I would imagine. Kate Ling doesn’t seem to need sleep. Exists on a combination of coffee and formaldehyde fumes,” said Deveney. “But she’s good, and we were lucky to get her on the scene tonight.” As Gemma rejoined them, Deveney included her with a quick smile. “Listen, why don’t you send your driver back to London with your car. I’ve made arrangements to put you up at the local—you did come prepared to stay?” When they nodded, he continued. “Good. We’ll send someone to take you to the mortuary in the morning. And then—” He broke off as a plainclothes officer beckoned him from the mudroom door. With a sigh he pushed off from the wall. “Back in a tick.”

“I’ll see to Williams,” said Gemma a little too quickly, and left Kincaid standing alone. For a few moments he watched the technicians and the photographer, then he edged around their work area until he reached the refrigerator. Opening it, he bent over and examined the contents. Milk, juice, eggs, butter, and, tucked haphazardly onto the bottom shelf, a package of fresh pasta and a plastic container of Alfredo sauce, bearing the Sainsbury deli’s seal. Neither container had been opened.

“I found some bread and cheese. Made the ladies some sandwiches,” said a voice above his head.

Kincaid stood and turned, and still found himself looking up at the rosy-cheeked visage of Police Constable Darling. “Ah, the minder,” he murmured, then at the constable’s blank look he added more loudly, “Very thoughtful of you …” He couldn’t quite bring himself to add the surname.

“Add hunger to shock and exhaustion and they’d have been in a right state,” Darling said seriously, “and there didn’t seem to be anyone else to look after them.”

“No, you’re quite right. Usually, helpful and nosy neighbors materialize out of the woodwork in this sort of situation. Relatives too, as often as not.”

“Mrs. Gilbert said both her parents were dead,” volunteered Darling.

“Did she now?” Kincaid studied the constable for a moment, then gestured towards the hall door. “Here, let’s have a word where it’s a bit quieter.” When they reached the relative calm of the passageway, he continued. “You sat with Mrs. Gilbert and her daughter for quite some time, didn’t you?”

“Several hours, I’d say, in between the chief inspector’s comings and goings.”

A lamp on the telephone table lit Darling’s face from below, revealing a few lines on his brow and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. Perhaps he was not as young as Kincaid had first thought. “You seem to have taken this in your stride,” Kincaid said, his curiosity piqued by the man’s self-possession.

“I grew up on a farm, sir. I’ve seen death often enough.” He regarded Kincaid for a moment, then blinked and sighed. “But there is something about this one. It’s not just Commander Gilbert being a senior officer and all. Or the mess, exactly.” Kincaid raised an eyebrow and Darling went on, hesitantly. “It’s just that it all seems so … inappropriate.” He shook his head. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Kincaid answered. Not that
appropriate
was a word he’d be likely to apply to any murder, but something about this one struck a distinctly jarring note. Violence had no place in such an ordered and well-kept life. “Did Mrs. Gilbert and Lucy talk to each other while you were with them?” he asked.

Darling settled his broad shoulders against the wall and focused on a point beyond Kincaid’s head for a moment before replying. “Now that you mention it, I can’t say that they did. Or only a word or two. But they both talked to me. I offered to ring someone for them, but Mrs. Gilbert said no, they’d be all right on their own. She did say something about having to tell the commander’s mother, but it seems she’s in a nursing home and Mrs. Gilbert thought it best to wait until tomorrow. Today, that is,” he added, glancing at his watch, and Kincaid heard the beginnings of fatigue in his voice.

“I won’t keep you, Constable.” Kincaid smiled. “And I can’t speak for your guv’nor, but I’m about ready to salvage what little sleep I can from this night.”

Late as the hour was, a few lights still burned in the pub. Deveney rapped sharply on the glass pane of the door, and in a moment a shadowy form slid back the bolts.

“Come in, come in,” the man said as he opened the door. “Take the chill off. I’m Brian Genovase, by the way,” he added, holding out a hand to Kincaid and Gemma in turn as they crowded in behind Deveney.

The pub was surprisingly small. They had entered directly into the right-hand alcove, where a handful of tables surrounded a stone hearth. To their left the length of the bar occupied the pub’s center, and beyond that a few more tables were grouped to make up the dining area.

“It’s kind of you to wait up, Brian,” Deveney said as he went to the hearth and stood rubbing his hands above the still-glowing embers.

“Couldn’t sleep. Not with wondering what was going on up there.” Genovase tilted his head towards the Gilberts’. “The whole village is buzzing, but no one quite had the nerve to brave the cordon and bring back a report. I gave it a try, but the constable on the gate persuaded me otherwise.” As he spoke he slipped behind the bar, and Kincaid saw him more clearly. A large man with dark hair going gray and the beginnings of a belly, he had a pleasant face and quick smile. “You’ll need something to warm you up from the inside,” he said, pulling a bottle of Glenfiddich from the shelf, “and while you’re at it you can tell me all that’s fit to print. So to speak.” His flashed a grin at them and favored Gemma with a wink.

They’d followed him to the bar, unresisting as lemmings drawn towards the cliff. As Genovase tilted the bottle over the fourth glass, Gemma suddenly put out a restraining hand. “No, thank you, but I don’t think I can manage it. I’m just about out on my feet. If you’ll just tell me where to put my things—”

“I’ll show you,” Genovase said, putting down the bottle and wiping his hands on a towel.

“No, please, I’m sure I can manage,” Gemma said firmly, shaking her head. “You’ve put yourself out enough as it is.”

Shrugging good-naturedly, Genovase gave the appearance of recognizing a stubborn set of mind when he saw it. “Round the bar, up the stairs, down the corridor, last door on the right.”

“Thanks. Good night, then.” Focusing on the empty space between Kincaid and Deveney, she added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

A dozen excuses to call her back, to go up with her, froze on the tip of Kincaid’s tongue. Anything he did would make them both look foolish and might arouse the very speculation they couldn’t afford, so he sat on in miserable, silent frustration until she disappeared through the door at the far end of the bar. Deveney, too, had watched her, and seemed to have trouble drawing his gaze from the empty doorway.

BOOK: Mourn Not Your Dead
9.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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