Mourn Not Your Dead (4 page)

Genovase raised his glass. “Cheers. This is on the house, Nick, so you’ll not get me for breaking the licensing laws, but I expect to be paid in kind.”

“Fair enough,” Deveney agreed. Then he said, “Ah, that’ll do nicely,” as the first sip of whiskey went down. “You heard that someone did for Commander Gilbert, I take it?”

Genovase nodded. “But Claire and Lucy—they’re all right, aren’t they?”

“Shocked, but fine other than that. They found the body.”

Relief and distress battling in his face, Genovase said, “Oh, lord,” and rubbed at an invisible spot on the bar with his towel. “Was it bad? What—?” The small negative movement of Deveney’s head stopped him. “Out of bounds? Sorry.”

“We won’t be releasing full details for a bit,” said Deveney with practiced diplomacy.

It would be difficult to keep anything under wraps for long in a village this size, Kincaid knew, but they’d try until the house-to-house queries were finished, just in case someone let slip they knew something they shouldn’t.

“You were friendly with the Gilberts?” Deveney asked Genovase, sliding forwards on his stool so that he could rest his elbows on the bar.

“It’s a small village, Nick. You know how it is. Claire and Lucy are well liked.”

Kincaid took another sip of his drink and said casually, “And the commander wasn’t?”

Brian Genovase looked wary for the first time. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” Kincaid smiled at him. “But is it true?”

After a moment’s consideration, Genovase said, “Let me put it this way—Alastair Gilbert didn’t go out of his way to make himself popular around here. Not one of the beard and wellie brigade, not by a long chalk.”

“Any particular reason?” Kincaid asked. Gilbert hadn’t gone out of his way to make himself popular with his officers, either,
not if Kincaid’s experience with him was any indication. He had seemed, in fact, to enjoy making the most of his superiority.

“Not really. An accumulation of small misunderstandings, amplified by the gossip mill. You know how it is,” he said again, “place like this, things get blown out of proportion sometimes.” Obviously unwilling to say more, Genovase finished his drink in one swallow and set his glass down.

Deveney followed suit and sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this, I can tell you that. Better you than me in the hot seat, mate,” he added, glancing at Kincaid. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks,” Kincaid said with considerable irony. He finished his own drink more slowly, finding comfort in the burn as it went down, then stood and retrieved his coat and bag. “That’s it for me, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch and swore. “Hardly worth going to bed.”

“You’re last on the left, Mr. Kincaid,” said Genovase. “And I’ll have a bit of breakfast for you in the morning.”

Kincaid had said his thanks to both and turned to go when Deveney touched him on the arm and said quietly, “Your sergeant—Gemma. She’s not married, I take it?”

It was a moment before Kincaid found his tongue, managed to say reasonably enough, “No. No, she’s not.”

“Is she … um, unattached, then?”

“That,” said Kincaid through clenched teeth, “is something you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

The hurt had been evident on his face. Gemma hadn’t expected it, and it had almost caused her to lose her resolve. During the days she’d spent hiding at her sister’s, watching Toby play in the park with his cousins and thinking furiously of what she should do, she’d managed to convince herself that he would be glad to ignore what had happened, relieved, even grateful. So she had prepared her little speech, giving him a graceful out that he would accept with a slightly embarrassed grin, and rehearsed it so often in her mind she could almost hear him saying, “Of course, you’re absolutely right, Gemma. We’ll just go on as before, shall we?”

Experience should have taught her that Duncan Kincaid never quite behaved as expected. Shivering a little in the cold room, she turned back the bed and laid out her nightdress. She fumbled in her carryall until she found the zip bag containing her toothbrush and cleanser and turned resolutely towards the door.

Then suddenly, limply, she sat down on the edge of the bed. How could she have been foolish enough, in the days that had passed like aeons since the night at his flat, to think she could grant herself an instant immunity to his physical presence? Memory had flooded back with a jolt like a boxer’s punch the moment she saw him, leaving her breathless and shaken. It had been all she could do to hold on to her wavering defenses,
and now she couldn’t bear the thought of bumping into him in the corridor outside her room. She had no armor left—a kind word, a gentle touch, and she would be undone.

But she must get to bed, or she would feel even less capable of dealing with things in the morning. So she listened, alert for the creak of a tread on the stairs or the sound of a door opening. Reassured by the silence, she slipped from her room and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom.

When she emerged a few minutes later, the door to the room opposite the bathroom was closing. She stopped, heart thumping, chiding herself for being absurd, until the glimpse before the door swung shut assured her that the person inside was not Kincaid. Frowning, she tried to fit together pieces of the brief image—curling fair hair falling over a surprisingly masculine pair of shoulders. She shrugged and returned to her room, letting herself in with a grateful sigh.

And if, once she had put on her warm nightdress and tucked herself under the puffy duvet, there was a kernel of disappointment hidden in the relief, she buried it deeper still.

The sight of the Royal Surrey County Hospital did nothing to brighten the atmosphere in the small car. Gemma studied the sprawl of muddy-brown brick, wondering why it had not occurred to the architects that ill people might need a bit of cheering up.

“I know,” said Will Darling, as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s bloody institutionally awful. It’s a good hospital, though. They combined several smaller facilities when they built this one, and it offers just about every sort of care you could imagine.”

Darling had arrived at the pub just as Gemma and Kincaid had finished their breakfasts. They had eaten in uncomfortable silence, served by an equally subdued Brian Genovase. “Not much of a morning person,” he’d said with a shadow of last night’s smile. “Goes with the territory.” The breakfast had been good, though—the man could still cook even when his social
skills were not at their best—and Gemma had forced herself to eat, knowing she’d need the sustenance to get through the day.

“The chief inspector should have been here before us,” said Darling, scanning the parked cars as he pulled the car around to the back of the hospital and stopped it in a space near the mortuary doors. “I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid stretched as he emerged from the cramped backseat. “At least we get to enjoy the view while we wait, unlike the clientele.” He nodded towards the unremarkable glass doors.

Gemma slid from the car and moved a few steps away, considering the prospect. Perhaps if you were inside the building looking out, it wasn’t such a bad place after all. The hospital was high on the hill rising to the west of Guildford, and below, the red-bricked town hugged the curve of the River Wey. Pockets of mist still hovered over the valley, muting trees ablaze with autumn. To the north, higher still, the tower of the cathedral rose against a flat gray sky.

“It’s a new cathedral, did you know that?” asked Darling, coming to stand beside her. “Begun during the war and consecrated in nineteen sixty-one. You don’t often have a chance to see a cathedral built in our lifetime.” Glancing at Gemma, he amended with a smile, “Well, perhaps not yours. But it’s lovely, all the same, and well worth a visit.”

“You sound very proud of it,” said Gemma. “Have you always lived here?” Then she added, with the frankness he seemed to inspire, “And you can’t be old enough to have seen it built, either.”

Chuckling, he said, “Got me to rights, there. I was born on consecration day, as a matter of fact. May seventeenth, nineteen sixty-one. So the cathedral always had a special significance for us—” He broke off as a car pulled up beside theirs. “Here’s the chief, now.”

Suddenly aware that Kincaid had been standing quietly against the car, listening to their conversation, Gemma flushed with embarrassment and turned away.

The few hours sleep seemed to have rejuvenated Nick Deveney. He hopped out of the battered Vauxhall and came over to them with a quick apology. “Sorry about that. I live south of here, in Godalming, and there was a bit of a holdup on the Guildford road.” His breath formed a cloud of condensation as he rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Heater’s out in the bloody car.” He gestured towards the doors. “Shall we see what Dr. Ling has in store for us this morning?” Smiling at Gemma, he added, “Not to mention getting warm.”

They trailed Deveney through the maze of identical white-tiled corridors, passing no one, until they reached another set of double doors. A very official-looking sign above them read
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—RING BELL FOR ADMITTANCE,
but the doors stood slightly ajar and Deveney pushed on through them. A faint smell of formalin tickled Gemma’s nose, and then she heard the murmur of a voice. Following the sound to the autopsy room, they found Kate Ling sitting on a stool with a clipboard on her lap, drinking coffee from a large thermal mug. “Sorry, my assistant’s out with flu, and I couldn’t be bothered manning the portals. And it’s not as if anyone’s dying to get in here,” she added, looking at Deveney as if waiting for his groan.

Deveney shook his head in mock amazement, then turned to the others, who had squeezed into the small room behind him, none of them venturing too close to the white-sheeted form on the table. “Did you know that all pathologists have to undergo a special initiation into the Order of Bad Puns? Won’t let ’em practice without it. The doc here is a Grand Master and loves to show off.” He and Kate Ling grinned at each other, completing what was obviously a practiced and much-enjoyed routine.

“Just finishing up my notes on the external,” Ling said, scribbling a few more words, then setting her pad aside.

“Anything interesting?” Deveney asked. He studied the pad as if he might decipher it upside down, although Gemma
thought it unlikely that the doctor’s scrawl was legible even right-side-up.

“Lividity corresponds perfectly with the position of the body, so I’d say he wasn’t moved. Of course, we expected that from the blood spatter, but they pay me to be thorough.” She gave them a wry smile over the rim of her mug as she drank, then continued, “So if we calculate the drop in body temperature using the temperature of the Gilberts’ kitchen, I’d say he was killed between six and seven o’clock.” Swiveling around towards the countertop behind her, Ling exchanged her coffee for a new pair of latex gloves. As she pulled them on, she added thoughtfully, “One odd thing, though. There were some tiny rips in the shoulders of his shirt. Not large enough that I could hazard a guess as to what made them or why.” Sliding from the stool, she checked the voice-activated mike hanging over the autopsy table, then lifted the lid from the stainless-steel instrument box on a nearby rolling trolley. “All set, then? You’ll need to gown and glove.” She regarded them quizzically. “You lot are jammed in here like sardines in a can. I’ll need some elbow room.”

Will Darling touched Gemma on the shoulder. “I can take a hint when I hear it. Come on, Gemma, we’ll wait in the corridor. Let them have all the fun.”

Having appropriated two folding chairs from a nearby room, Will set them up just outside the postmortem room door and left Gemma for a moment. “I’ll find us a cuppa,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.

Gemma sat, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall. She felt a little resentful of having been so easily excluded, yet she was glad not to have to summon the resources watching an autopsy always required. With half her mind she listened to the murmured voices and the clink of instruments, imagining the methodical exploration of Alastair Gilbert’s body, while with the other half she thought about Will Darling.

He had an easy assurance not consistent with his rank, yet
there was no aggressiveness to it, and no sense of the desire to impress one’s superiors that she so often saw and knew she’d been guilty of herself. And there was something comfortable about him, maybe even comforting—something more than the ease provided by his friendly, slightly snub-nosed face, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She opened her eyes as he reappeared beside her, holding two steaming polystyrene cups. Expecting institutional sludge, she tasted the tea, then looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you get this? It’s actually decent.”

“My secret,” Will answered as he settled himself beside her.

Kate Ling’s voice came clearly through the open door. “Of course, we were fairly certain from the blood velocity and external examination of the head wounds that we were looking at blunt force trauma, but let’s see what things look like when we get under the scalp.”

In the silence that followed, Gemma cradled the warm cup in her hands, taking an occasional sip of tea. She knew that Dr. Ling would be peeling Gilbert’s scalp from his skull, folding it forwards over his face like a grotesque mask in reverse, but it seemed distant, not logically connected to the feel of the chair’s cold metal against her back and thighs or the faint shapes she fancied she saw in the distempered wall opposite.

Her eyelids drooped and she blinked, fighting the fuzzy blanket stealing over her. But her lethargy had the overwhelming quality born of exhaustion and emotional stress, and Dr. Ling’s words floated disjointedly in and out of a haze.

“… blow just behind the right ear … several overlapping blows nearer the crown … all slightly to the right … never be sure—some lefties perform gross motor skills with their right hand.”

Gemma’s eyes flew open as she felt Will’s fingers against her hand. “Sorry,” he said softly. “You were about to tip your cup.”