Mourn Not Your Dead (6 page)

“Interior design. The shop’s in Shere—it’s called Kitchen Concepts, but kitchens aren’t all we do.” Claire glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s just getting on for nine o’clock—Malcolm won’t have missed me yet.” The smooth fall of her fair hair caught the light as she shook her head, and when she spoke her voice wavered for the first time. “Telling Gwen was all I could think of from the time I woke this morning, then once I’d done that … I feel such a ninny—” She broke off suddenly and laughed. “When have you heard that expression? My mother used to say that.” Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she sniffed.

Will had taken advantage of Claire’s retreat to the window to rise and explore the room. He’d wandered over to a dresser that stood against the back wall and now idly rearranged a collection of seashells. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself,” he said, turning to Claire. “You’ve had a dreadful shock and you can’t expect to go on as if nothing had happened.”

“Those are Lucy’s.” Coming to stand beside him, Claire picked up a small green-and-red-speckled shell and turned it in her hands. “She had a book about the seaside she loved as a child, and she’s collected shells ever since. This one’s called Christmas. Apt, isn’t it?” She replaced the shell, aligning it carefully, then gave an odd little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “I keep thinking that Alastair would expect me to cope, and then I remember …” Her words trailed off and she stood for a moment, staring at the shells, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Then, seeming to gather herself with an effort, she turned to them and smiled. “I’d better ring Malcolm as soon as possible. The shop opens at half-past and I’d not want him to hear it from someone else.”

Gemma gave in gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she said as she tucked her notebook into her bag and stood. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to get on with things.” The rote phrases came easily, while underneath she wondered furiously where in hell Kincaid had got to and what he could have been doing poking about in the garden all this time. Claire came with them to the door, and as Gemma stepped into the hall Will stopped and murmured something to her that Gemma didn’t quite catch.

The fingerprint technician had packed up his equipment and gone, leaving only his dust to mar the impression that normal life in the Gilbert household would resume at any time. The light came more strongly through the bay window, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Gemma went to the window and looked out into the garden—there was no sign of Kincaid.

“What’s next?” asked Will as he came in from the hall. “Where’s our super got himself off to?”

Gemma thanked whatever guardian angel made her bite her lip rather than venting her bad temper, because just at that moment Kincaid came in through the mudroom door and smiled broadly at them both. “Waiting for me? Sorry. I got a bit carried away in the garden shed.” He wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead and brushed ineffectually at the cobwebs on his jacket. “How did you—”

“Was the dog giving you a hand?” interrupted Gemma. As soon as the words left her mouth she heard their shrewishness and would have called them back if she could. Flushing with shame, she drew a breath to explain, apologize, and then she saw that in his left hand he held a hammer.

The hall door flew open and Claire Gilbert came in as if propelled, her cheeks pink-stained. “Malcolm says they’ve been round to the shop already,” she said breathlessly, looking from one of them to the other in appeal. “People saying things and reporters. They’re coming here. The reporters are coming here—” Her gaze fixed on Kincaid, the quick color drained from her face and she crumpled upon the white tiles.

For a large man, Will Darling moved with surprising swiftness. He managed to reach Claire before her head made contact with the floor, and now knelt beside her, supporting her head and shoulders against his knees. As Gemma and Kincaid hovered over them anxiously, her eyelids fluttered open and she moved her head restlessly. “I’m sorry,” she said as she focused on their faces. “I’m sorry. I can’t think what happened.”

She struggled to sit up, but Will restrained her gently. “Keep your head down a bit longer. Just relax, now. Still feel woozy?” When she shook her head, he raised her a few inches. “We’ll do it a little at a time,” he continued as he eased her into a sitting position and then into one of the breakfast area chairs.

“I’m so sorry,” Claire said once more. “How dreadfully silly of me.” She rubbed at her face with trembling hands, and although some color had returned to her cheeks, she remained unnaturally pale.

Kincaid pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing her. “I didn’t frighten you with that, did I?” he asked, gesturing towards the hammer which he’d placed carefully on the nearby countertop. He’d rubbed absently at the cobwebs in his hair, and now a chestnut lock fell in a comma on his forehead. With one eyebrow raised in concern, he looked deceptively, dangerously innocent, and Gemma found herself
feeling sorry for Claire Gilbert. “It’s only the old hammer from your garden shed. A bit the worse from neglect, I’m afraid,” he added with a rueful smile, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket again.

“You don’t think … that’s what Alastair …” Claire shivered and hugged herself.

“From the layer of dust I’d say it had been months since anyone touched that hammer, but we’ll need to run some tests just to be sure.”

Claire closed her eyes and took a breath, exhaling slowly. Tears began to slip beneath her closed lids as she spoke. “It did frighten me. I don’t know why. Last night they asked me over and over if I knew what might have been used, if there was anything missing, but I couldn’t think. The garden shed never even occurred to me. …”

Having seen her maintain her control when almost incoherent with shock and exhaustion, Gemma felt surprised at Claire’s distress, yet thought she understood. Even though she had dealt with the bloody aftermath, Claire hadn’t wanted to imagine what had happened to her husband. Her mind had avoided it until she confronted a physical reminder. Funny how the mind played tricks on you. “Mrs. Gilbert,” Gemma began, wanting to offer some comfort, “don’t—”

“Please don’t keep on calling me that,” said Claire with sudden vehemence. “My name is Claire, for God’s sake.” Then she covered her face with her hands, muffling small hiccuping sobs.

With a warning shake of his head, Will mouthed, “Let her cry.” He went to the fridge, and after a moment’s rummaging, retrieved a loaf of bread, butter, and marmalade. Popping two slices in the toaster, he assembled plate and cutlery, putting things together so efficiently that by the time Claire’s tears had subsided, her belated breakfast was ready.

“You barely touched your supper last night,” he said accusingly. “And I bet you’ve had nothing but tea this morning.”
Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “You can’t go on this way and expect to cope, now can you?” As he spoke he spread the butter and marmalade, then handed Claire a slice of toast.

Obediently, she took a small bite. Will sat beside her, watching with such concentration that Gemma could almost hear him urging Claire to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.

After a moment, Kincaid caught Gemma’s eye and motioned towards the garden. She followed a pace behind him through the narrow mudroom, careful not to bump against him, determined not to notice the faint smell of his soap, his aftershave, his skin. But she couldn’t help seeing that his hair needed cutting—he’d forgotten, as he often did, and it was beginning to creep over the edge of his collar in the back.

A wave of irrational anger swept through her, as if those wayward hairs had deliberately meant to offend her. When they reached the garden, she pounced on the first unrelated grievance that came to mind. “Did you have to upset Claire Gilbert like that? She’s been through enough as it is, and the least we can do is—”

“The least we can do is try to find out who killed her husband,” he interrupted sharply. “And that means covering every possibility, however unlikely. And how was I supposed to know that the sight of the garden shed hammer would send her into a dead faint?” he added, sounding aggrieved. “Either that or my face needs an overhaul.” He tried on a smile, but when she merely scowled back at him he said crossly, “What the hell is the matter with you, Gemma?”

For a moment they stared at each other. She wondered how he could ask such a stupid question, then realized she didn’t know the answer. All she could sort from the jumble of her feelings was that she wanted her confusion to go away, her world to right itself again. She wanted things to be as they were, safe and familiar, but she didn’t know how to make it so.

She turned away and walked across the grass to the dog’s
run. Lewis wagged his tail in happy greeting, and she touched his nose through the wire mesh.

Kincaid’s voice came from behind her, neutral now. “And have you forgotten that the spouse is always the most likely suspect?”

“There’s no evidence,” Gemma said, hooking her fingers through the fence. “And besides, she has an alibi.”

“Too true, I’m afraid. Who’s this Malcolm fellow Claire mentioned, by the way?” When she’d told him, he considered for a moment, then said, “We’d best divide up the labor for the rest of the day. You and Will go over her tracks in Guildford. I’ll wait here for Deveney, then perhaps we’ll have a word with Malcolm Reid before we tackle the village.” He waited, and when she didn’t answer, didn’t turn, he said, “We’ll keep a PC on the gate until the furore dies down, so Claire won’t have to deal with the press unless she goes out. I hope that puts your mind at rest,” he added as he walked away, and he didn’t quite manage to suppress the sarcasm.

Buckled into the passenger seat of Will’s car, Gemma fumed silently. Who the hell did Duncan Kincaid think he was, ordering her about like some raw recruit? He hadn’t discussed it with her, hadn’t asked her opinion, and when a small voice in her head suggested that perhaps she hadn’t given him the opportunity, she said aloud, “Shut up.”

“Sorry?” said Will, taking his eyes off the curve of the road to give her a startled glance.

“Not you, Will. I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”

“Not a very pleasant conversation you were having,” he said, sounding amused. “Want to add a third party?”

“It seems to me you take on enough without adding my troubles,” Gemma answered in an attempt to change the subject. “How do you do it, Will? How can you stay objective when you seem to feel such empathy for the people involved?” She hadn’t meant to speak so plainly, but something about him eased the
normal safeguards off her tongue. Hoping he hadn’t taken offense, she glanced at him, but he met her eyes and smiled.

“I have no trouble remaining objective when I’m presented with evidence of wrongdoing. But until then I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat people with as much decency and consideration as possible, especially when they’ve been through an experience as difficult as Claire Gilbert’s and her daughter’s.” He looked at her again and added, “You’ve brought out my upbringing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. My mum and dad were staunch supporters of the Golden Rule, though people don’t set much stock by it nowadays.”

He kept his attention on the road after that, for they had reached the A25 and the morning traffic was heavy.

Gemma watched him curiously. She didn’t often hear men talk willingly of their parents. Rob had been ashamed of his—hardworking tradespeople with unpolished accents—and she’d been furious with him when she’d heard him tell someone once that they were dead. “Will… earlier you said the cathedral always
had
special significance, and just then you said your parents
were
… are your parents dead, then?”

Will coaxed the car around a grumbling farm lorry before answering. “Two years ago, Christmastime.”

“An accident?”

“They were ill,” he said. Then with a grin he added, “Tell me about your family, Gemma. I couldn’t help noticing the set of plastic keys in your handbag.”

“Very professional of me, isn’t it? But if I don’t keep them handy Toby loses the real thing,” and before she knew it she had launched into a detailed account of Toby’s latest escapades.

The snapshot showed Claire and Lucy together, arms round one another, laughing into the camera, against a background that looked like the pier at Brighton. Gemma had borrowed it from a frame on the dresser in the conservatory. The spotty-faced clerk at Waterstones studied it, then tossed his hair back
and looked at Gemma and Will with bright, intelligent eyes. “Nice bird. Bought a copy of
Jude the Obscure
. Wasn’t inclined to stay for a chat, though.”

“You do mean the daughter?” said Gemma a bit impatiently.

“The younger one, yeah. Though the other’s not bad, either,” he added with another considering glance at the photo.

“And you’re sure you didn’t see them both?” Gemma fought the urge to snatch the photo back, sure that he was smudging it with his fingerprints.

He tilted his head and eyed them speculatively. “Can’t swear to it, can I? It was a fairly busy afternoon, and I might not have even remembered her”—he tapped the paper Lucy—“if she hadn’t come to the register.” With an exaggerated little sigh of regret he returned the photo to Gemma.

Will, leafing idly through a volume on the sale table beside the register, looked up. “What time was it?”

For a moment the boy dropped his pose as he thought. “After four, because that’s when I take my break, and I remember I’d had it already. Nearer than that I can’t say.”

“Thanks,” said Gemma, making an effort to sound as if she meant it, and Will gave him a card with the usual instructions to call them if he remembered anything else.

“Prat,” said Gemma under her breath as they left the store.

“You’re not feeling very charitable this morning, are you?” Will asked as they dodged shoppers laden with bags and parcels. “Your boy will be just like that in a few years.”

Recognizing the tease, Gemma said, “God forbid,” and smiled. “He’d better not be. I hate men who
leer
. And boys.”