Mourn Not Your Dead (9 page)

“And that was true of Gilbert, too? He certainly fit the classic commuter profile,” Kincaid said as they came around a curve and gaps in the trees revealed a sweeping view across the North Downs.

“Oh, definitely, I’d say, and he was treated with a mixture of disdain and flattery. I mean, after all, you don’t really want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, do you? You just don’t want it to think it can sit at your table.”

Kincaid gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose not. Do you think Gilbert was aware that he wasn’t accepted, probably would never be accepted? Did it matter to him?”

“I didn’t really know him personally, just spoke with him a few times at police functions.” Downshifting, Deveney added, “I only know Brian Genovase because we played in the same over-the-hill rugby league.” The road had descended quickly from the hills, and now became a narrow street with picture-postcard cottages either side. “Holmbury St. Mary is quite unspoilt, while this village is competing for the ‘prettiest village in England’ title. That’s the Tillingbourne River,” he added as they crossed a clear stream, “star of many a postcard.”

“It’s not too bad, surely,” Kincaid said as Deveney deftly parked against the curb. He’d seen a rather flowery tea shop but nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary.

“No, but I’m afraid the tarting up is inevitable.”

“Cynic.” Kincaid followed Deveney out of the car, flexing
toes that had suffered from the failure of the Vauxhall’s heating system.

Laughing, Deveney agreed, then added, “I’m too young to sound like such an old codger. Must be divorce has a tendency to sour a man’s outlook. Now this shop is certainly not a bad thing”—he gestured at a sign reading
KITCHEN CONCEPTS
—“and it wouldn’t be possible without commuters like Alastair Gilbert. It would never occur to the local farmers to have their kitchens refitted in Euro-chic.”

The window showed them colorful expanses of tile interspersed with gleaming copper fittings. Kincaid, who had refitted the kitchen in his Hampstead flat using mostly do-it-yourself materials, opened the door with some anticipation. A wellie-clad woman holding carrier bags stood chatting with a man near a display of cabinet fronts, but their conversation came to an awkward halt as Kincaid and Deveney entered.

After a moment the woman said, “Well, I’ll be off then. Cheerio, Malcolm.” She gave them a bright, interested glance as she squeezed out the door, holding her shopping to her chest like a bulging shield. What was the use of being out of uniform, Kincaid often wondered, when you might as well be wearing a sign on your chest that said
POLICE?

Deveney had his warrant card out, and introduced himself and Kincaid as Malcolm Reid came forwards to greet them. Kincaid was happy to play second fiddle for a bit, as it gave him a chance to observe Claire Gilbert’s employer. Tall, with short silvery-blond hair and evenly tanned skin that spoke of a recent holiday in a warmer clime, Reid spoke in a soft, unaccented voice. “You’ve come about Alastair Gilbert? It’s absolutely dreadful. Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re attempting to find out, Mr. Reid,” said Deveney, “and we’d appreciate any help you can give us. Did you know Commander Gilbert personally?”

Reid put his hands in his pockets before answering. He wore good quality trousers, Kincaid noticed, and along with
the gray pullover and discreet navy tie they created just the impression needed for Reid’s position—not too casual for the owner of a successful business, not too formal for a small village. “Well, of course I’d met him. Claire had Val—that’s my wife, Valerie—and me to dinner once or twice, but I can’t say that I knew him well. We didn’t have much in common.” He gestured at the showroom, his expression slightly amused.

“But surely Gilbert was interested in his wife’s career?” said Kincaid.

“Look, let’s have a seat, shall we?” Reid led them to a desk at the rear of the showroom and waved them into two comfortable-looking visitors’ chairs before seating himself. “That’s not an easy question.” He picked up a pencil and watched it meditatively while he rolled it between his fingers, then looked up at them. “If you want an honest answer, I’d say he only tolerated Claire’s job as long as it didn’t interfere with his social schedule or his comforts. Do you know how Claire came to work for me?” He put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. “She came to me as a client, when Alastair finally gave her permission to decorate their kitchen. The house is Victorian, you know, and what little had been done to it had been done badly, as is so often the case. Claire had been nagging him for years, and I think he only gave in when their entertaining reached such a scale that it embarrassed him for guests to see the kitchen.”

For a man who professed not to know Gilbert well, Reid had certainly managed to build up an active dislike of him, Kincaid thought as he nodded encouragingly.

“Claire hadn’t any design training,” continued Reid, “but she had natural talent, which is even better in my book. When we started her kitchen she was brimming with imaginative
and
workable ideas—they don’t always go together, you see—and when she came to the shop she’d help other customers, too.”

“And you didn’t mind?” Deveney asked a bit skeptically.

Reid shook his head. “Her enthusiasm was contagious.
And the customers liked her ideas, which increased my sales. She’s very good, though you’d never know it by looking at their house.”

“What’s wrong with their house?” Deveney scratched his head in bewilderment—whether real or feigned Kincaid couldn’t guess.

“Too stuffily traditional for my taste, but Alastair kept a tight rein on things and that’s what he liked. It was his idea of middle-class respectability.”

Reid’s judgment certainly seemed to fit Gilbert as Kincaid had known him. As an instructor he had been unimaginative, insisting on rules where flexibility might have been more productive, attached to traditions simply because they were traditions. His curiosity aroused, he asked Reid, “Do you know anything about Gilbert’s background?”

“I believe his father managed a dairy farm near Dorking, and Gilbert attended the local grammar school.”

“So the native came back,” mused Kincaid. “I find that rather surprising. But then, his mother’s in a home nearby, isn’t she?” he asked, leaning forwards to remove a business card from a holder on Reid’s desk. The shop’s name stood out artfully, dark green print against a cream background, with phone number and address in a smaller typeface. Kincaid slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“The Leaves, just on the outskirts of Dorking. Claire visits her several times a week.”

“Tell us about Mrs. Gilbert’s schedule yesterday, if you don’t mind, Mr. Reid.” Deveney’s tone made it plain that this was a command and only framed as a request for politeness’ sake.

Sitting forwards again, Reid touched the pencil he’d put down on the blotter. Mimicking Deveney, he asked, “Why should I, if you don’t mind me asking? Surely you can’t think Claire had anything to do with Gilbert’s death?” He sounded genuinely shocked.

“It’s a normal part of our inquiries,” soothed Deveney.
“You should know that from watching the telly, Mr. Reid. We have to ask about everyone who was closely connected with Commander Gilbert.”

Reid crossed his arms and regarded them steadily for a moment, as if he might refuse, then he sighed and said, “Well, I still don’t like it, but I can’t see any harm in it because there was nothing out of the ordinary. Claire had an appointment in the morning. I was in the shop, helping customers, dealing with some outstanding orders for materials, then I had an afternoon appointment myself. Claire left before I’d got back, a bit after four. She and Lucy had planned some shopping, I believe.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We don’t run a military ship around here, as you might have gathered.”

“And when did you find out that Gilbert was dead?” asked Kincaid, remembering Claire Gilbert’s words before she’d fainted.

“Some of the locals were waiting when I unlocked the shop door this morning. They’d heard it from the postman, who’d heard it from the newsagent. ‘Somebody did for Alastair Gilbert last night—bashed his head in and left him in a pool of his own blood,’ were the exact words, I believe,” he added with a grimace.

Deveney thanked him, and they took their leave, Kincaid with a backward glance at the stainless-steel arch of the German mixer-tap he hadn’t been able to afford for his own kitchen sink.

“Terrific,” Deveney said with weary resignation as they got into the car. “So much for keeping the cause of death under our hats until we’ve interviewed the villagers. That’s life in the country for you.”

The last customer, a garrulous old woman named Simpson, stood chatting long after she’d paid for her meager purchases. Madeleine Wade, who included proprietorship of the village
shop among her many ventures, listened absently to the latest tabloid scandal while she closed out the till. All the while she thought longingly of curling up in her snug upstairs flat with a glass of wine and the
Financial Times
.

The “pink paper,” as she always thought of it, was her secret vice and the last holdover from her former life. She read it every day, tracking her investments, then tucked it away out of sight of her clients—no point in disillusioning the dears.

Mrs. Simpson, having received no more encouragement than the occasional nod, finally sputtered to a halt, and Madeleine saw her out with relief. Over the years she’d learned to be more comfortable with people, forced herself to develop an armor impervious to all but the most open revulsion, but it was only when alone that she felt truly at peace. It became her solace, her reward at the end of the day, and she anticipated it with the same eagerness an alcoholic awaits his first drink.

She saw him as she finished locking the door. Geoff Genovase stood half in the shadow of the White Hart next door, hands in his pockets, waiting. When he moved, the light from the street lamp glittered on his fair hair.

His fear reached her then. Palpable and intense, it enveloped him like a dense cloud.

She’d sensed it before, a dim undercurrent—sensed also the careful control that kept it in check. What had caused this explosion of terror? Madeleine hesitated, her desire to help warring with her fatigue and her need for solitude, then felt a pang of shame. She’d come to this village after a lifetime of running away, intending to offer whatever aid her talents might provide, and such selfishness must be squelched by discipline.

Whatever had triggered Geoff’s distress, he’d come to her for comfort, and she could not refuse. She stepped forwards, lifting a hand to call out to him, but he had melted into the shadows.

* * *

When a knock at Gemma’s door brought no response, Kincaid went back to his room and scribbled a note telling her he’d be in the bar and that Deveney would be meeting them for drinks and dinner. He slipped the scrap of paper under her door and waited for a moment, still hoping for a quiet word with her, but when there was no stir of movement he turned away and went slowly downstairs.

He and Nick Deveney had spent an unproductive afternoon at Guildford Police Station, reading reports and sparring with the media, and it had left the lingering taste of frustration. “A pint of Bass, please, Brian,” he said as he slid onto the only unoccupied bar stool. “A good crowd for a Thursday evening,” he added as Brian placed the pint glass on a mat.

“It’s that nasty out,” Brian answered as he drew a pint for another customer. “Always good for business.”

The rain had come on steadily with the dark, but Kincaid suspected that the pub’s popularity this evening had as much to do with exchanging gossip as sheltering from the weather. Although he had to admit that as refuges went, the atmosphere was pleasant enough. A pub never felt right empty. It needed the movement of bodies and the rise and fall of voices in order to come into its own. This was his first opportunity to judge the Moon under the proper circumstances. Swiveling around on his stool, he liked what he saw: comfortable without too much tarting up. There were velvet covers on the stools and benches, a dark-beamed ceiling, a few brasses, a few copper pieces in the dining area, flowered red-trimmed curtains shutting out the night, and the wood fire radiating warmth within.

A man in an oiled jacket squeezed in between Kincaid and the next stool, handing his glass to Brian to be refilled. He spoke without preamble, as if continuing a discussion. “Well, he may have been a right bastard, Bri, but I never thought it would have come to that.” He shook his head. “Can’t even feel safe in our own bloody beds these days.”

Brian gave a quick, involuntary glance in Kincaid’s direction,
then said noncommittally as he pulled the pint, “He wasn’t in his bed, Reggie, so I doubt we need worry about ours.” He wiped away the foam that had overflowed the glass and slid it across the bar before nodding at Kincaid and adding, “This is Superintendent Kincaid, down from London to look into things.”

The man gave Kincaid a brusque acknowledgment, muttering something that sounded like, “Our own lads do well enough,” before making his way back to his table.

Brian leaned across the bar and said earnestly to Kincaid, “Don’t mind Reggie. He’d find fault with sunshine in May.” But the buzz of conversation around Kincaid had died, and he felt himself the target of glances both interested and wary.

It was a relief when Deveney came in a few minutes later, shaking the water droplets from his rain hat before stuffing it into his overcoat pocket. Just as Kincaid stood up to greet him, the table nearest the fire emptied and they snagged it with alacrity.

When Deveney had returned from the bar with his pint, Kincaid lifted his in salute. “Cheers. You’ve just had a vote of confidence from the locals.”

“Wish I felt I deserved it.” Sighing, he rotated his shoulders and neck. “What a hell of a day. As much as I hated paperwork at school, why I ever—” His eyes widened as he looked towards the far end of the room, then he smiled. “The day just improved considerably.” Following his gaze, Kincaid saw Gemma edging her way through the crowd. “Why can’t my sergeant look like that?” Deveney complained with an air of much-practiced martyrdom. “I’ll complain to the chief constable, take it all the way to the top.” But Kincaid barely heard him. The dress was black and long-sleeved, but there any pretense of demureness ended, for the fabric clung to Gemma’s body until it stopped midway down her thighs. She seldom wore her hair loose, but tonight she had left it so, and her fair skin looked pale as cream within its copper frame.