Mourn Not Your Dead (26 page)

He raised the dregs of wine in his glass to her. “You are a witch, Madeleine. You’ve bewitched me into crying on your shoulder, and I can’t remember when I’ve inflicted that on anyone—and you’re still as enigmatic as the bloody Cheshire Cat.”

Madeleine saw him to the door, and just before closing it she reached up and touched his cheek. Using his name for the first time, she said, “Duncan. Everything will sort itself out. Be patient.”

The light narrowed to a slit, disappearing with a click as the door shut, and Kincaid found himself alone in the dark.

Brian gave him a bed with good grace, and as Kincaid carried his bag up and undressed it came to him that he hadn’t answered Madeleine’s question. What if Gemma were to
change her mind—would he make the same choice he’d made with Vic? Was he capable of putting anything before his job? Would he be willing to risk hurting her, and himself?

He fell quickly into the heavy but unrestful sleep brought about by the consumption of too much alcohol. His dreams were strange and disjointed, and when his pager started its strident beeping in the wee hours of the morning, he woke with pounding heart and a mouth like sandpaper.

He fumbled for the pager’s off switch, then squinted blearily at the LED readout. Swearing under his breath, he sat up and turned on the light. What on earth could Scotland Yard want with him this time of the night? Any call concerning a breakthrough on the Gilbert case would have come from Guildford. And what had prompted him to drink so much? He was not ordinarily given to such excess. Madeleine, he thought with a wan smile, must have a wooden leg. He retrieved his jacket from the chair back and patted the pockets for his phone, then realized he must have left it in the car. Bloody hell.

In dressing gown and slippers he made his way down the stairs to the phone in the alcove next to the bar. When the switchboard put him through to the duty sergeant at the Yard, he listened in growing dismay. When the sergeant had finished, Kincaid said, “No, don’t. I’ll take care of it myself. Right.”

Hanging up, he stood for a moment numb with shock, then made an effort to pull himself together. He looked at his watch. If he drove like all hell was after him, he could make it to London by daylight.

Kincaid pulled up in front of Gemma’s garage flat at exactly seven o’clock. Red-eyed and stubble-chinned, he climbed stiffly out of the car, dreading what he had to do.

His light tapping at the door brought Gemma, who blinked at him in sleepy confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Surrey.” Peering at him a bit more closely, she added, “You look absolutely dreadful, guv. No offense.” Yawning, she stood aside to let him in. She wore a ratty, toweling dressing gown in an unflattering maroon which made her tousled copper hair look orange by contrast.

“Toby’s still asleep,” she said softly, with a glance in the direction of his room. “I’ll make us some coffee, then you can tell me about it.”

“Gemma.” Kincaid reached out and held her shoulders as she started to turn away. “I’ve got some very bad news. Jackie Temple’s dead.”

He’d never thought to see that blank, stunned look on Gemma’s face, as if she’d just been slapped with an open palm.

“What? Jackie can’t be dead. I just saw her yes—”

“It must have happened just as she finished her beat last night. She’d checked in by radio about a quarter past ten. When she didn’t log in after her shift and they couldn’t raise her by radio, they sent a patrol out to look for her.”

“What …” Her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked like black holes against the chalk of her skin. Through the thick, nubby fabric of the dressing gown he felt her begin to tremble.

“She was shot. In the back of the head. I doubt she knew anything at all.”

“Oh, no.” At that Gemma’s face crumpled and she covered it with her hands.

Kincaid drew her to him and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. She smelled faintly of sleep and talcum powder. “Gemma, I’m so sorry.”

“But why?” she wailed into his shoulder. “Why would anybody want to hurt Jackie?”

“I don’t know, love. Susan May, her flatmate, asked that you be notified, but when the call came through to the Yard, old George happened to be on the desk and he rang me instead.”

“Susan?” Gemma pulled away from him and stepped back. “You don’t think … Surely it was just some yobbos doing a burglary … Oh, my God …” She fumbled behind her for a chair and sat down hard. “It wasn’t, was it? You don’t think it had anything to do with—”

Toby padded out of his room, looking like a chubby yellow bunny in his pajamas. “Mummy, whatsa matter?” he said sleepily, butting up against her.

Gemma gathered him into her lap and rubbed her face against his hair. “Nothing, sweetheart. Mummy just has to go to work early, after all.” She looked up at Kincaid. “You will go with me to see Susan, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

She nodded, then said, “I’ll tell you about… yesterday on the way.” Studying him for a moment, she added, “They rang you in Surrey? This morning?”

“About half past four.”

“Who’s Susan, Mummy?” asked Toby. He squirmed around
until he could straddle her knees, then made swooping motions with his arms. “Look, Duncan, I’m a airplane.”

“A friend of a friend, lovey. Nobody you know.” Gemma’s eyes filled with tears and she scrubbed at them, sniffing.

“I’ll wait outside until you’re ready,” said Kincaid, suddenly feeling that he had intruded long enough.

“No.” Gemma set Toby down and patted his bottom. “I’ll change in Toby’s room. You can play airplane with him in the meantime. Then I’m going to fix you both some breakfast.” With a critical glance at him and an attempted smile, she added, “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

A half hour later, Gemma had showered and dressed, then lent Kincaid the use of her tiny bathroom to shave and put on a clean shirt. As he sat at the half-moon table finishing off buttered toast and hot coffee, he felt considerably more human. With Toby, dressed now in corduroy overalls and little trainers, playing happily at his feet, Kincaid wished that he might be there under different circumstances.

He accompanied Gemma across the garden and was briefly introduced to Hazel, then Gemma kissed Toby good-bye and they were on their way to Notting Hill.

As they crept through the rush-hour traffic, Gemma told him haltingly about Jackie’s revelations of the previous day.

Kincaid whistled when she’d finished. “Ogilvie bent? You think Gilbert found out somehow and Ogilvie decided to shut him up?”

“And Jackie.” Gemma’s mouth was set in a straight, uncompromising line.

“Gemma, Jackie’s death probably had nothing to do with this at all. These things happen, and they are usually utterly senseless. We both know that.”

“I don’t like coincidences, and this is too much of a coincidence. We both know that, too.”

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. Don’t you
think we should stop in at Notting Hill and get the details before we talk to Susan May?”

Gemma didn’t answer for a moment, then she said, “No. I’d like to see Susan first. That’s the least I owe her.”

Glancing at her profile as he idled at a traffic light, he wished he could offer her some comfort. But despite his reassuring words, he didn’t like this coincidence, either.

He found a curbside parking spot near the flat, and as they walked up to the door he saw Gemma pause and take a breath before ringing the bell. The door swung open so quickly that Kincaid thought the woman who answered must have been standing just inside it. “Can I help you?” she said brusquely.

“I’m a friend of Jackie’s, Gemma James. Susan asked to see me.” Gemma held out her hand and the woman took it, her face breaking into a smile.

“Of course. I’m Cecily Johnson, Susan’s sister. I was just on my way out to the shops for her. Let me tell her you’re here.”

The word that came to Kincaid’s mind as they followed Cecily Johnson up the stairs was
handsome
. She was a tall woman, large-boned, with café-au-lait skin, fine dark eyes, and a wide smile. They waited on the landing for a moment while Cecily went in. Returning to them, she said, “Go right in. I’ll leave you to it.”

Susan May stood with her back to them, staring out the sitting room window at the small terrace with its bright pots of pansies and geraniums. In silhouette, she looked a more slender, willowy version of her sister, and when she turned Kincaid saw that she had the same creamy skin and dark eyes, but she didn’t quite manage a smile.

“Gemma, thanks for coming so quickly.”

Gemma took her outstretched hands and squeezed them. “Susan, I’m so—”

“I know. Please don’t say it. I haven’t quite reached the point where I can deal with condolences yet. Sit down and let
me get you some coffee.” As Gemma started to protest, she added, “It helps if I have something to do with my hands.”

After Gemma introduced Kincaid, Susan went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tray. She made inconsequential small talk while she poured, then sat gazing into her cup.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “I keep expecting her to walk in the door and say something silly, like “It was all a big joke, Suz, ha-ha.’ She liked practical jokes.” Putting down her cup, Susan stood up and began pacing, twisting her hands together. “She left her dressing gown on the floor by her bed again. I was always fussing at her to pick up things, and now it doesn’t matter. Why did I ever think it did? Can you tell me that?” She stopped as they had first seen her, her back to them, facing the terrace. “They’ve given me indefinite ‘compassionate’ leave from work. To do what? Coming home to this empty flat in the evenings will be bad enough; the thought of spending days here alone is unbearable.”

“What about your sister?” asked Gemma. “Can she stay with you for a bit?”

Susan nodded. “She’s packed her kids off to Grandma for a few days. She’ll help me go through…Jackie’s things. She … Jackie, I mean … hadn’t any family, so there’s no one else to see to things …” Susan stopped, and for a moment Kincaid thought she would lose control, but she managed to go on. “She didn’t want to be cremated. She actually worried about it, and I used to laugh at her. Do you suppose she knew … I’ll have to try to find a cemetery that will take her. Then I’m going back to work—I don’t care how callous anyone thinks me.”

She turned around and faced them. “Jackie talked about you a good bit in the last few days, Gemma. It meant a lot to her to see you again. I know there was something she was anxious to talk to you about, but I don’t know what it was—only that I heard her mumble something about a ‘bad apple where you’d least expect it.’”

“I saw her yesterday. Before her shift. She told me—”

“You saw her? How did she—what did she—” Susan swallowed and tried again. “She didn’t happen to say anything about me, did she?”

Kincaid saw Gemma hesitate, then quickly collect herself “She talked about your promotion. She was really proud of you.”

The front door opened and Cecily came in with a shopping bag full of purchases. Twisting her hands together again, Susan smiled at her sister, then said to Gemma, “You will let me know, won’t you, if you find out… anything?”

“We’ll be in touch.” Gemma stood and gave her a quick hug. Cecily let them out and they descended the stairs in silence.

By the time they reached the street, tears were streaming down Gemma’s face. “It’s not bloody fair,” she said furiously as she got into the car. “Susan should have seen her last, not me.” She slammed the door so hard the car shook. “It’s not bloody fair. Jackie shouldn’t be dead—and if it’s because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“We’re treading on very delicate ground here,” Kincaid said as he pulled into the Notting Hill Police Station car park. “We have absolutely no grounds for pursuing inquiries concerning the involvement of a senior Met officer, other than an unsubstantiated rumor. I’d suggest that we begin with discretion.” He pulled the car into an empty space, then thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I think we’ll have to disclose Jackie’s interest in the Gilbert case in order to justify our poking our noses into her murder, but I don’t know that we need go any further at this point.”

Gemma nodded, then fished a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.

“We could just say that Jackie told you she’d heard something dodgy about Gilbert, but that you don’t know what it was. Then in the meantime, let’s see if we can trace Ogilvie’s movements last night and the night of Gilbert’s murder, but
in a roundabout way. That’ll be enough to get the wind up him, if he’s dirty.”

“Chat up his secretary, why don’t you?” Gemma suggested. “She has an eye for a pretty face.”

Kincaid glanced at her, wondering if the comment was a dig or an attempt at banter, but she was examining her fingernails with great concentration. “Who was the sergeant that Jackie said stonewalled her?” he asked.

“Talley. I remember him from my days here.”

“I think we might want to have a word with him, too.” Watching her, Kincaid wished again for something he might say, some comfort he might offer without sounding condescending, but no words seemed adequate. He resisted the urge to touch her shoulder, her cheek. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

“This is a stroke of luck,” Kincaid murmured to Gemma as they were shown into Superintendent Marc Lamb’s office. He and Lamb had met during their first development course, but it had been several years since they had bumped into each other.

“Duncan, old chap.” Lamb came around his desk, beaming, and pumped Kincaid’s hand. “The Yard’s wonder boy in the flesh. Do have a seat.”

Kincaid introduced Gemma with a small, unworthy spark of satisfaction, for although he and Lamb were the same age, Lamb was decidedly losing his hair and gaining a paunch.

When they had spent a few minutes chatting about mutual acquaintances, Kincaid explained their interest in Jackie Temple.

Lamb sobered immediately. “You never think something like that will happen at your station. Brixton, maybe, but not here. Jackie Temple was one of my best officers—levelheaded and well liked by the public as well as her fellow officers. You know how it is—sometimes coppers starting out have a lorry load of good intentions and not a particle of common sense, but Jackie had both from the very beginning.”