Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“I suppose it’s a good thing”-with her toe Gemma poked at a bit of plasterboard that had strayed from the rubbish tip and the scaffolding in the garden next door-“this gentrification. Improves the neighborhood and all that, but somehow I miss the character of the old one. It was comfortable and just a wee bit shabby, someplace where you could come home, take your shoes off, and eat your chips right out of the paper.

“But this, now”-she gestured at the curve of the terrace-“this is intimate dinner parties after work with wine and just the right gourmet goodies from Fortnum’s. Not exactly conducive to ghosts.”

“No ghosts,” Kincaid agreed as they turned away and retraced their steps. “We’ll have to try farther afield.”

Gemma hadn’t expected to find herself in David Ogilvie’s office again so soon, but this time she pulled out her notebook with a sense of relief and let Kincaid conduct the interview.

“Do you remember the Stephen Penmaric case?” Kincaid asked, when they had concluded the formalities.

Ogilvie drew his dark brows together in a puzzled frown. “Claire Gilbert’s first husband? Of course I do. Hadn’t thought of it in years, though.” His smile seemed merely a baring of teeth. “What are you on about? You think Claire had some old flame with a penchant for getting rid of husbands?”

Kincaid chuckled appreciatively. “It’s as good as anything we’ve come up with so far.” Shifting position slightly, he clasped his hands around his knee and regarded Ogilvie with what Gemma thought of as his getting-down-to-business expression. “I’ve read the files, of course,” he said. “Inconclusive as hell. You were the investigating officer, and you and I both know”-his smile suggested an understood camaraderie-“that the officer in charge of a case can’t put impressions in a report, but that’s exactly what I want from you now. What didn’t you say? What did you think of Claire? Was Stephen Penmaric murdered?”

David Ogilvie leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together before replying with deliberation. “I think now exactly what I thought then. Stephen Penmaric’s death was a tragic accident. There was nothing in the report because there was nothing to find. You know as well as I do,” he added with evident sarcasm, “the odds for tracing an unwitnessed hit-and-run. And I don’t see how any of this could possibly have any bearing on Alastair Gilbert’s death.”

“Did Gilbert know Claire Penmaric before her husband’s death?” countered Kincaid.

“You’re not suggesting that Alastair had anything to do with Penmaric’s death?” Ogilvie’s eyebrows rose in an expression of incredulous surprise. Tufts of hair on the inner edge of the brows grew straight up, giving them an odd, hooked aspect, making Gemma think absently of horns. “Surely, Superintendent, you’re not that desperate. I realize that you’re under some pressure to solve this case, but no one who knew Alastair could possibly think him capable of bending the law to suit his own ends.”

“Chief Inspector, I’m at liberty to think whatever I like. And I have the advantage of not having known Commander Gilbert well, so that I’m not inclined to let personal opinions cloud my judgment.”

Gemma looked at Kincaid in surprise. It wasn’t like him to pull rank, but Ogilvie had certainly deserved it.

Ogilvie’s lips tightened, and although his olive coloring made it difficult to be sure, Gemma thought his cheeks darkened slightly with an angry flush. After a moment, however, he said civilly enough, “You’re quite right, Superintendent. I apologize. Perhaps one should stretch one’s parameters.”

“I’m trying to form a clear picture of Alastair Gilbert, and I thought it might be helpful to learn a bit of his history. It seemed logical to suppose that he might have met Claire during the investigation of her husband’s death.”

“Alastair did meet Claire during the course of the investigation,” Ogilvie conceded. “Young, pretty, and very much alone in the world-not many men would have resisted the temptation to offer her comfort and support.”

“Including Gilbert?”

Shrugging, Ogilvie answered, “They became friends. More than that I can’t tell you. I’ve never been in the habit of prying into the private lives of my superior officers-or anyone else’s, for that matter. If you want the more intimate details, I’d suggest you ask Claire Gilbert.”

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, wondering how he would react to Ogilvie’s thinly veiled disdain, but he merely smiled and thanked him.

They said good-bye, and as they left the building, Gemma said, “I wonder why he dislikes us so much?”

“Are you feeling paranoid today?” Kincaid gave her a sideways grin as they walked down the steps. “I suspect it’s nothing personal-that David Ogilvie dislikes everyone equally. But why don’t you stop by the station again? Have a word with your friend Jackie if you can track her down, see what she thinks about Chief Inspector Ogilvie.

“Then meet me at the Yard and we’ll take a car from the pool for the drive back to Surrey.” For a few minutes they walked in silence, then, as they reached the intersection where their ways parted, he mused aloud, “I do wonder, though, if Ogilvie was entirely immune to Claire Penmaric’s appeal.”

Jackie Temple eased a finger into the waistband of her uniform trousers and took a deep breath. She found it difficult to believe that anyone who walked as many miles a day as she did could possibly put on weight, but the physical evidence was undeniable. Time to get out the sewing box and hope that the seam held a generous amount of fabric, she thought with a sigh. She did so look forward to her elevenses, and she only had a few blocks to go before she reached the stall just off the Portobello Road where she usually stopped for her break. Ordering one sticky bun rather than two with her tea would make her feel as though she’d taken a stand against the creeping pounds, but she’d be ravenous by the time she finished her shift at three.

Slowing her pace, she scanned the knot of pedestrians blocking the pavement just ahead. It sorted itself out quickly enough-just a case of too many people going in opposite directions at the same time-and left her free to pursue her thoughts. In her years of walking the beat she’d developed a facility for dividing her mind. One half was ever alert for anything out of the ordinary in her territory. It responded to greetings from familiar residents and shopkeepers, made routine checks, noticed those loitering a bit too conspicuously, and all the while the other part of her mind lived a life of its own, speculating and daydreaming.

She thought of her unexpected meeting with Gemma yesterday. Although she had to admit she envied her friend’s status as a sergeant in the CID just a bit, she’d never really wanted to do anything more than walk a beat. She’d found her niche, and it suited her.

Not that she’d mind having Gemma’s figure, she thought with a smile as she passed the homeopathic chemist’s and saluted Mr. Dodd, the owner. In fact, she mused as she turned the corner and saw the stall’s cheerful red awning ahead, it seemed to her that Gemma was thinner than she remembered and had a transparent quality, as if she were stretched beyond her resources. Jackie suspected that this was not entirely due to pressure of work, but she’d never been one to force confidences.

A few minutes later, holding her steaming tea in its polystyrene cup in one hand, and her solitary and virtuous bun in the other, Jackie leaned her back against the stall’s brick wall and surveyed the street. She blinked as she saw a flash of red hair, then a familiar face coming through the crowd towards her. It occurred to her that she should feel surprise, but instead she had an odd sense of inevitability. She waved, and a moment later Gemma reached her.