Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“I was just thinking about you,” said Jackie. “Do you suppose I conjured you up, or is this one of those coincidences you read about in the tabloids?”

“I don’t think I’d last long as a genie,” Gemma answered, laughing. Her cheeks were pink with the cold, and her copper hair had been teased from its plait by the wind. “But maybe you should nominate your guv’nor. He has you timed down to the minute.” Eyeing Jackie’s bun, she pinched a currant from it. “That looks wonderful. I’m starved. One thing about CID-you learn never to pass up an opportunity for a meal.”

As she examined the stall’s menu board, Jackie studied her. Gemma’s loosely cut rust-colored blazer and tan chinos looked casual yet smart, something that Jackie never felt she quite managed to achieve. “Nice outfit,” she said, when Gemma had ordered tea and a croissant with ham and cheese. “I guess I’m just fashion-impaired, which is probably one reason I stayed in uniform.” With a mouthful of bun, she added, “You look much better today, by the way, roses back in your cheeks and all that. I’d just been thinking that you looked a bit done-up yesterday.”

“Put it down to a good night’s sleep,” Gemma said easily, but she looked down, twisting the ring she wore on her right hand. Then she smiled brightly and changed the subject, and they nattered on about mutual friends until Gemma’s sandwich was ready.

When Gemma had taken a couple of bites and washed them down with tea, she said, “Jackie, what do you know about Gilbert and David Ogilvie?”

“Ogilvie?” Jackie thought for a moment. “Weren’t he and Gilbert partners? That was before our time, but it seems to me there was some rumor about bad blood between them. Why?”

Gemma told her what they had learned about Stephen Penmaric’s death, then added, “So it seems that both Gilbert and Ogilvie met Claire at the time of the investigation, then a couple of years later she married Gilbert.”

Jackie licked the last of the crumbs from her fingers. “I know who might be able to help-you remember Sergeant Talley? He’s been at Notting Hill for donkey’s years and knows everything about everybody.”

“He told me where to find you.” Gemma looked down at the sandwich in one hand and the tea in the other. “Here.” She handed the sandwich to Jackie and fished her notebook from her handbag. “I’ll stop back at the station and see if I can-”

“Wait, Gemma, let me do it,” Jackie said, the temptation of a second bun forgotten. “You’ve got to understand about Talley. He may be the world’s worst gossip, but he doesn’t see himself that way. He’d never be willing to drag up any dirt on someone in our nick to an outsider-and you’re an outsider now.”

“Ouch.” Gemma winced.

“Sorry,” Jackie said with a grin. “But you know what I mean.” And it was true, she thought. She could see in Gemma now what hadn’t been apparent yesterday-the focus, the drive that made her CID material. It was not so much that Gemma had changed, for those qualities had always been there, but rather that she’d found the job which utilized her talents, and in doing so had moved away from Jackie and the life they’d shared.

“You wouldn’t mind talking to him about it?” Tucking her notebook under one arm, Gemma retrieved her sandwich and nibbled at it again.

“I’ll try to get him in the canteen for a cuppa when I get off shift, get him reminiscing. And I don’t mind a bit,” Jackie added slowly. “You’ve got my curiosity roused. I hope this detective stuff isn’t catching.”

“He’s got a record.” Nick Deveney looked up at Kincaid and Gemma as they entered the incident room in Guildford Police Station. He and Will Darling had been bent over a computer printout, and the quick smile he gave Gemma was his only greeting. “I didn’t manage to get in touch with your friend Madeleine Wade until this morning, and it turned out he worked for her, too. Did some heavy lifting in the shop and a bit of painting in the flat.”

Wondering at the barb implied by the emphasis on “your friend,” Gemma glanced at Kincaid, but he only looked amused. “Who has a record?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Geoff Genovase,” said Will. “Done for burglary five years ago. He was managing a hi-fi shop in Wimbledon, and it seems he and a mate from the shop decided to liberate some of the merchandise in the supplier’s warehouse. Unfortunately they hadn’t quite got the knack of disabling alarm systems, so Genovase did time in one of Her Majesty’s best hotels.”

Gemma sat down in the nearest chair. “I don’t believe it.”

“He did some sort of odd job for everyone in the village who reported a theft,” said Deveney. “Coincidences like that don’t manufacture themselves. And if he did the others, why not the Gilberts’, only this time something went wrong.”

She thought of the gentle young man who had fed her cheese and pickle so solicitously, whose face had lit with eagerness when she inquired about his computer game. “Why didn’t you tell me?” her voice rose as she turned to Kincaid.

His face registered surprise as he looked up from the printout he’d taken from Deveney. “It was just a hunch. I had no idea it would pan out.”

“I’ve applied for a warrant,” said Deveney. “Hope we don’t have to search the whole bloody pub.”

Kincaid returned the printout to Will and stood staring into space, his eyes slightly unfocused. After a moment he straightened and said decisively, “Listen, Nick, I’m not willing to drop everything else to run with this. I still think we should follow up on Reid and the London angle.” He turned to Gemma. “Why don’t you and Will go to Reid’s shop in Shere and have a word with him while Nick and I handle the search?”

Her anger rose with frightening speed, closing her throat, making her heart pound, but she fought it back and managed to say evenly, “Um, could I have a word, guv?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow but followed her into the empty corridor, and when the door clicked shut she said through clenched teeth, “Shall I assume you have some reason for this?”

“What?” he said blankly.

“Sending me off on some fool’s errand while you and Nick Deveney take the important job. Do you think I’m not capable of being objective? Is that it?”

“Christ, Gemma,” he said, backing up a step. “I’ve tried to sort things out, but you’re as prickly as a bloody hedgehog these days. What am I supposed to do with you? Ask your permission before I decide how to conduct an investigation?

“I have two reasons, in fact, if you want to know.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, you haven’t met Malcolm Reid and I wanted your reaction to him, wanted to know if you thought there was anything in Percy Bainbridge’s allegations that Claire’s having an affair with him. Two, you’ve established a positive contact with Geoff Genovase, and I’d like to keep it that way. You know as well as I do how useful that can be in an interrogation, and going in with a search warrant is certainly not going to reinforce his confidence in you.” He took a breath. “Is that good enough for you, or do I need more?”

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come. She leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes, feeling deflated and shaken.

An echo of his words took her back, and for a moment she was a child again, in her tiny bedroom above the bakery. She’d had one of her frequent and furious rows with her sister, and her mother had come in to her, sitting down on the bed where she lay with her hot, tear-streaked face buried in the pillow. “What am I to do with you, Gemma?” her mum had said with weary exasperation, but the fingers stroking her hair had been gentle. “If you can’t learn to control that redheaded temper, love, you’d best learn to apologize gracefully. And if you have a particle of the sense God gave you, you’ll do both.” It had been good advice-given from experience, Gemma had realized as she grew older-and she’d tried to take it to heart.