Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

Brian didn’t answer, and after a moment Deveney said softly to Kincaid, “Let’s get this over with. We’ll find the room on our own.” They left Brian motionless at the table, his head sunk in his hands.

“Looks like he’s been in the army,” said Deveney. “Too neat.”

“Or prison.” Kincaid ran his hand over the smoothly tucked corner of the single bed. Fantasy posters covered the walls, but rather than being stuck up with the usual pushpins, they were framed in simple unvarnished wood. “Do-it-yourself, I should think,” Kincaid said to himself.

“Hmmm?” Deveney looked up from the computer monitor. He’d been staring, mesmerized, at the ever-changing mandala pattern of the screen saver. “He mustn’t have meant to be away long if he’s left things running. We’d better dig in.”

“Right.” Kincaid sat down at the desk and opened the first drawer. He found snooping through the minutiae of people’s lives both distasteful and weirdly fascinating, but the enjoyment always brought with it a slight stirring of guilt.

The top drawer held tidily organized desk paraphernalia, a few letters on flowery stationery, computer game manuals. In the bottom drawer he found a faded photograph of a young woman, dressed in the hip-hugging bell-bottoms of the late sixties. Bare midriff, long straight brown hair parted in the middle, huge bangle earrings, a serious and slightly bored expression. He wondered who she was and why Geoff Genovase had kept the photo.

A bookcase by the window held mostly paperbacks-fantasy, sword and sorcery, a few historical novels. Kincaid thumbed through them, then stood at the window, gazing at the tile roof of St. Mary’s rising disembodied over the vicarage hedges. He tried to analyze the difference between the order of this room and that of Alastair Gilbert’s study. Gilbert’s spoke of control exerted for its own sake, while this room evoked a carefully guarded and deliberate serenity, he decided after a moment.

“Pay dirt,” said Deveney, sounding less than jubilant. Kneeling on the carpet, he lifted a carved wooden box from the bottom drawer of a pine chest and brought it to the desk. He swore softly as he opened it. “Bloody hell. Poor Bri.”

The bits of jewelry were neatly arranged on the velvet lining.

They found Madeleine Wade’s silver and Percy Bainbridge’s photos behind a shoe box on the shelf in the small closet.

“He didn’t make much effort to hide things,” Deveney said as he pulled the list from his pocket.

“I’m not sure hiding’s the point of this.” Kincaid fingered an intricately carved antique brooch, then a pair of delicate pearl and gold filigree earrings. “Do these pearl earrings match the description of the vicar’s?”

Deveney ran down the list. “Looks like it.”

“But there aren’t any others. Unless we’ve missed them, Claire Gilbert’s aren’t here.”

“So maybe he threw them in a hedge somewhere, panicked after what he’d done,” said Deveney. Then he added, as they heard faint voices from downstairs, “Sounds like the prodigal’s returned. We’ll radio the station for the lads to come take this place apart board by board. It’s time we had a word with wee Geoff.”

Brian Genovase held his son in a bear hug, and at first sight Kincaid thought he intended restraint. But as they came closer and Brian stepped away, Kincaid saw that the young man trembled so violently he could barely stand unaided.

“Geoff.” Deveney’s flat tone told all, and Geoff’s knees buckled as Kincaid watched.

“Good God, man, he’s going to pass out.” Kincaid leaped towards him, but Brian had already grasped his son around the waist and guided him to a bench.

“Head down, between your knees,” ordered Brian, and Geoff obeyed, his blond curls swinging near the floor. His breath whistled audibly.

Deveney slipped out the door, and when he returned a few moments later, he said, “I’m sorry, Bri. We’ll have to take him along to headquarters. I’ve radioed for a squad car,” he added quietly to Kincaid.

Brian stood with his hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “You can’t. You can’t take him away from here. You don’t understand.”

“We’ll have to charge him, Brian,” Deveney said gently. “But I promise you he’ll come to no harm at the station.”

Geoff lifted his head and spoke for the first time, his teeth clenched to stop them chattering. “It’s all right, Dad.” He brushed his hair from his face and took a shuddering breath. “I’ve got to tell the truth. There’s nothing else for it.”

Brian Genovase insisted on accompanying his son to Guildford Police Station. By the time they climbed into the back of the panda and Deveney joined the driver in the front, a handful of neighbors had gathered and stood watching from a distance. Doc Wilson hurtled by the green in her little Mini, then braked hard as she peered at the police car.

Kincaid wished now that he’d not sent Gemma to inter-view Malcolm Reid, but he’d had no way of anticipating Geoff’s quaking terror. Glancing at his watch, he hoped she’d at least be back at the station by the time they were ready to begin the interview.

He retrieved the Rover and was reversing it from its space in the car park when he saw a blur of motion in his mirror and heard a thumping on the boot. A moment later Lucy Penmaric pounded on his window, shouting at him. When he’d killed the engine and rolled down the window, the words became comprehensible.

Between sobs she wailed, “Why are they taking him? You mustn’t let them-please don’t let them take him away from here. He couldn’t bear it.” As he slipped out of the car to stand beside her she clung to him, pulling at his sleeve with force enough to rip it.

“Lucy.” He clasped her hands in his, holding her balled fists tightly. “I can’t help you if you don’t calm down.” She gulped, nodding, and he felt her hands relax a bit. “Now. Take it slowly. Tell me exactly what’s wrong.”

Still hiccuping, she managed, “Doc Wilson stopped at the house. She said they were taking Geoff away in a-” before her face contorted again.

Kincaid squeezed her hands. “Hush now. You must help me sort this out.” She seemed a frightened child, far removed from the poised young woman he’d seen on the night of Alastair Gilbert’s murder. “We just need to ask him a few questions, that’s all. There’s nothing to-”

“Don’t treat me like a baby. You think Geoff killed him! Alastair. You don’t understand.” She wrenched her hands free and pressed her knuckles against her mouth, fighting for control.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Geoff couldn’t hurt anybody. He won’t even kill spiders. He says they have as much right to exist as he does.” Her words poured over one another in her eagerness to explain. “‘Might is not right.’ He says that all the time-it’s from his favorite book. And ‘The end never justifies the means.’ He says we can always find a peaceful solution.”

Kincaid sighed as he recognized the quotations. It had been one of his favorite books, too, and he wondered how much of the young King Arthur’s vision he had managed to retain in the face of everyday policing.

“Maybe Geoff wouldn’t hurt anybody,” he said, “but would he take things that didn’t belong to him?”

Lucy’s eyes skittered away from his. “That was a long time ago. And he didn’t hate Alastair for what-”

“Hate Alastair for what, Lucy?”

“For being a cop,” she said, recovering quickly. She scrubbed at her face and sniffed. “Though he probably should have, after the way they treated him.”

Kincaid regarded her quizzically for a moment, then decided to let that one pass for the moment. “I’m not talking about what happened when Geoff was sent to prison, Lucy. I’m asking about here, now, taking things from the people he works for in the village.”