Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“You’re right,” he said, voice muffled. “I hated taking things from my friends, but I couldn’t seem to help it. And the game wasn’t working. I told myself I didn’t know why, but I was just too ashamed to admit it. I kept telling Lucy she wasn’t trying hard enough.”

“Trying hard enough at what?”

Geoff lifted his head. “Becoming the character. Transcending the game.”

“And what would happen then?” asked Gemma, sounding only reasonably curious.

Shrugging, he said, “We’d live this life on a different level, be more engaged, more dedicated-I can’t explain. But then that’s only my idea, and it’s probably total bullshit, anyway.” He sat back in his chair, looking tired and defeated.

“Maybe,” said Gemma softly, “and maybe not.” She pushed a wisp of hair back into her plait and took a breath. “Geoff, did you take anything for the game from Lucy’s house?”

He shook his head. “I don’t go there if I can help it. Alastair doesn’t-didn’t approve of me.”

Kincaid had no trouble imagining how Alastair Gilbert would have felt about Geoff or what he might have said.

“Maybe Wednesday night was an exception,” persisted Gemma. “Maybe there was something you needed, and Lucy wasn’t home. You’ve slipped in and out of other people’s houses easily enough-we have the evidence of that-maybe you thought you’d just nip in for a minute and no one would be the wiser. Except Alastair came home unexpectedly and caught you. Did he threaten to send you to jail again?”

Geoff shook his head, more vehemently this time. “No! I never went near there, I swear, Gemma. I didn’t know anything had happened until Brian saw the police cars, and then I was frantic because I thought something must have happened to Lucy or Claire.”

“Why?” asked Gemma. “Why not assume that the commander, a middle-aged man in a high-stress job, had dropped dead of a massive coronary?”

“I don’t know.” Geoff wound a finger in his hair and tugged at it, a curiously feminine gesture. “I just didn’t think about him, I suppose because he’s not often home that time of day.”

“Really?” Gemma sounded puzzled. “It was almost half past seven when the nine-nine-nine call came through.”

“Was it?” Shifting in his chair, Geoff rubbed a thumb against his bare wrist. “I didn’t realize. I haven’t worn a watch since I bid Her Majesty’s hospitality farewell,” he said with an unexpected trace of humor.

“You know I have to ask you this-” Gemma gave him an answering smile. “Where were you between six o’clock and half past seven on that Wednesday evening?”

Geoff dropped his laced fingers into his lap. “I’d finished in Becca’s garden-about five, I’d say it was-then I came in and had a bath to get the muck off.”

He’s on firm ground now, thought Kincaid, watching Geoff’s relaxed posture.

“And after that?” asked Gemma, settling a bit more comfortably into her chair.

“I got on-line. I’d been looking for some communications software that might perform a little better than what I’ve been using. Brian stopped by for a word at one point, but I’m not sure when.”

Kincaid met Deveney’s eyes. The on-line connection shouldn’t be difficult to check, but how could they be sure Geoff didn’t leave the computer downloading automatically while he ran across the road long enough to kill the commander?

“I’d just finished when I heard the sirens, then Brian came upstairs to tell me something had happened at the Gilberts’.”

That struck Kincaid as a bit odd. With a bar full of able-bodied customers, why had Brian felt it necessary to inform his son before he charged across the road to investigate?

“Anyone else see you?” Gemma asked hopefully, but Geoff shook his head.

“Can I go home now?” he asked, but his tone held little optimism.

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, then studied Geoff for a moment before she said, “I want to help you, Geoff, but I’m afraid we may need to keep you a bit longer. You do understand, don’t you, that if your neighbors positively identify the things we found in your room, we’ll have to charge you with burglary?”

Will Darling stood in the corridor outside the interview room, looking as relaxed as if he’d been napping on his feet. “Brian Genovase asked for a word with you in private, sir,” he said as Kincaid came out and shut the door. “I’ve put him in the canteen with a cuppa-thought it might be a bit more comfortable there.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid had left Gemma and Deveney to take Geoff’s statement, in hopes that he might catch up on his own paperwork, but he should have known it wasn’t a likely prospect.

The smell of hot grease made his throat close convulsively. It also made him realize, with a stomach-turning queasiness, that he was ravenously hungry. Vaguely, he remembered lunch, and a look at his watch told him it was after eight o’clock.

The room was almost empty and he quickly spotted Brian, who sat staring fixedly into his cup. Kincaid got himself a cup of tea so dark it might have been coffee and joined Brian at the small orange-topped table. “Disgusting color, isn’t it?” Kincaid asked, rapping the table with his knuckles as he sat down. “Reminds me of baby food. Always wondered who’s in charge of the decorating.”

Brian looked at him blankly, as if trying to decipher a foreign language, then said, “Is he all right?” I’ve called our solicitor, but he’s not in.”

“Geoff is making a statement just now, and he seems to be coping reasonably-”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” said Brian, pushing his cup out of the way. The spoon fell from the saucer with a clatter. “I know you think I’m behaving like a broody old hen over a grown son, but you don’t understand about Geoff.

“You see, his mum left us when Geoff was only six. The poor kid thought it was his fault, and he was terrified I’d leave him, too. I had a good job then as a commercial traveler, and I could afford to pay someone to stay with him when I was away, but he’d panic every time. At first I thought he’d get over it, but instead he got worse. Finally I quit the job and invested my savings in the pub.”

“And did that help?” asked Kincaid, giving his muddy tea a desultory stir.

“After a bit,” said Brian, sitting back in his chair and regarding Kincaid levelly. “But it was only then that I began to find out what she’d done to him. She told him it was his fault she was leaving, that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t ‘measure up.’ And before that, she did…” He shook his head, reminding Kincaid of a frustrated bull. “She did vile things to a small boy. I’ll tell you, Superintendent, if I ever find that bitch, I’ll kill her, and then it’ll be me you’ll have warming your cell.” He stared aggressively at Kincaid, chin thrust forwards, then when Kincaid didn’t respond he relaxed and sighed. “I felt responsible. Do you understand that? I should have seen what was going on, should have stopped her, but I was too caught up in my own misery.”

“You still feel responsible for him.” Kincaid made it a statement.

Brian nodded. “He got better over the years. The nightmares stopped. He did well enough at school, even though he didn’t make friends easily. Then when he went to prison it started all over again. ‘Separation anxiety,’ the prison doctor called it.

“Superintendent, if Geoff is sent to prison again, I don’t think he will recover.”

A movement caught Kincaid’s eye and he looked up. Will Darling threaded his way through the tables towards them like a barge easing its way down the Thames. “Sir,” he said as he reached the table, “there’s a… um, delegation of sorts… to see you.”