Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

She ate standing at the sink, looking out into the darkened garden, and when she’d finished she poured a glass of wine and eased into the leather chair. Old maid habits, she thought with a wry grimace. Soon she’d be wearing cardies and flannel pants, and then what would become of her?

Jackie usually saved the area near the top of the Portobello Road for the end of her shift. It had been a long time since she’d worked evenings, though, and she wasn’t used to the eerie emptiness of the cul-de-sacs this time of night. The little antique shops that bustled with customers during business hours were dark and barred, and bits of rubbish rattled along the gutters.

As she turned left into the last street, the street lamp at its end flared and died. “Shit,” Jackie said under her breath, but she always finished her rounds, and she wasn’t about to let a case of the rookie spooks stop her doing it tonight. She imagined herself telling her guv’nor that she’d done a bunk because the street was dark and empty, then snickered to herself at the thought of his response.

She’d be home soon enough. Susan, who had to rise with the birds to get to her job at the BBC, would be fast asleep but would have left out a snack and a nightcap for her. Jackie smiled at the prospect. A hot bath, a warm drink, and then she’d curl up with the Mary Wesley novel she’d been saving. There was something rather liberating about being awake in the wee hours while the rest of the world slept.

She stopped, head cocked, listening. The hair on the back of her neck rose in an atavistic response. That soft shuffle behind her-could it have been a footstep?

Now she heard nothing but the slight sigh of the wind between the buildings. “Silly cow,” she said aloud, chasing the shadows. She walked on. A few more steps and she’d reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac, then she’d start the last leg back to the station.

This time the footfall was unmistakable, as was the raw and primitive terror that left her knees like jelly. Jackie spun, heart pounding. Nothing.

She unclipped her radio and thumbed the mike. Too late. She smelled him first, a rancid sweetness. Then the metal burned cold against the base of her skull.

Kincaid saw Gemma into the car with Will Darling, then watched as they sped away around the green. She looked back, once, but by the time he’d lifted his hand to wave to her, she had turned away. A moment later the car disappeared from sight.

He crossed the road and stood for a moment at the end of the walk leading to the pub, collecting himself for the task ahead. Deveney had been called out to a shop burglary in Guildford, which left Kincaid on his own to question Brian Genovase. But perhaps he could turn that to his advantage by making the interview as informal as possible.

The wind had risen from the west, shivering the leaves of the old oak, and the pub sign creaked on its hinges as it swung. Looking up at the lovers silhouetted against the moon, Kincaid thought that the image was perhaps more apt than they’d realized.

He found Brian alone, preparing for Sunday lunch. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pud,” said Brian by way of greeting. He finished lettering the chalkboard with a flourish. “We always do Sundays properly. You’ll do well to get a table early.” His words were friendly enough, but as he spoke he gave Kincaid a wary glance.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but first I’d like a word with you before you get too busy” Kincaid slid onto a bar stool.

Brian stopped in the midst of setting up a rack of clean glassware. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I appreciate what you did for my lad last night. You were decent to him, which can’t be said of the last lot. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. Geoff’s been round to the folk in the village already this morning, told them he’d work free in order to make some reparation for what he did. And first thing tomorrow we’ll get him started again in counseling. It seems this is going to be a long process. I should have-”

“Brian.” Kincaid cut him off. “This isn’t about Geoff.”

Brian stared at him blankly. “Not about-”

“I’m afraid we never quite finished our official inquiries. Can you tell me what you were doing on Wednesday evening, between about six o’clock and half past seven?

“Me?” Brian’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “But… I suppose you have to ask everyone?”

“You’d just got lucky up to now,” Kincaid said with a smile. “Were you here?”

“Course I was bloody here. Where else would I be?”

“By yourself?”

Shaking his head, Brian said, “John was on the bar, and Meghan was here, the girl that helps out in the kitchen. It was a busy night for middle of the week.”

“Did you leave at any time, even for a few minutes?” asked Kincaid. “Think carefully now. It’s important to be accurate with these things.”

Brian frowned and rubbed his chin. “There’s only one thing I remember,” he said after a moment. “Somewhere between about half-six and seven I went to the storeroom and broke out a new case of lemonade. I can’t have been away from the bar much more than five minutes.”

“Can you reach the storeroom from inside the pub?”

“No. You have to go the long way round, through the car park.” Then Brian added, with the air of sharing a confidence, “Bloody miserable when it’s raining, I can tell you.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual, however small?”

“Only the mice. We lost our mouser a few months back. It’s time we found a new puss. Usually they come to us, but not a one’s turned up so far. Maybe the word hasn’t gone round that the position’s vacant.” Brian grinned, obviously regaining his equilibrium.

Good, thought Kincaid. Now that he’d got him relaxed and a bit pleased with himself, it was time to hit below the belt. “Brian, I’ve gathered the impression that you and Claire Gilbert are quite good friends.”

Brian took a glass from the tray and slotted it into the rack, almost concealing his momentary hesitation. “No more than most neighbors. We help each other out when needed.” He kept his eyes on his task as he spoke.

“How did her husband feel about that?”

“I don’t know why he should have been bothered one way or the other.” Irritation edged Brian’s voice, but he still hadn’t met Kincaid’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind-”

“I think he might have been quite bothered, actually,” Kincaid interrupted. “It seems that Alastair Gilbert was irrationally jealous of his wife. He might have misinterpreted the most innocent of gestures.”

“I hardly knew the man.” Brian’s brows were drawn together in a scowl, and the glasses clinked dangerously as he slid them into position. “He didn’t frequent the pub, and he certainly didn’t consider me his social or professional equal. He called me a bloody shopkeeper once, and him a farmer’s son from Dorking.”

Resting his elbows on the bar, Kincaid leaned close to Brian and said, “You knew him well enough to ask him for help when Geoff got into trouble, and he turned you down flat. You hated him, didn’t you, Brian? No one could say you didn’t have good cause.”

The wineglass in Brian’s hand cracked, the head separating from its stem and falling unscathed to the bar. Blood welled from his thumb and he held it to his mouth for a moment, glaring at Kincaid. “All right, I hated him. What do you want me to say? He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Claire and Lucy. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. He laughed at me when I asked him to help Geoff-treated me like I was some kind of scum. I might have been tempted then, but I didn’t touch him, so why should I have done it now?”