Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

Kincaid pulled up in front of Gemma’s garage flat at exactly seven o’clock. Red-eyed and stubble-chinned, he climbed stiffly out of the car, dreading what he had to do.

His light tapping at the door brought Gemma, who blinked at him in sleepy confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Surrey.” Peering at him a bit more closely, she added, “You look absolutely dreadful, guv. No offense.” Yawning, she stood aside to let him in. She wore a ratty, toweling dressing gown in an unflattering maroon which made her tousled copper hair look orange by contrast.

“Toby’s still asleep,” she said softly, with a glance in the direction of his room. “I’ll make us some coffee, then you can tell me about it.”

“Gemma.” Kincaid reached out and held her shoulders as she started to turn away. “I’ve got some very bad news. Jackie Temple’s dead.”

He’d never thought to see that blank, stunned look on Gemma’s face, as if she’d just been slapped with an open palm.

“What? Jackie can’t be dead. I just saw her yes-”

“It must have happened just as she finished her beat last night. She’d checked in by radio about a quarter past ten. When she didn’t log in after her shift and they couldn’t raise her by radio, they sent a patrol out to look for her.”

“What…” Her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked like black holes against the chalk of her skin. Through the thick, nubby fabric of the dressing gown he felt her begin to tremble.

“She was shot. In the back of the head. I doubt she knew anything at all.”

“Oh, no.” At that Gemma’s face crumpled and she covered it with her hands.

Kincaid drew her to him and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. She smelled faintly of sleep and talcum powder. “Gemma, I’m so sorry.”

“But why?” she wailed into his shoulder. “Why would anybody want to hurt Jackie?”

“I don’t know, love. Susan May, her flatmate, asked that you be notified, but when the call came through to the Yard, old George happened to be on the desk and he rang me instead.”

“Susan?” Gemma pulled away from him and stepped back. “You don’t think… Surely it was just some yobbos doing a burglary… Oh, my God…” She fumbled behind her for a chair and sat down hard. “It wasn’t, was it? You don’t think it had anything to do with-”

Toby padded out of his room, looking like a chubby yellow bunny in his pajamas. “Mummy, whatsa matter?” he said sleepily, butting up against her.

Gemma gathered him into her lap and rubbed her face against his hair. “Nothing, sweetheart. Mummy just has to go to work early, after all.” She looked up at Kincaid. “You will go with me to see Susan, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

She nodded, then said, “I’ll tell you about… yesterday on the way.” Studying him for a moment, she added, “They rang you in Surrey? This morning?”

“About half past four.”

“Who’s Susan, Mummy?” asked Toby. He squirmed around until he could straddle her knees, then made swooping motions with his arms. “Look, Duncan, I’m a airplane.”

“A friend of a friend, lovey. Nobody you know.” Gemma’s eyes filled with tears and she scrubbed at them, sniffing.

“I’ll wait outside until you’re ready,” said Kincaid, suddenly feeling that he had intruded long enough.

“No.” Gemma set Toby down and patted his bottom. “I’ll change in Toby’s room. You can play airplane with him in the meantime. Then I’m going to fix you both some breakfast.” With a critical glance at him and an attempted smile, she added, “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

A half hour later, Gemma had showered and dressed, then lent Kincaid the use of her tiny bathroom to shave and put on a clean shirt. As he sat at the half-moon table finishing off buttered toast and hot coffee, he felt considerably more human. With Toby, dressed now in corduroy overalls and little trainers, playing happily at his feet, Kincaid wished that he might be there under different circumstances.

He accompanied Gemma across the garden and was briefly introduced to Hazel, then Gemma kissed Toby good-bye and they were on their way to Notting Hill.

As they crept through the rush-hour traffic, Gemma told him haltingly about Jackie’s revelations of the previous day.

Kincaid whistled when she’d finished. “Ogilvie bent? You think Gilbert found out somehow and Ogilvie decided to shut him up?”

“And Jackie.” Gemma’s mouth was set in a straight, uncompromising line.

“Gemma, Jackie’s death probably had nothing to do with this at all. These things happen, and they are usually utterly senseless. We both know that.”

“I don’t like coincidences, and this is too much of a coincidence. We both know that, too.”

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. Don’t you think we should stop in at Notting Hill and get the details before we talk to Susan May?”

Gemma didn’t answer for a moment, then she said, “No. I’d like to see Susan first. That’s the least I owe her.”

Glancing at her profile as he idled at a traffic light, he wished he could offer her some comfort. But despite his reassuring words, he didn’t like this coincidence, either.

He found a curbside parking spot near the flat, and as they walked up to the door he saw Gemma pause and take a breath before ringing the bell. The door swung open so quickly that Kincaid thought the woman who answered must have been standing just inside it. “Can I help you?” she said brusquely.

“I’m a friend of Jackie’s, Gemma James. Susan asked to see me.” Gemma held out her hand and the woman took it, her face breaking into a smile.

“Of course. I’m Cecily Johnson, Susan’s sister. I was just on my way out to the shops for her. Let me tell her you’re here.”

The word that came to Kincaid’s mind as they followed Cecily Johnson up the stairs was handsome . She was a tall woman, large-boned, with café-au-lait skin, fine dark eyes, and a wide smile. They waited on the landing for a moment while Cecily went in. Returning to them, she said, “Go right in. I’ll leave you to it.”

Susan May stood with her back to them, staring out the sitting room window at the small terrace with its bright pots of pansies and geraniums. In silhouette, she looked a more slender, willowy version of her sister, and when she turned Kincaid saw that she had the same creamy skin and dark eyes, but she didn’t quite manage a smile.

“Gemma, thanks for coming so quickly.”

Gemma took her outstretched hands and squeezed them. “Susan, I’m so-”

“I know. Please don’t say it. I haven’t quite reached the point where I can deal with condolences yet. Sit down and let me get you some coffee.” As Gemma started to protest, she added, “It helps if I have something to do with my hands.”

After Gemma introduced Kincaid, Susan went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tray. She made inconsequential small talk while she poured, then sat gazing into her cup.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “I keep expecting her to walk in the door and say something silly, like “It was all a big joke, Suz, ha-ha.’ She liked practical jokes.” Putting down her cup, Susan stood up and began pacing, twisting her hands together. “She left her dressing gown on the floor by her bed again. I was always fussing at her to pick up things, and now it doesn’t matter. Why did I ever think it did? Can you tell me that?” She stopped as they had first seen her, her back to them, facing the terrace. “They’ve given me indefinite ‘compassionate’ leave from work. To do what? Coming home to this empty flat in the evenings will be bad enough; the thought of spending days here alone is unbearable.”