Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

Kincaid snorted. “Along with a set of perfect prints on the doorknob and a previous a mile long. We should be so lucky. How early is first thing, by the way?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin.

“Sevenish, I would imagine. Kate Ling doesn’t seem to need sleep. Exists on a combination of coffee and formaldehyde fumes,” said Deveney. “But she’s good, and we were lucky to get her on the scene tonight.” As Gemma rejoined them, Deveney included her with a quick smile. “Listen, why don’t you send your driver back to London with your car. I’ve made arrangements to put you up at the local-you did come prepared to stay?” When they nodded, he continued. “Good. We’ll send someone to take you to the mortuary in the morning. And then-” He broke off as a plainclothes officer beckoned him from the mudroom door. With a sigh he pushed off from the wall. “Back in a tick.”

“I’ll see to Williams,” said Gemma a little too quickly, and left Kincaid standing alone. For a few moments he watched the technicians and the photographer, then he edged around their work area until he reached the refrigerator. Opening it, he bent over and examined the contents. Milk, juice, eggs, butter, and, tucked haphazardly onto the bottom shelf, a package of fresh pasta and a plastic container of Alfredo sauce, bearing the Sainsbury deli’s seal. Neither container had been opened.

“I found some bread and cheese. Made the ladies some sandwiches,” said a voice above his head.

Kincaid stood and turned, and still found himself looking up at the rosy-cheeked visage of Police Constable Darling. “Ah, the minder,” he murmured, then at the constable’s blank look he added more loudly, “Very thoughtful of you…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to add the surname.

“Add hunger to shock and exhaustion and they’d have been in a right state,” Darling said seriously, “and there didn’t seem to be anyone else to look after them.”

“No, you’re quite right. Usually, helpful and nosy neighbors materialize out of the woodwork in this sort of situation. Relatives too, as often as not.”

“Mrs. Gilbert said both her parents were dead,” volunteered Darling.

“Did she now?” Kincaid studied the constable for a moment, then gestured towards the hall door. “Here, let’s have a word where it’s a bit quieter.” When they reached the relative calm of the passageway, he continued. “You sat with Mrs. Gilbert and her daughter for quite some time, didn’t you?”

“Several hours, I’d say, in between the chief inspector’s comings and goings.”

A lamp on the telephone table lit Darling’s face from below, revealing a few lines on his brow and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. Perhaps he was not as young as Kincaid had first thought. “You seem to have taken this in your stride,” Kincaid said, his curiosity piqued by the man’s self-possession.

“I grew up on a farm, sir. I’ve seen death often enough.” He regarded Kincaid for a moment, then blinked and sighed. “But there is something about this one. It’s not just Commander Gilbert being a senior officer and all. Or the mess, exactly.” Kincaid raised an eyebrow and Darling went on, hesitantly. “It’s just that it all seems so… inappropriate.” He shook his head. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Kincaid answered. Not that appropriate was a word he’d be likely to apply to any murder, but something about this one struck a distinctly jarring note. Violence had no place in such an ordered and well-kept life. “Did Mrs. Gilbert and Lucy talk to each other while you were with them?” he asked.

Darling settled his broad shoulders against the wall and focused on a point beyond Kincaid’s head for a moment before replying. “Now that you mention it, I can’t say that they did. Or only a word or two. But they both talked to me. I offered to ring someone for them, but Mrs. Gilbert said no, they’d be all right on their own. She did say something about having to tell the commander’s mother, but it seems she’s in a nursing home and Mrs. Gilbert thought it best to wait until tomorrow. Today, that is,” he added, glancing at his watch, and Kincaid heard the beginnings of fatigue in his voice.

“I won’t keep you, Constable.” Kincaid smiled. “And I can’t speak for your guv’nor, but I’m about ready to salvage what little sleep I can from this night.”

Late as the hour was, a few lights still burned in the pub. Deveney rapped sharply on the glass pane of the door, and in a moment a shadowy form slid back the bolts.

“Come in, come in,” the man said as he opened the door. “Take the chill off. I’m Brian Genovase, by the way,” he added, holding out a hand to Kincaid and Gemma in turn as they crowded in behind Deveney.

The pub was surprisingly small. They had entered directly into the right-hand alcove, where a handful of tables surrounded a stone hearth. To their left the length of the bar occupied the pub’s center, and beyond that a few more tables were grouped to make up the dining area.

“It’s kind of you to wait up, Brian,” Deveney said as he went to the hearth and stood rubbing his hands above the still-glowing embers.

“Couldn’t sleep. Not with wondering what was going on up there.” Genovase tilted his head towards the Gilberts’. “The whole village is buzzing, but no one quite had the nerve to brave the cordon and bring back a report. I gave it a try, but the constable on the gate persuaded me otherwise.” As he spoke he slipped behind the bar, and Kincaid saw him more clearly. A large man with dark hair going gray and the beginnings of a belly, he had a pleasant face and quick smile. “You’ll need something to warm you up from the inside,” he said, pulling a bottle of Glenfiddich from the shelf, “and while you’re at it you can tell me all that’s fit to print. So to speak.” His flashed a grin at them and favored Gemma with a wink.

They’d followed him to the bar, unresisting as lemmings drawn towards the cliff. As Genovase tilted the bottle over the fourth glass, Gemma suddenly put out a restraining hand. “No, thank you, but I don’t think I can manage it. I’m just about out on my feet. If you’ll just tell me where to put my things-”

“I’ll show you,” Genovase said, putting down the bottle and wiping his hands on a towel.

“No, please, I’m sure I can manage,” Gemma said firmly, shaking her head. “You’ve put yourself out enough as it is.”

Shrugging good-naturedly, Genovase gave the appearance of recognizing a stubborn set of mind when he saw it. “Round the bar, up the stairs, down the corridor, last door on the right.”

“Thanks. Good night, then.” Focusing on the empty space between Kincaid and Deveney, she added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

A dozen excuses to call her back, to go up with her, froze on the tip of Kincaid’s tongue. Anything he did would make them both look foolish and might arouse the very speculation they couldn’t afford, so he sat on in miserable, silent frustration until she disappeared through the door at the far end of the bar. Deveney, too, had watched her, and seemed to have trouble drawing his gaze from the empty doorway.

Genovase raised his glass. “Cheers. This is on the house, Nick, so you’ll not get me for breaking the licensing laws, but I expect to be paid in kind.”

“Fair enough,” Deveney agreed. Then he said, “Ah, that’ll do nicely,” as the first sip of whiskey went down. “You heard that someone did for Commander Gilbert, I take it?”

Genovase nodded. “But Claire and Lucy-they’re all right, aren’t they?”

“Shocked, but fine other than that. They found the body.”

Relief and distress battling in his face, Genovase said, “Oh, lord,” and rubbed at an invisible spot on the bar with his towel. “Was it bad? What-?” The small negative movement of Deveney’s head stopped him. “Out of bounds? Sorry.”