Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

It was indeed a nice pub, and a favorite with the locals, as the early crowd demonstrated. When they’d placed their meal orders at the bar and settled into a corner table with their drinks, Will said, “You know the first rule of good policing: Eat first. You never know when you might have another chance.”

“You’ve certainly taken it to heart.”

“Could be the army had something to do with that.” Will stared out the window as he sipped the foam from his pint. “Living on the edge tends to make priorities easier to recognize.”

“On the edge?” Gemma repeated, puzzled.

“I served in Northern Ireland for two years.”

The barmaid brought their food-jacket potato with prawn mayonnaise for Gemma, chicken basket for Will. As Gemma mixed the topping into her potato, she glanced up at Will through the rising steam. She imagined him in fatigues and boots, still looking like a red-cheeked Surrey farm boy.

“When I went over I was just as ambitious as you,” continued Will, swallowing a mouthful of chicken. “Don’t bother arguing,” he added with a grin. “Women don’t reach your rank in the Met otherwise. You want to make DCI, don’t you, or even superintendent?” He waved a chip at her for emphasis. “So did I, only I had my sights set on a county force, preferably this one.”

Gemma paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I don’t understand, Will. Surely it’s not too late. You’re only… what?” Remembering what he’d said about his birthday, she did the math in her head. “Thirty-four? And you’re a good cop-I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Thanks all the same.” Wiping his fingers with his napkin, Will smiled at her. “And I imagine I’ll eventually rise up a rank or two by the sheer force of attrition above me. The thing is, it doesn’t really matter to me anymore. Two of my best mates were working routine border checks one night.” He put his hand on his pint but didn’t lift it. “Unfortunately, the last lorry they stopped happened to be carrying a bomb.” His voice level, only the stillness of his hand on the glass betrayed him.

“Oh, no,” Gemma breathed.

Will shrugged. “We’d all been grousing about our posting. The usual complaints-boredom, lousy food, shortage of girls.” A hint of a dimple appeared in his cheek. “We were going to have such great adventures when we got out. My mum used to tell me that it was the journey that counted, not arriving at the station. It’s a well-worn platitude, I know, but that day I saw the truth of it.”

Gemma put her fork down beside her half-eaten potato. “They told you about Jackie, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” Will reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

Finding she couldn’t meet the frank sympathy in his eyes, she picked up her fork again and pushed at her food. She thought of Jackie’s stubborn refusal to leave her beat, because she had loved what she called “everyday policing,” the regular contact with the people for whom she was responsible. “Jackie would have liked you, Will,” Gemma said. Watching him as he returned his attention to his lunch, she wondered if he, too, had felt somehow responsible for his friends’ deaths.

The nameplate on the bank manager’s desk read AUGUSTUS COKES, and he so befitted the image it conjured up that Gemma wondered if names left an inescapable imprint, like an extra chromosome. A small man with a round, bespectacled face and thinning hair, he rose to greet them with an expression of puzzled concern.

“This is most unusual,” he said, when they had introduced themselves. “I don’t know how I can help you, but fire away.”

Gemma settled herself a bit more comfortably in the hard chair and brushed at the lapel of her jacket. Taking her cue from Will’s slight nod, she began, “I’m afraid it’s a bit delicate, Mr. Cokes. You see, it concerns a murder investigation. You will have read about the death of Commander Alastair Gilbert in the papers, I’m sure.” Watching Cokes’s full, pink lips assume a fishlike gape, Gemma pressed on. “It’s come to our attention that the commander’s wife, Claire Gilbert, kept an account here, and we believe there may be some… irregularities. We’d like to-”

“Well, I never. A commander’s wife-a common criminal. Who’d have thought it.” Cokes shook his head with relish, lips pursed now in a tut-tut pout. “And such a well-bred woman, too.”

Will answered Gemma’s querying glance with a look of surprised incomprehension.

“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Cokes?” asked Gemma. “We haven’t suggested that Mrs. Gilbert has done anything criminal. We’d just like to clear up some questions about Gilbert himself.”

“But the other policeman-” Cokes looked from Gemma to Will. “The one who came in last week.”

“What other policeman?” Will asked patiently.

“You people really should learn to coordinate your efforts a bit better,” Cokes said a little smugly, as if he were beginning to enjoy their discomfort. “No wonder they have all those exposés on the telly.”

“I think we should start from the beginning, Mr. Cokes.” Will pulled out his wallet and extracted the photo he and Gemma had shown around with so little success at the Friary. “I take it that you met Mrs. Gilbert personally?”

“When she opened her account. I often handle new accounts-it keeps my hand in, and I like to know a bit about the customers.” Cokes took the photo from Will and examined it for a moment before handing it back. “Oh, yes, that’s Mrs. Gilbert, all right. She’s quite unmistakable. Of course, I did wonder when she asked that her statements be sent to her at work.”

“At work?” repeated Gemma. “Did she say why?”

“I’d never have asked-we respect our clients’ privacy-but she told me quite confidentially that she meant to save up enough money to surprise her husband with a holiday.” The echo of Claire Gilbert’s charm still resonated in the man’s voice and faintly wistful expression. “You can imagine how surprised I was when the first policeman came inquiring about her. And even then I’d no idea her husband was a policeman.”

Will sat forwards, and the standard-issue visitor’s chair creaked dangerously. “Tell us about this other policeman, Mr. Cokes. When did he come to see you, and what did he want with Claire Gilbert?”

Cokes made a little humming noise as he squinted at his desk calendar. “We’d had our regional branch meeting on the Tuesday last week, and I think it was the day after. Wednesday, it would have been, just before closing. He requested a personal interview with me, but once we were alone in my office he showed me his ID and said he was investigating something very hush-hush.” Leaning forwards, Cokes lowered his voice. “A check fraud ring. He said they hadn’t any hard evidence to connect our customer, but a quick look at her file would probably clear the matter up. Of course, I told him that as much as I wished to assist the police in any way, I was also under an obligation not to divulge details of a customer’s account.” Cokes gave a sniff of disapproval.

“So you’re telling us that this policeman did not see Claire Gilbert’s file?” Will asked.

Cokes cleared his throat and slid the paperweight on his desk over a fraction of an inch. “Well, I can’t be absolutely certain…” he said, refusing to meet their eyes. “I was called out of my office for a few moments, a little problem that needed my immediate attention…”

“Don’t tell me,” said Gemma. “You just happened to leave Claire Gilbert’s file on your desk. How tactful of you.”

“Well, I…” Cokes’ upper lip glistened with perspiration. “It seemed the best solution at the time.”