Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“I’m sure.” Gemma smiled at Cokes, thinking that she doubted Claire Gilbert would have seen his solution in quite the same light. “This policeman, Mr. Cokes. What was his name?”

Cokes cleared his throat again. “I don’t remember. I only saw the ID for a moment, and I was so startled that it quite flew out of my head.”

“What force did he say he was with?”

Cokes shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I’m sorry.”

Persisting, Gemma said, “Then tell us what he looked like, Mr. Cokes. Surely you can remember that.”

“Thin and dark.” Moistening his pink lips, Cokes added, “There was something a bit predatory about him.”

Kincaid filled Deveney in as they drove towards Holmbury St. Mary. The morning overcast had lifted to a high haze that muted the landscape and burned his tired eyes as he squinted at the road. “Claire Gilbert’s had two broken bones in the last year or so, and perhaps other injuries as well. The wrist and the collarbone just happen to be the ones I heard about in casual conversation. It’s enough to raise the possibility of spousal abuse.”

“Are you telling me that you think Commander Gilbert beat his wife?”

Kincaid glanced at Deveney. “Don’t look so shocked, Nick. It happens all the time.”

Deveney shook his head. “I know. But I wouldn’t have thought-”

“You think Gilbert’s uniform and position gave him some sort of automatic immunity?”

“I think if you mean to get anything out of Doc Wilson, you’ll get short shrift,” Deveney countered. “But if you’re right, it gives Brian Genovase a damned good reason to want to bash Gilbert’s head in. Unfortunately, we still haven’t found a shred of physical evidence to connect him to the scene.

“The records of the on-line service confirm what Geoff told us, by the way, and our interviews with the other customers in the pub that night agree with Brian’s account of his movements. So that leaves us with a less than ten-minute window when either Brian or Geoff could have popped across the lane and done the dirty.”

Kincaid downshifted as they entered the village. “That leaves the Ogilvie end. I’ll be damned if I know how he fits into it, but I’m sure he does.” He grinned at Deveney. “Maybe I should take lessons from Madeleine Wade.”

“You seem destined to catch me in the middle of my lunch,” Doc Wilson said when she opened the door. “Oh well, can’t be helped, I suppose,” she added resignedly as she stepped back and Kincaid and Deveney crowded into the hall with its welter of gum boots, dog leads, and walking sticks.

On reaching the kitchen Kincaid and Deveney once again went through the ritual of clearing a place to sit while the doctor wasted no time getting back to her lunch.

“Leftover beef from Sunday’s joint.” She waved her fork at her plate when they were settled opposite her. “With horseradish. Clears the sinuses. Paul’s gone to London for the day, by the way, if it was he you were wanting. Took Bess with him for the run.”

Kincaid wasn’t fooled by her inconsequential chatter-the glance she’d given him had been sharp as a tack. “No, it was you we wanted a word with, Doctor. It’s about Claire Gilbert. I understand that she’s had several broken bones recently. Weren’t you concerned about this sudden tendency towards accidents?”

The doctor very deliberately finished her roast beef and pushed her plate aside before answering. “Really, Superintendent, you’ll have to ask Claire about her medical history, not me.”

“We could get a warrant,” Kincaid said, “and force disclosure, but I’d hate to have to resort to that. Very unpleasant for everyone concerned.”

“I don’t like being bullied, Mr. Kincaid, no matter how charmingly it’s couched. You must do whatever you think necessary, but I’ll not willingly divulge anything confidential about my patient.” The doctor folded her arms across her nondescript jumper, her mouth clamped in a stubborn line.

Kincaid met her look. “Look, Doctor, let’s not beat around the bush. We have very good reason to think that Claire Gilbert was being beaten by her husband, and I believe that you came to the same conclusion. That day that Geoff overheard you quarreling with Gilbert-it was about Claire, wasn’t it? Did you confront him with your suspicions? He’d not have taken kindly to your interfering in his business.”

“I’ll give you that Alastair Gilbert could be difficult,” she said, her mouth still set. “But I’ll not discuss Claire with you.”

“Alastair Gilbert was more than difficult the last few weeks of his life. He’d started to behave in uncharacteristic ways, and I think he had become so consumed by jealousy that he was no longer rational. Gilbert used his control, his appearance of remaining above emotion, as a method of dominance. The fact that he allowed himself to be drawn into an out-and-out row with you is an indication of how far he’d slipped. Surely you must realize that it’s vital we know the truth about what happened that day.”

“So that you can put pressure on Claire?”

“We are talking about a murder, Doctor, and I have a duty to make whatever inquiries I think can help bring the matter to a conclusion. I’ll have to question Claire in any case, and I’d prefer to do it with the benefit of your advice. I’m sure I need not remind you that you have an obligation of care as well as one of confidentiality”

The doctor met his eyes for a long moment, then her mouth relaxed and her shoulders slumped a bit. “Claire is very vulnerable right now, Mr. Kincaid. If you go stomping about making damaging allegations about her husband it could cause her serious harm.”

“Then help me out. Deny that you believe Claire Gilbert was physically injured at any time by her husband, and I’ll leave it alone.”

The silence stretched until Kincaid could hear his breath and the rasp of tweed against tweed as Deveney shifted in the chair beside him. He waited, thinking of the time he’d stared down a bulldog as child, until the doctor looked away. Still she didn’t speak.

Kincaid stood up. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“I have to hand it to you,” Deveney said when they reached the car. “That was rather cleverly done.”

Grimacing, Kincaid said, “Doesn’t make me feel any better about it. But the good doctor is as perceptive as she is honest, and if she was worried enough about Claire to confront Gilbert directly, you can be sure she had good cause.”

“So you got the confirmation you wanted.” Deveney settled into the passenger seat.

“Confirmation of a suspicion only, not proof.”

“Still,” Deveney said as Kincaid turned the key in the Rover’s ignition, “the suspicion’s enough to put Claire Gilbert squarely in the frame.”

Gemma had Will drop her off in Holmbury St. Mary on his way back to the station, as Kincaid had told her he’d meet her in the village. It was almost two o’clock, and the sun had seared through the morning’s haze. She stood on the edge of the green for a moment after Will drove away, turning her face to the light until stars blossomed behind her closed eyelids. Mid-November was seldom so generous, and one couldn’t expect it to last. This was a day for sailing model boats on the Serpentine, a day for storing memories of warmth enough to last through the long winter days ahead.

She heard the whir of wheels on pavement, and, opening her eyes, she found that a jaunty little red Vauxhall had pulled up before her. The woman driving rolled down her window and leaned out. “You looked a bit lost. Can I help you?” She had a slightly husky, melodious voice, a bob of platinum hair, and the largest beak of a nose Gemma had ever seen.