Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“We won’t be releasing full details for a bit,” said Deveney with practiced diplomacy.

It would be difficult to keep anything under wraps for long in a village this size, Kincaid knew, but they’d try until the house-to-house queries were finished, just in case someone let slip they knew something they shouldn’t.

“You were friendly with the Gilberts?” Deveney asked Genovase, sliding forwards on his stool so that he could rest his elbows on the bar.

“It’s a small village, Nick. You know how it is. Claire and Lucy are well liked.”

Kincaid took another sip of his drink and said casually, “And the commander wasn’t?”

Brian Genovase looked wary for the first time. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” Kincaid smiled at him. “But is it true?”

After a moment’s consideration, Genovase said, “Let me put it this way-Alastair Gilbert didn’t go out of his way to make himself popular around here. Not one of the beard and wellie brigade, not by a long chalk.”

“Any particular reason?” Kincaid asked. Gilbert hadn’t gone out of his way to make himself popular with his officers, either, not if Kincaid’s experience with him was any indication. He had seemed, in fact, to enjoy making the most of his superiority.

“Not really. An accumulation of small misunderstandings, amplified by the gossip mill. You know how it is,” he said again, “place like this, things get blown out of proportion sometimes.” Obviously unwilling to say more, Genovase finished his drink in one swallow and set his glass down.

Deveney followed suit and sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this, I can tell you that. Better you than me in the hot seat, mate,” he added, glancing at Kincaid. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks,” Kincaid said with considerable irony. He finished his own drink more slowly, finding comfort in the burn as it went down, then stood and retrieved his coat and bag. “That’s it for me, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch and swore. “Hardly worth going to bed.”

“You’re last on the left, Mr. Kincaid,” said Genovase. “And I’ll have a bit of breakfast for you in the morning.”

Kincaid had said his thanks to both and turned to go when Deveney touched him on the arm and said quietly, “Your sergeant-Gemma. She’s not married, I take it?”

It was a moment before Kincaid found his tongue, managed to say reasonably enough, “No. No, she’s not.”

“Is she… um, unattached, then?”

“That,” said Kincaid through clenched teeth, “is something you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

The hurt had been evident on his face. Gemma hadn’t expected it, and it had almost caused her to lose her resolve. During the days she’d spent hiding at her sister’s, watching Toby play in the park with his cousins and thinking furiously of what she should do, she’d managed to convince herself that he would be glad to ignore what had happened, relieved, even grateful. So she had prepared her little speech, giving him a graceful out that he would accept with a slightly embarrassed grin, and rehearsed it so often in her mind she could almost hear him saying, “Of course, you’re absolutely right, Gemma. We’ll just go on as before, shall we?”

Experience should have taught her that Duncan Kincaid never quite behaved as expected. Shivering a little in the cold room, she turned back the bed and laid out her nightdress. She fumbled in her carryall until she found the zip bag containing her toothbrush and cleanser and turned resolutely towards the door.

Then suddenly, limply, she sat down on the edge of the bed. How could she have been foolish enough, in the days that had passed like aeons since the night at his flat, to think she could grant herself an instant immunity to his physical presence? Memory had flooded back with a jolt like a boxer’s punch the moment she saw him, leaving her breathless and shaken. It had been all she could do to hold on to her wavering defenses, and now she couldn’t bear the thought of bumping into him in the corridor outside her room. She had no armor left-a kind word, a gentle touch, and she would be undone.

But she must get to bed, or she would feel even less capable of dealing with things in the morning. So she listened, alert for the creak of a tread on the stairs or the sound of a door opening. Reassured by the silence, she slipped from her room and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom.

When she emerged a few minutes later, the door to the room opposite the bathroom was closing. She stopped, heart thumping, chiding herself for being absurd, until the glimpse before the door swung shut assured her that the person inside was not Kincaid. Frowning, she tried to fit together pieces of the brief image-curling fair hair falling over a surprisingly masculine pair of shoulders. She shrugged and returned to her room, letting herself in with a grateful sigh.

And if, once she had put on her warm nightdress and tucked herself under the puffy duvet, there was a kernel of disappointment hidden in the relief, she buried it deeper still.

The sight of the Royal Surrey County Hospital did nothing to brighten the atmosphere in the small car. Gemma studied the sprawl of muddy-brown brick, wondering why it had not occurred to the architects that ill people might need a bit of cheering up.

“I know,” said Will Darling, as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s bloody institutionally awful. It’s a good hospital, though. They combined several smaller facilities when they built this one, and it offers just about every sort of care you could imagine.”

Darling had arrived at the pub just as Gemma and Kincaid had finished their breakfasts. They had eaten in uncomfortable silence, served by an equally subdued Brian Genovase. “Not much of a morning person,” he’d said with a shadow of last night’s smile. “Goes with the territory.” The breakfast had been good, though-the man could still cook even when his social skills were not at their best-and Gemma had forced herself to eat, knowing she’d need the sustenance to get through the day.

“The chief inspector should have been here before us,” said Darling, scanning the parked cars as he pulled the car around to the back of the hospital and stopped it in a space near the mortuary doors. “I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute.”

“Thanks, Will.” Kincaid stretched as he emerged from the cramped backseat. “At least we get to enjoy the view while we wait, unlike the clientele.” He nodded towards the unremarkable glass doors.

Gemma slid from the car and moved a few steps away, considering the prospect. Perhaps if you were inside the building looking out, it wasn’t such a bad place after all. The hospital was high on the hill rising to the west of Guildford, and below, the red-bricked town hugged the curve of the River Wey. Pockets of mist still hovered over the valley, muting trees ablaze with autumn. To the north, higher still, the tower of the cathedral rose against a flat gray sky.

“It’s a new cathedral, did you know that?” asked Darling, coming to stand beside her. “Begun during the war and consecrated in nineteen sixty-one. You don’t often have a chance to see a cathedral built in our lifetime.” Glancing at Gemma, he amended with a smile, “Well, perhaps not yours. But it’s lovely, all the same, and well worth a visit.”

“You sound very proud of it,” said Gemma. “Have you always lived here?” Then she added, with the frankness he seemed to inspire, “And you can’t be old enough to have seen it built, either.”

Chuckling, he said, “Got me to rights, there. I was born on consecration day, as a matter of fact. May seventeenth, nineteen sixty-one. So the cathedral always had a special significance for us-” He broke off as a car pulled up beside theirs. “Here’s the chief, now.”