Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

Gemma felt a rush of sympathy for Claire Gilbert. Telling an old woman that her only son was dead could not have been easy, yet Claire had done what was necessary, alone and as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”

Claire gazed out the window again, touching her fingers to the silk scarf at her throat. In the reflected light her pupils shrank to pinpoints, and her irises were as gold as a cat’s. “She’s eighty-five and physically a bit frail, but her mind’s still sharp. Alastair was very good to her.”

In the silence that followed, they heard Lewis bark, then came a good-natured shout from Kincaid. Claire gave a tiny, startled jerk and dropped her hand to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at them again. “Where were we?”

“If you could just tell us a little more about your movements yesterday afternoon and evening?” Gemma uncapped her pen and waited, but Claire seemed puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You said you and Lucy did some shopping,” prompted Gemma. “Where exactly did you go?”

“But what difference could it possibly-” Claire’s protest died as she looked at Will.

He shook his head gently. “How can we know at this point what’s important and what isn’t? Some detail, something someone said, something you saw, could prove the glue that holds all the pieces together, so please be patient.”

After a moment, Claire said, “Oh, all right,” with some grace and settled back into the sofa. “I’ll give it a try.

“About half past four we left the house and drove into Guildford. Lucy drove-she’s only had her license a few months and likes to practice whenever she can. We left the car in the Bedford Road car park and crossed over the pedestrian bridge to the Friary.”

“A shopping precinct,” Will explained to Gemma. “A conversion of the old Friary Meaux brewery site, very upmarket.”

Claire smiled a little at Will’s description. “I suppose it is, but I have to confess that I like it. Staying warm and dry while one goes round the shops has its advantages.” Her smile faded as she returned to her story. “Lucy needed a book from Waterstones… it’s Hardy she’s reading for her exams, I think. After that…” She rubbed her forehead, then gazed out the window for a moment. Gemma and Will waited patiently until she sighed and began again. “We bought some coffee at the specialty shop, then a bottle of Badedas at the C &A. After that we window-shopped for a bit, then had some tea at the restaurant in the court, I can’t think of its name. It’s absurd. I seem to have these gaps in my mind where things I know perfectly well should be, but instead there’s a perfect blank. I remember when-” Claire paused on the shudder of an indrawn breath, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Lucy and I left the center from the far side and walked up the High Street to Sainsbury’s, where we picked up a few things for our dinner. By the time we finished and drove home it was almost half past seven.”

Gemma’s pen flew over the page until she caught up, but before she could frame a question, Claire spoke. “Must I… the next bit… must I go over it again?” Her hand hovered near her throat once more, and Gemma saw her fingers tremble slightly. She had small, slender hands, with fine, unmarked skin, and although her nails were very short, they were buffed to a healthy pink.

“No, Mrs. Gilbert, not just now,” said Gemma a bit absently as she thumbed back through her notes. When she reached the beginning of the interview she paused, then looked up at Claire Gilbert. “But tell us about the earlier part of the afternoon. You didn’t say what you were doing before going to Guildford.”

“I’d been at work, of course,” Claire said with a touch of impatience. “I’d just got home minutes before Lucy arrived back from school-oh, my God…” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t ring Malcolm. How could I have forgotten to ring Malcolm?”

“Malcolm?” Will raised an eyebrow.

“Malcolm Reid.” Claire rose and went to the window, where she stood looking out into the garden, her back to them. “It’s his shop-his business-and I work in the shop, but I also do some consulting.”

Forced to turn around awkwardly, Gemma squinted at Claire’s outline, haloed by the light. “Consulting?” She hadn’t thought of Claire Gilbert working, had automatically categorized her as a pampered housewife with no duties more demanding than attending meetings at the Women’s Institute, and now she chided herself for her carelessness. Assumptions in an investigation were dangerous-and an indication that she didn’t have her mind on her job. “What sort of business is it?” she added, resolving to give Claire Gilbert her undivided attention.

“Interior design. The shop’s in Shere-it’s called Kitchen Concepts, but kitchens aren’t all we do.” Claire glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s just getting on for nine o’clock-Malcolm won’t have missed me yet.” The smooth fall of her fair hair caught the light as she shook her head, and when she spoke her voice wavered for the first time. “Telling Gwen was all I could think of from the time I woke this morning, then once I’d done that… I feel such a ninny-” She broke off suddenly and laughed. “When have you heard that expression? My mother used to say that.” Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she sniffed.

Will had taken advantage of Claire’s retreat to the window to rise and explore the room. He’d wandered over to a dresser that stood against the back wall and now idly rearranged a collection of seashells. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself,” he said, turning to Claire. “You’ve had a dreadful shock and you can’t expect to go on as if nothing had happened.”

“Those are Lucy’s.” Coming to stand beside him, Claire picked up a small green-and-red-speckled shell and turned it in her hands. “She had a book about the seaside she loved as a child, and she’s collected shells ever since. This one’s called Christmas. Apt, isn’t it?” She replaced the shell, aligning it carefully, then gave an odd little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “I keep thinking that Alastair would expect me to cope, and then I remember…” Her words trailed off and she stood for a moment, staring at the shells, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Then, seeming to gather herself with an effort, she turned to them and smiled. “I’d better ring Malcolm as soon as possible. The shop opens at half-past and I’d not want him to hear it from someone else.”

Gemma gave in gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she said as she tucked her notebook into her bag and stood. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to get on with things.” The rote phrases came easily, while underneath she wondered furiously where in hell Kincaid had got to and what he could have been doing poking about in the garden all this time. Claire came with them to the door, and as Gemma stepped into the hall Will stopped and murmured something to her that Gemma didn’t quite catch.

The fingerprint technician had packed up his equipment and gone, leaving only his dust to mar the impression that normal life in the Gilbert household would resume at any time. The light came more strongly through the bay window, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Gemma went to the window and looked out into the garden-there was no sign of Kincaid.

“What’s next?” asked Will as he came in from the hall. “Where’s our super got himself off to?”

Gemma thanked whatever guardian angel made her bite her lip rather than venting her bad temper, because just at that moment Kincaid came in through the mudroom door and smiled broadly at them both. “Waiting for me? Sorry. I got a bit carried away in the garden shed.” He wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead and brushed ineffectually at the cobwebs on his jacket. “How did you-”