at her, and she doesn’t like to admit when she’s reached her limit.”
“Takes after her mum, does she?” said Will with a familiarity that Gemma, daunted by Claire Gilbert’s rather formal good manners, would have found impossible to attempt. She remembered Claire’s distress when she realized Will had left the room last night, and marveled that he had managed to establish such rapport in only a few hours.
Claire smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I was never as single-minded about things as Lucy. I fluffed my way through school, although I dare say I could have done better if I’d had some idea what I wanted to do. Dolls and house …” she added softly, looking out into the garden again and pleating the fabric of her skirt with her fingers.
“I’m sorry?” said Gemma, not sure she’d heard correctly.
Focusing on her, Claire smiled apologetically. “I was one of those little girls who played house and nursed her dolls. It never occurred to me that marriage and family might not be the center of my life, and my parents encouraged that, my mother especially. But Lucy … Lucy’s wanted to be a writer since she was six years old. She’s always worked hard at school, and now she’s studying to sit her mocks in preparation for her A levels in the spring.”
Will leaned forwards, and Gemma noticed absently that the elbow of his tweed jacket was wearing thin. “She goes to the local comprehensive, then?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Claire answered quickly, then she seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. “She’s a day student at the Duke of York School. I suppose I’ll have to ring the headmaster sometime today and explain what’s happened.” Exhaustion seemed to wash over her at the thought. Her mouth quivered, and for a moment she covered it with her fingers. “I think I’m managing well enough until I have to tell someone, and then …”
“Isn’t there someone who can make these calls for you?” Gemma asked, as she had before, but hoping that with rest Claire would have reconsidered.
“No.” Claire straightened her shoulders. “I won’t have Lucy do any of it. This is difficult enough for her as it is. And there’s no one else. Alastair and I were both only children. My parents are dead, and Alastair’s father. I’ve been to his mother already this morning, first thing. She’s in a nursing home near Dorking.”
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.”
