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—”
“Was the dog giving you a hand?” interrupted Gemma. As soon as the words left her mouth she heard their shrewishness and would have called them back if she could. Flushing with shame, she drew a breath to explain, apologize, and then she saw that in his left hand he held a hammer.
The hall door flew open and Claire Gilbert came in as if propelled, her cheeks pink-stained. “Malcolm says they’ve been round to the shop already,” she said breathlessly, looking from one of them to the other in appeal. “People saying things and reporters. They’re coming here. The reporters are coming here—” Her gaze fixed on Kincaid, the quick color drained from her face and she crumpled upon the white tiles.
CHAPTER
4
For a large man, Will Darling moved with surprising swiftness. He managed to reach Claire before her head made contact with the floor, and now knelt beside her, supporting her head and shoulders against his knees. As Gemma and Kincaid hovered over them anxiously, her eyelids fluttered open and she moved her head restlessly. “I’m sorry,” she said as she focused on their faces. “I’m sorry. I can’t think what happened.”
She struggled to sit up, but Will restrained her gently. “Keep your head down a bit longer. Just relax, now. Still feel woozy?” When she shook her head, he raised her a few inches. “We’ll do it a little at a time,” he continued as he eased her into a sitting position and then into one of the breakfast area chairs.
“I’m so sorry,” Claire said once more. “How dreadfully silly of me.” She rubbed at her face with trembling hands, and although some color had returned to her cheeks, she remained unnaturally pale.
Kincaid pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing her. “I didn’t frighten you with that, did I?” he asked, gesturing towards the hammer which he’d placed carefully on the nearby countertop. He’d rubbed absently at the cobwebs in his hair, and now a chestnut lock fell in a comma on his forehead. With one eyebrow raised in concern, he looked deceptively, dangerously innocent, and Gemma found herself feeling sorry for Claire Gilbert. “It’s only the old hammer from your garden shed. A bit the worse from neglect, I’m afraid,” he added with a rueful smile, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket again.
“You don’t think … that’s what Alastair …” Claire shivered and hugged herself.
“From the layer of dust I’d say it had been months since anyone touched that hammer, but we’ll need to run some tests just to be sure.”
Claire closed her eyes and took a breath, exhaling slowly. Tears began to slip beneath her closed lids as she spoke. “It did frighten me. I don’t know why. Last night they asked me over and over if I knew what might have been used, if there was anything missing, but I couldn’t think. The garden shed never even occurred to me. …”
Having seen her maintain her control when almost incoherent with shock and exhaustion, Gemma felt surprised at Claire’s distress, yet thought she understood. Even though she had dealt with the bloody aftermath, Claire hadn’t wanted to imagine what had happened to her husband. Her mind had avoided it until she confronted a physical reminder. Funny how the mind played tricks on you. “Mrs. Gilbert,” Gemma began, wanting to offer some comfort, “don’t—”
“Please don’t keep on calling me that,” said Claire with sudden vehemence. “My name is Claire, for God’s sake.” Then she covered her face with her hands, muffling small hiccuping sobs.
With a warning shake of his head, Will mouthed, “Let her cry.” He went to the fridge, and after a moment’s rummaging, retrieved a loaf of bread, butter, and marmalade. Popping two slices in the toaster, he assembled plate and cutlery, putting things together so efficiently that by the time Claire’s tears had subsided, her belated breakfast
