was ready.
“You barely touched your supper last night,” he said accusingly. “And I bet you’ve had nothing but tea this morning.” Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “You can’t go on this way and expect to cope, now can you?” As he spoke he spread the butter and marmalade, then handed Claire a slice of toast.
Obediently, she took a small bite. Will sat beside her, watching with such concentration that Gemma could almost hear him urging Claire to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.
After a moment, Kincaid caught Gemma’s eye and motioned towards the garden. She followed a pace behind him through the narrow mudroom, careful not to bump against him, determined not to notice the faint smell of his soap, his aftershave, his skin. But she couldn’t help seeing that his hair needed cutting—he’d forgotten, as he often did, and it was beginning to creep over the edge of his collar in the back.
A wave of irrational anger swept through her, as if those wayward hairs had deliberately meant to offend her. When they reached the garden, she pounced on the first unrelated grievance that came to mind. “Did you have to upset Claire Gilbert like that? She’s been through enough as it is, and the least we can do is—”
“The least we can do is try to find out who killed her husband,” he interrupted sharply. “And that means covering every possibility, however unlikely. And how was I supposed to know that the sight of the garden shed hammer would send her into a dead faint?” he added, sounding aggrieved. “Either that or my face needs an overhaul.” He tried on a smile, but when she merely scowled back at him he said crossly, “What the hell is the matter with you, Gemma?”
For a moment they stared at each other. She wondered how he could ask such a stupid question, then realized she didn’t know the answer. All she could sort from the jumble of her feelings was that she wanted her confusion to go away, her world to right itself again. She wanted things to be as they were, safe and familiar, but she didn’t know how to make it so.
She turned away and walked across the grass to the dog’s run. Lewis wagged his tail in happy greeting, and she touched his nose through the wire mesh.
Kincaid’s voice came from behind her, neutral now. “And have you forgotten that the spouse is always the most likely suspect?”
“There’s no evidence,” Gemma said, hooking her fingers through the fence. “And besides, she has an alibi.”
“Too true, I’m afraid. Who’s this Malcolm fellow Claire mentioned, by the way?” When she’d told him, he considered for a moment, then said, “We’d best divide up the labor for the rest of the day. You and Will go over her tracks in Guildford. I’ll wait here for Deveney, then perhaps we’ll have a word with Malcolm Reid before we tackle the village.” He waited, and when she didn’t answer, didn’t turn, he said, “We’ll keep a PC on the gate until the furore dies down, so Claire won’t have to deal with the press unless she goes out. I hope that puts your mind at rest,” he added as he walked away, and he didn’t quite manage to suppress the sarcasm.
Buckled into the passenger seat of Will’s car, Gemma fumed silently. Who the hell did Duncan Kincaid think he was, ordering her about like some raw recruit? He hadn’t discussed it with her, hadn’t asked her opinion, and when a small voice in her head suggested that perhaps she hadn’t given him the opportunity, she said aloud, “Shut up.”
“Sorry?” said Will, taking his eyes off the curve of the road to give her a startled glance.
“Not you, Will. I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“Not a very pleasant conversation you were having,” he said, sounding amused. “Want to add a third party?”
“It seems to me you take on enough without adding my troubles,” Gemma answered in an attempt to change the subject. “How do you do it, Will? How can you stay objective when you seem to feel such empathy for the people involved?” She hadn’t meant to speak so plainly, but something about him eased the normal safeguards off her tongue. Hoping he hadn’t taken offense, she glanced at him, but he met her eyes and smiled.
“I have no trouble remaining objective when I’m presented with evidence of wrongdoing. But until then I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat people with as much decency and consideration as possible, especially when they’ve been through an experience as difficult as Claire Gilbert’s and her daughter’s.” He looked at her again and added, “You’ve brought out my upbringing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. My mum and dad were staunch supporters of the Golden Rule, though people don’t set much stock by it nowadays.”
He kept his attention on the road after that, for they had reached the A25 and the morning traffic was heavy.
Gemma watched him curiously. She didn’t often hear men talk willingly of their parents. Rob had been ashamed of his—hardworking tradespeople with unpolished accents—and she’d been furious with him when she’d heard him tell someone once that they were dead. “Will… earlier you said the cathedral always
Will coaxed the car around a grumbling farm lorry before answering. “Two years ago, Christmastime.”
“An accident?”
“They were ill,” he said. Then with a grin he added, “Tell me about your family, Gemma. I couldn’t help noticing the set of plastic keys in your handbag.”
“Very professional of me, isn’t it? But if I don’t keep them handy Toby loses the real thing,” and before she knew it she had launched into a detailed account of Toby’s latest escapades.
The snapshot showed Claire and Lucy together, arms round one another, laughing into the camera, against a background that looked like the pier at Brighton. Gemma had borrowed it from a frame on the dresser in the conservatory. The spotty-faced clerk at Waterstones studied it, then tossed his hair back and looked at Gemma and Will with bright, intelligent eyes. “Nice bird. Bought a copy of
“You do mean the daughter?” said Gemma a bit impatiently.
“The younger one, yeah. Though the other’s not bad, either,” he added with another considering glance at the photo.
“And you’re sure you didn’t see them both?” Gemma fought the urge to snatch the photo back, sure that he
