Having made a brief report to Chief Superintendent Childs, she appropriated Kincaid’s office, but found none of her usual satisfaction in it. It allowed her the peace she needed to organize her day, however, and soon she had made an appointment with Commander Gilbert’s staff officer, Chief Inspector David Ogilvie, and was on her way to the Divisional Headquarters in Notting Dale.
She remembered Ogilvie from her Notting Hill days, before he, like Gilbert, had transferred to Divisional Headquarters. He’d been an inspector then, and she’d felt a bit frightened of him. His dark hawkish looks had made his reputation as a ladies’ man plausible, but he seldom smiled, and his tongue was known to be as sharp as the jut of his nose.
Steeling herself for an unpleasant interview, she introduced herself to the duty officer and sat down in the reception area to wait until Ogilvie sent for her. Much to her surprise, Ogilvie appeared himself a few moments later, hand outstretched in welcome. He hadn’t changed much, she thought, studying him as she shook his hand. Flecks of gray had appeared in his thick, dark hair, and the angles of his face were a bit more prominent, his body a little leaner.
He led her to his office, seated her cordially, then surprised her again by taking the initiative before she could get her notebook and pen out. “This business about Alastair Gilbert is shocking. I don’t think any of us have quite taken it in yet. We keep waiting for someone to tell us it was all a mistake.” He paused while he aligned some loose papers on his desk, then gazed at her directly.
His eyes were a very dark pure gray, set off to perfection by the charcoal herringbone of his jacket. Gemma looked away. “I’m sure it must be hard for you, having worked with—”
“You were part of the team called to the scene,” he interrupted, ignoring her condolence. “I want you to tell me what happened.”
“But you’ll have seen a report—”
Shaking his head, he leaned towards her, his eyes dilated. “That’s not good enough. I want to know what it looked like, what was said, down to the last detail.”
Gemma felt a prickle of sweat break out under her arms. What in hell was he playing at? Was this some sort of test of her abilities? And was she obliged to answer him? The silence stretched, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. What harm could it do, after all? He had access to the incident files anyway, and she needed to establish some sort of rapport with him. She took a deep breath and began.
Ogilvie sat very still while she talked, and when she’d finished he relaxed back into his chair and smiled at her. “I see we trained you very well at Notting Hill, Sergeant.” Gemma started to speak, but he held up his hand. “Oh, yes, I remember you,” he said, and his grin grew wolfishly wide. “You were quite determined to get on, and it seems that you have. Now what can I do for you, since you’ve been so obliging? Will you be wanting to go through the things in the commander’s office?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions first.” Having succeeded in retrieving her pen and notebook, Gemma flipped to a new page and headed it with determination. “Had you noticed anything different about the commander’s behavior recently?”
Ogilvie swiveled his chair towards the window a little and appeared to give the matter serious thought. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I did, but then I knew Alastair for many years and I could never have guessed what he was feeling at any given time. He was a very private person.”
“Any difficulties at work? Could someone have threatened him?”
“You mean some villain threatening to do for the copper as nicked ’im? I do believe you’ve been watching the telly, Sergeant.” Ogilvie gave a bark of amusement and Gemma flushed, but before she could retort, he said, “As you are aware, Gilbert had little to do with day-to-day operational policing. And as he was always better at administration than tactics, I dare say it suited him.” He stood up with a swift grace that increased Gemma’s impression of his fitness. “I’ll take you—”
“Chief Inspector.” Gemma didn’t budge from her chair. “Tell me about the commander’s last day, please. Did he do anything out of the ordinary?”
Rather than sit again, Ogilvie went to the window and fiddled absently with the lever on the blinds. “As far as I can remember he was in and out of departmental meetings all day. The usual drill.”
“It was only two days ago, Chief Inspector,” Gemma said softly.
He turned back to her, hands in his trouser pockets, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m getting old, Sergeant. And I had no reason to pay particular attention to the commander’s movements that day. Have a word with the department secretary, why don’t you? And I know Alastair kept a desk diary. He liked to know where he stood.” As he came around the desk and opened his door, he said, “I’ll just get you started.”
Gemma smiled and thanked him, all the while aware of a distinct feeling that she’d been led a merry dance.
Alastair Gilbert’s office furnishings befitted a commander. Good quality carpeting covered the floor, and the furniture was the impressive sort only senior officers could requisition. A heavy bookcase against one wall held volumes of philosophy and military history as well as police manuals, but other than that Gemma found the room devoid of personality. Of course, she hadn’t really expected Gilbert to accumulate the flotsam that cluttered most people’s work spaces, but the order of this room was not even marred by family photographs. With a sigh she settled down to work.
Not until her stomach growled did she realize she’d missed lunch by several hours. She replaced the papers in the last file and levered herself up from the floor, her joints stiff and aching. Her fingertips felt dry and grimy from handling so many pieces of paper, but her search had yielded absolutely nothing of interest. Gilbert’s meticulous appointment book merely outlined a day that sounded as dull as she felt at that moment.
He had started his last morning with a senior officers’ briefing, then taken care of his correspondence. Before lunch he’d met with a representative from the local council and after lunch with officials from local pressure groups and the Crown Prosecution Service. There was no reference to an after-work meeting, nor had there been any notation for the evening before.
Stretching and smothering a yawn, Gemma conceded for the first time that Kincaid might have a point in not wanting further promotion. She retrieved her handbag from beneath the desk and went to find the loo.
Feeling better once she’d washed her hands and splashed water on her face, she emerged from the building to find the sun miraculously still shining. She stood still and tilted her face up, soaking in the faint warmth obliviously until the door flew open and someone bumped her from behind. “Sorry,” she said automatically, taking in an impression of a stocky female body in a blue uniform, then the face clicked into focus and she gasped. “Jackie? I
