“I’m just ‘Doc’ to everyone except the hospital administrators. They like to maintain a certain distance.” She chuckled as she sat down and picked up a cup of coffee that still had steam rising from the top. “Ah, there’s Paul now. My husband,” she added as a man came through the back door, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Hullo.” He shook their hands as they introduced themselves. “Sorry if I’m damp. I’ve had Bess out for her walk and it’s a bit mucky. Had to hose her down just now in the garden.” Paul Wilson was dressed much like his wife, in serviceable trousers and pullover, but the resemblance went further than that. Short, stocky, and balding, he had about him the same friendly, no-nonsense air.
“Paul does mostly consulting now, so he’s home quite a bit during the day,” volunteered Dr. Wilson. “Now what can we do for you?”
“According to the statement you made, you were out on Wednesday night, Doctor,” said Kincaid, consulting his notes. “You left the house about half past six?”
“Patient went into labor. First baby, too, took most of the night.”
“And you didn’t notice anything unusual at the Gilberts’ as you were leaving?”
She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and flicked a glance at the wall clock before answering. “I also told your nice constable that I saw nothing out of the ordinary, but I suppose you have to be thorough. I have no idea if Alastair was at home then. It was fully dark, of course, and you can’t see the Gilberts’ garage from the lane in any case. What I do know,” she said before Kincaid could interrupt her, “is that if I’d got home before all the commotion died down, I’d have insisted on seeing Claire Gilbert. It’s unthinkable that she hadn’t any-one with her.” She thumped her coffee cup on the table for emphasis.
“She’s your patient, then?” asked Kincaid, jumping on the lead.
“They both were, but that’s really not pertinent. I’d do the same for anybody.” She glanced at her husband and some of the starch seemed to go out of her. “What a dreadful business,” she said on a sigh.
“And you, Mr. Wilson?” asked Deveney. “
“Until about half past two in the morning, when my wife called me to pull her out of a ditch. It’s not the first time,” he added affectionately “I’ve considered that a part of my job description for years, always keep a tow rope in the boot of the Volvo.”
“And you heard nothing unusual, either?” Deveney’s voice held a touch of exasperation.
“No, I had the telly on in the back. It was only when I took Bess for her bedtime outing that I saw the lights flashing and went to investigate. I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely apologetic.
Kincaid let the silence linger a moment, then said softly, “I understand that you had a disagreement with Commander Gilbert recently, Dr. Wilson.”
The doctor’s coffee cup paused for an instant in its journey to her mouth, but she recovered quickly. “Whatever gave you that idea?” She sounded amused, but she shifted slightly in her chair, turning her head so that her husband wasn’t directly in her line of sight.
“Geoff Genovase told my sergeant that he overheard the tail end of a quarrel between you.”
She relaxed a bit, sipping at the last of her coffee. “Ah, that would have been the Saturday before last, when Geoff was here to mulch the beds. I wouldn’t give too much credence to Geoff’s account, Superintendent. The boy has a very active imagination—comes from playing too many of those silly computer games, if you ask me.”
“According to Sergeant James,” put in Deveney, “Geoff had the very distinct impression that you’d had a row.”
Paul Wilson had been leaning against the counter with his arms folded, listening with an expression of friendly interest. Now he came to stand behind his wife, hands on the back of her chair. “The commander’s manner was often abrupt,” he said. “Pookie’s right, you know. I’m sure that Geoff misinterpreted something perfectly ordinary.”
“Excuse me?” said Kincaid, wondering if he’d missed something.
The doctor laughed. “That’s been my nickname since childhood, Superintendent. ‘Gabriella’ was too big a mouthful for my brothers and sisters.”
The nickname suited her, he thought, without diminishing her dignity. She seemed a person to whom directness came naturally, and he wondered why she was evading the issue. “Why did Commander Gilbert come to see you that day?” he asked.
“Superintendent, I’d be violating my patient’s confidentiality if I told you that,” she said firmly, but she tilted her head back against her husband’s hand as if drawing support from his touch. “I can assure you it had nothing to do with his death.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Doctor? You have no way of knowing what may be important in a murder investigation. And besides”—he paused, looking at her until she dropped her gaze—“you can’t violate the confidentiality of a dead man.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. There was no row.”
“You’ll be late for your rounds if you don’t get a move on, love,” her husband murmured, but Kincaid saw his fingers tighten on her shoulders.
Nodding, she stood and helped him gather their dishes. “Old Mrs. Parkinson will be ringing any minute, wanting to know where I am,” she grumbled as she carried their plates to the sink.
“Just a moment, Doctor.” Kincaid still sat among the welter of paper, arms folded, even though Deveney had risen with the Wilsons. “You reported a burglary several weeks ago. Can you tell me exactly what was taken?”
“Oh, that.” Doc Wilson dumped the plates in the sink and turned back to him. “I wish now I hadn’t bothered to phone it in. It’s been more trouble than it’s worth, what with the paperwork and all, and we never had any hope of getting the things back. Well, you don’t, do you?”
“It was only a few items of inexpensive jewelry and some keepsakes … mementos, that sort of thing,” said Paul Wilson. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want them, and they left the TV and video. A very odd business altogether.”
