With that thought, memory returned to her sleep-fogged brain, and she realized that Duncan was no longer her comfortable, dependable friend and partner but unknown territory to be navigated with the greatest care.
She might never have been away, thought Gemma as she walked into Notting Hill Police Station. The blue wire chairs in reception were the same, as was the black-and-white-speckled lino on the floor. She had always loved this place, had forgiven it the awkward partitioning of its interior for the symmetrical grace of its exterior. As it was a listed building, no changes were allowed to the outside and very few to the inside, so they managed the best they could.
As she stood awaiting her turn at reception, she imagined the rhythm of the four hundred officers moving through the four floors, the gossip, the boredom, the sudden spasms of frantic activity, and she felt a moment of acute longing for her old life. It had all seemed so much less complicated, then.
“The superintendent said to send you up to CID as soon as you came in,” said the friendly but unfamiliar girl behind the counter. “He’s in Interview Room B. First floor.” Gemma thanked her with tactful restraint, considering that she could have found CID drugged and blindfolded.
Kincaid looked up and smiled as she opened the door. “I brought you some coffee. Sniffed out the good stuff, too, from the department secretary’s office.” He gestured at a still-steaming mug standing on the table beside a stack of file folders. His chestnut hair, which always started out the day neatly brushed, now stood on end—due no doubt to the recent exercise of his habit of running his hand through it when he read or concentrated.
As she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, he tapped at the open folder before him. “It’s all here.”
Gemma forced herself to concentrate. If he had intentionally set out to distract and disarm her he couldn’t have succeeded better. His thoughtfulness in timing the coffee with her arrival, his attempts at cheerful normality, and worst of all, that damned wayward lock of hair. She clasped her hands tightly around the mug to keep from reaching out and brushing the hair back, then said, “What’s all there?”
“The death of Stephen Penmaric, twelve years ago this coming April.”
“Penmaric? But that’s—”
“Lucy Penmaric’s father. They lived here in Notting Hill, in Elgin Crescent. He was struck and killed crossing the Portobello Road, on his way to get some medicine for Lucy at an all-night chemist.”
“Oh, no …” Gemma breathed. Now she understood Claire Gilbert’s oblique comment during their interview, and her heart went out in sympathy to mother and daughter. “That’s too much for anyone to bear, surely. But what has it to do with this?”
“I don’t know.” Kincaid sighed and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “But Alastair Gilbert was superintendent here then. A Sergeant David Ogilvie was the investigating officer.”
Gemma closed her mouth when she realized she was gaping, then said, “I spoke to Ogilvie yesterday at Divisional Headquarters. He’s a chief inspector now, and he was Gilbert’s staff officer.” She recounted the interview, then her visit with Jackie Temple.
“They go back a long way, then,” said Kincaid. “And it most likely has nothing to do with anything … but I think we should have a talk with David Ogilvie about it.”
“What about Stephen Penmaric? Did they find out who ran him down?”
Kincaid shook his head. “Hit and run. It was late at night, there were no witnesses. The copper on the beat saw taillights disappearing around the corner, but by the time he radioed for help the car had vanished.”
“How dreadful for Claire. And for Lucy.”
“He was a journalist, and from what Lucy told me I’d say that, unlike Alastair Gilbert, he was sorely missed.” Gathering up the loose papers, Kincaid closed the file and stacked it neatly with the others. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s walk for a bit.”
It promised to be another clear day, and even in mid-November the trees arching over Ladbroke Grove made a lacy canopy of green. Gemma had followed Kincaid without question and now paced beside him, breathing deeply of the still air but hugging her coat together against the cold.
He glanced at her as if gauging her mood, then said, “I wanted to see it—the house in Elgin Crescent. For some reason I felt a need to meet the ghosts.”
“Only Stephen’s dead,” Gemma said logically.
“You could argue that the Claire and Lucy of twelve years ago no longer exist, either, if you wanted to get into the semantics of time.” He flashed her a grin, then sobered. “But I don’t want to argue with you at all, Gemma.” His steps slowed as he spoke. “I admit I had a double motive—I wanted a chance to talk to you. Look … Gemma … if I’ve done something to offend you, it wasn’t intentional. And if I’ve taken our partnership for granted in the past, I can only say I’m sorry, because the past few days have made me realize how much I depend on your support, on your interpretation of things, on your gut reaction to people. I need you on this case. We need to be communicating, not bumping around in the dark like blind fish in a barrel.” They reached an intersection and he stopped, turning to her. “Can’t we be a team again?”
Thoughts rattled around in Gemma’s head, as disorganized as her emotions. How could she explain to him why she’d been so angry when she didn’t know herself? She knew he was right—they were likely to make a real balls-up of the case if they kept on as they were—and she also knew neither of them could afford that. She, who prided herself on her professionalism above all else, had been behaving like an ass, but the words of an apology stuck in her throat and refused to budge.
Finally, she managed a strangled, “Right, guv,” but she kept her eyes firmly on the pavement.
“Good,” he said. Then as the light changed and they stepped into the street, he added so softly that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly, “That’s a start.”
As they turned into Elgin Crescent a few minutes later, she searched for a safe subject. “It’s got more yuppified since I left.” Every house in the terrace boasted a different-hued stucco unified by gleaming white trim, and each sprouted its baby satellite dish and displayed a plaque announcing the possession of an alarm system.
Kincaid consulted a scrap of paper, and they soon found the house where the Penmarics had occupied the top- floor flat. “And this is one of the victims,” Kincaid said as they surveyed the peach exterior and brilliant black front door. “Lucy said it had a yellow door.” He sounded disappointed.
