Mourn Not Your Dead

“There’s Jackie,” she said flatly.

He rubbed his fingers over his cheekbones, stretching the tired muscles around his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten Jackie, love. Let’s take this whole Ogilvie mess to the chief and let him contact Complaints and Discipline. And I don’t think we’d be amiss in mentioning Sergeant Talley, while we’re at it.”

Chief Superintendent Denis Childs having agreed that the Ogilvie matter was best turned over to C&D, Kincaid followed Gemma back to his office with a feeling of relief. “Let them put the squeeze on Ogilvie, up the pressure a bit. Then we’ll ask him where he was the afternoon Gilbert died.” He unfastened his collar button. “But for now let’s call it a day.”

Gemma had hung her bag on the coat stand, and it seemed to him that she stood now a little aimlessly, as if she didn’t quite want to go. “We could go down the pub for a drink, if you like,” he said, trying to banish entreaty from his voice.

She hesitated and his hopes rose, but after a moment she said, “I suppose I’d better not. I’ve spent little enough time with Toby lately as it is. It’s just that I’m not sure I want to be—”

The phone rang, startling them both. Kincaid jerked the handset out of the cradle, held it to his ear. “Kincaid.”

Will Darling’s voice came over the line. “You were right, guv, but I don’t know what it means. There was a number penciled on the back of a dry-cleaning ticket crumpled up in Gilbert’s pocket. I kept looking at it, thinking the sequence was wrong for a phone number. Then, bingo, the old light-bulb went on, and I thought It’s a bloody bank account. I checked it against the Gilberts’ joint account at Lloyd’s—no match. Took me all afternoon, but I found the branch bank that uses that number sequence in Dorking, and I ran a bit of a bluff. Told them I was Darling’s Jewelry in Guildford, and I had a check in my hand for the amount of a thousand pounds and wanted to verify sufficient funds in the account to cover it. Name of Gilbert, account number so-and-so—”

“And?” Kincaid hurried him.

“They said no problem—Mrs. Gilbert’s account contained sufficient funds to cover the check.”

CHAPTER

13

When Gemma slipped quietly into Kincaid’s office the following morning, he was sitting exactly as she’d left him the night before—one elbow on the desk and his fingers thrust through his hair, staring down at a pile of reports. With his tie loosened and his shirt suspiciously rumpled, he looked even more exhausted than he had yesterday.

“You did go home, didn’t you?” As she hung her coat on the rack, Gemma felt a stab of guilt thinking of the few hours she’d managed away from the Yard. But even though she’d got back to her flat, she’d tossed and turned, her sleep interrupted by dreams of Jackie holding a fair-haired child. Finally she had risen and knelt beside Toby’s cot, resting her palm on the flat of his back so that she could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. By the time the oblong of the garden window began to pale, her legs had long gone numb.

Kincaid looked up and smiled. “Scout’s honor. Couldn’t seem to sleep, though, so I came back in the wee hours.” He stretched, cracking his knuckles, and pushed the papers away. “I’m beginning to feel like a bloody Ping- Pong ball with this case. London-Surrey, Surrey-London.” He swiveled his head back and forth as he spoke. “We find out yesterday that there’s some funny business going on with the Gilberts, then first thing this morning a bloke from C&D calls, says when they tried to contact David Ogilvie this morning, they discovered he’s disappeared from his training course. Seems he was supposed to teach a final workshop today and he just didn’t show. His hotel room’s been cleaned out, too.”

Gemma sank into a chair and whistled softly. “Maybe he left a message and it got lost somehow. You know, family emergency or something.”

“Playing the devil’s advocate?” Kincaid sat up a bit straighten

“It is possible,” Gemma countered.

“But highly unlikely.”

Conceding, Gemma nodded. “So where is he, and what are C&D doing about it?”

“Tracing primary contacts, making the most obvious inquiries. They don’t feel they have enough on him to pull out all the stops yet. What I’d like to know is what precipitated such a flight. If he arranged Jackie’s death, why wait almost two days before panicking?”

“Why panic at all?” Gemma traced a circle in the dust on Kincaid’s desk, then drew another. “Unless we stirred the mud more than we intended yesterday. But in that case, who tipped him off?” She connected the circles with a wavy line, then wiped the smudge from her fingertip.

“Could be as simple as his secretary, nice Mrs. what’s-her-name, telling him we were inquiring about his movements on the night Gilbert died, but I’d have expected a cooler response from an experienced copper like Ogilvie—a good bluff at the very least.”

Gemma nodded. “Cool personified, is Ogilvie. But what about—”

“Talley? The converse, I should think. C&D will begin on him today, and their wheels grind very fine indeed. But in the meantime, there’s not much we can do on that end.” Kincaid yawned.

“What’s next then, guv?” asked Gemma.

“You can make us some coffee, there’s a good girl,” Kincaid said, grinning at her.

It was an old running gag between them, and this morning Gemma didn’t feel inclined to disappoint him. “You can make your own bloody coffee, sir,” she answered, not quite managing a scowl. “I’ll make some for myself, though, and if you’re very nice to me I might just spare you a cup.” Rising from the chair, she added, “But seriously—”

“Back to Surrey, I think. Do you want to go with Will to interview the bank manager in Dorking?”