she took the opportunity to have a word with Claire Gilbert? She felt she and Claire had established a rapport of sorts and that perhaps she had a better chance of winning Claire’s confidence alone.
Letting herself in through the gate, she bypassed the dark, austere front door that seemed to her to symbolize Alastair Gilbert’s presence in the house, and took the path to the back garden.
The sight that greeted her might have graced a painter’s canvas. A white wrought-iron chair had been pulled out into a sunny patch on the green square of lawn. In it sat Claire, wearing a high-necked Victorian blouse and skirt like a drift of wild flowers. Lucy sat on the ground beside her, head against her mother’s knee. Lewis gamboled about with a tennis ball in his mouth, which he promptly dropped in his eagerness to greet Gemma.
“Sergeant,” said Claire as Gemma crossed the lawn, “get another chair and join us. It’s positively indecent, isn’t it, for November?” She turned a palm up to the flawless azure sky. “Have some lemonade. It’s the real thing, not the fizzy stuff from a bottle. Lucy made it herself.”
“I’ll just get you a glass,” said Lucy with a smile, and pushed herself up with graceful ease. “No, Lewis,” she scolded as she pulled over a chair for Gemma. “She doesn’t want to play with you just now, silly beast.” The dog cocked his head and panted, the pink of his lolling tongue bright against his dark muzzle.
“I feel an absolute layabout,” said Gemma, but she sank into the chair gratefully
Claire closed her eyes. “Sometimes it’s the best option, and we don’t take it often enough.”
“Everyone seems to be telling me that today. Is there a conspiracy?”
Claire laughed. “Did you grow up having ‘the devil finds work for idle hands’ drummed into you, too? Funny how hard it is to shake those things.”
Lucy returned with a glass of lemonade for Gemma and resumed her place beside her mother’s chair. “Shake what things?” she asked, looking up at them.
“Things we learned at our mother’s knees,” Claire answered lightly, running a hand through her daughter’s hair. “How to listen, how to please, how to do what’s expected of us. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?” She gave Gemma a quizzical glance. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Sergeant’—it’s Gemma, isn’t it?”
Gemma nodded, thinking of her mother’s outspoken independence (bloody-mindedness, her dad had been known to call it). Yet even with that influence, Gemma had tiptoed around Rob’s every whim as if he were royalty. The memory made her wince. Where did such behavior come from, and how did one guard against it?
“I’d better get ready,” said Lucy, breaking into Gemma’s reverie. “Dog drool doesn’t exactly suit the occasion.” She stood up and brushed at her shirt.
“Occasion?” asked Gemma.
“We’re taking Gwen out for tea and Mum says I have to wear something ‘appropriate.’ Don’t you hate that word?”
“It’s dreadful,” Gemma agreed with a smile. “How’s his mother coping, by the way?”
“I’ll be along in a minute, love,” Claire said to Lucy, then turned back to Gemma. “As well as can be expected. The shock seems to have made her a bit fuzzy. Sometimes she seems to forget what’s happened, but when she remembers she’s worrying herself over the funeral.” Claire gazed at the trees that climbed the slope behind the garden. When the kitchen door had banged behind her daughter, she said, “Since we have no idea when the coroner will release the body, Becca thinks we might hold a small memorial service without making a feast for the press.” With a hint of a smile, she added, “I think Alastair would have felt quite let down, actually, not to be shown proper respect. Black armbands and pallbearers, and all the gallant officers in uniform.”
Claire finished the last of her lemonade and glanced at her watch. “I suppose I’d better get into something more suitable myself before I drive to Dorking to pick up Gwen.”
“I did just want a word,” said Gemma, “if you could stay a bit longer.”
Claire sank back into her chair and looked at Gemma attentively.
“It’s about your bank account, Mrs. Gilbert. The one you opened in Dorking. Why did you have all the correspondence sent to you at work?”
“Bank account?” said Claire blankly, staring at Gemma. “But how—” She blinked and looked away, and after a moment smoothed down the fabric of her skirt where she’d bunched it with her fist. “I was a very well-supervised only child, and I married Stephen at nineteen, straight from my parents’ arms to his. Except for that short period of time after Stephen died, I have never lived alone.” She met Gemma’s gaze again, her eyes fierce. “Do you understand what it’s like to want something just for yourself? Have you ever felt that? That’s all I wanted, something no one else could touch. I didn’t have to ask permission to spend it, didn’t have to justify myself. It was glorious, and it was my secret.” Glancing down at the hands she’d balled into tight fists again, she took a breath. “How did you find out about it? Malcolm wouldn’t have told you.”
“No,” Gemma said softly, “he didn’t. We found the account number in your husband’s pocket.”
* * *
Gemma sat at the picnic table in the front garden of the pub, watching the life of the village revolve around her. Brian went by in the small white van; Claire and Lucy left in their Volvo; Geoff stopped and spoke to her as he went to help the vicar in her garden.
After a bit she closed her eyes, willing herself not to think—not about Jackie, not about Alastair Gilbert, not about … anything. The sun felt hot on her skin, and it was only the coolness of the shadow falling across her face that made her open her eyes with a start.
“Care to tell me about it?” asked Kincaid.
“Where did you—I didn’t see you drive past.”
“Obviously.” He raised an eyebrow as he slid onto the bench opposite her.
Nettled by his teasing, Gemma launched into an account of her trip to Dorking with Will, then, a bit more hesitantly, her visit to Claire.
Kincaid’s only comment was the raising of his eyebrow a fraction of an inch higher. In an expressionless voice he told her about his interview with the doctor.
