When he’d finished she stared at him for a moment, then said flatly, “You’re not serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.”
“But how could he possibly hurt her? She seems so … fragile.” In her mind Gemma heard the sound of bone snapping, and she saw again Claire’s neck beneath her parted hair, delicate as the stem of a lily.
Kincaid looked down at his hands, fingers splayed on the rough wood of the table. “I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling that Claire’s illusion of fragility made her all the more appealing as a victim.”
The thought made Gemma feel ill, and she crossed her arms protectively over her stomach. “You have no proof.”
“That’s what Nick said.” He shrugged. “I’ve been wrong before. But I’ll have to confront her with it. I don’t think she’s told you the whole truth about the bank account, either. You think it was Ogilvie the manager met?”
It was Gemma’s turn to shrug. “Who else could it have been? No one would ever describe Gilbert as predatory. Maybe we’ve been wrong about Brian and Claire. She and David Ogilvie go way back; maybe they took up where they left off years ago.”
“But if Ogilvie were Claire’s lover, why would he be snooping into her bank account—”
“In either case, how did Gilbert come by the account number? Unless the two things aren’t connected at all, and Claire was simply careless. Maybe she left her checkbook in her handbag—people get careless when they’ve got comfortable with a deception—and Gilbert found it.”
“Or maybe Claire and Ogilvie planned to get rid of Gilbert, and Ogilvie thought she might be double-crossing him, so he checked up on her.” Kincaid looked quite pleased with himself at this last flight of fancy.
“I don’t believe that Claire Gilbert deliberately planned to kill her husband, no matter what he did,” Gemma said, feeling unreasonably irritated with him.
Kincaid sighed. “I don’t want to believe it either, but we have to consider all the options. If she did kill him, I don’t believe she could have done it alone. That’s what made us rule her out in the beginning. Whatever else you might say about Gilbert, he was no softie, and I don’t think she could have sneaked up and hit him in the back of the head without his reacting in time to save himself.”
Glancing at his watch, he said, “Look, Gemma, I have an idea. We can’t talk to Claire until she comes back from Dorking. I’ve just checked in with the Yard when I ran Nick back to Guildford and there’s no word on Ogilvie’s whereabouts, so we’ve reached a standstill on both fronts for the moment.” He squinted up at the sun. “Come for a walk with me.”
“Walk?”
“You know”—he mimed walking with his fingers on the tabletop—“locomotion with two legs. I think we have time before the light goes. We could climb Leith Hill. It’s the highest point in southern England.”
“I don’t have any boots,” she protested. “And I’m not dressed for—”
“Live dangerously. I’ll bet you’ve got trainers in your overnight bag in the boot, and I’ll loan you my anorak. It’s warm enough—I don’t need it. What have you got to lose?”
And so Gemma found herself striding along the road beside him, the nylon of his anorak swishing as she swung her arms. They left the road just past a tidy place called Bulmer Farm, and shortly they were climbing on the signposted path. At first, the land fell away on their right, the slope carpeted with russet leaves and punctuated by the skeletal trunks of pale-barked trees. Soon, however, the banks began to rise steeply on either side, and the path became a muddy rut.
Gemma hopped from dry spot to dry spot, rabbitlike, grabbing vegetation to steady herself and cursing Kincaid for his longer legs. “This is your idea of fun?” she panted, but before he could answer they heard a humming noise behind them. It was a mountain biker, kitted out in helmet and goggles, barreling full tilt along the path towards them. Gemma sprang to one side and scrambled up the bank, clutching a tree root as the biker whizzed by, splattering them with mud.
“Bloody bastard,” she seethed. “We ought to report him.”
“To whom?” asked Kincaid, eyeing the mud on his trousers. “The traffic police?”
“He’d no right—” Gemma said as she let go of the tree root and began a gingerly descent towards level ground. Then her feet shot out from under her. She twisted violently in midair and landed hard on one hip and one palm. Her hand stung like fire, and she snatched it up, swearing viciously.
Kincaid came and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?” The expression on his face told her he was biting back laughter, and that made her more furious.
“Don’t you know better than to touch a nettle?” he asked, taking her hand and examining her palm. He rubbed a smear of mud from her finger with his thumb, and his touch made her skin burn almost as fiercely as the nettle.
She withdrew her hand and pulled herself up, balancing carefully, then stepped for the next spot of dry ground.
“Look for a dock leaf,” Kincaid said from behind her, amusement still coloring his voice.
“Whatever for?” Gemma asked crossly.
“To stop the stinging, of course. Didn’t you ever have holidays in the country as a child?”
“My mum and dad worked seven-day weeks,” she said, standing on her injured dignity. Then after a moment she relented. “Sometimes we went to the seaside.”
It came back to her with the smell of salt air and candy floss—the bite of the water, always too cold for anyone sensible to bathe in, the feel of wet bathing dress and sand against her skin, the squabbling with her sister on the train home. But afterwards had come hot baths and soup and drowsing before the fire, and for a moment she felt a stab of longing for the unquestioned simplicity of it all.
When they reached the summit a half hour later, she sat gratefully on a bench at the base of the brick observation tower and let Kincaid fetch tea from the refreshment kiosk. Her thighs ached from the climb and her hip
