Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

The fourth book in the Duncan Kincaid / Gemma James series, 1996

Special thanks are due to my friend Paul Styles (former chief inspector, Cambridgeshire Constabulary), who tried to keep me on the straight and narrow, and is not responsible for any deviations I may have made from proper police procedure for the sake of story. Diane Sullivan, RN, BSN, certified flight registered nurse, provided details on injuries and related first aid; Carol Chase vetted the manuscript; and David and Gill Hill, owners of Bulmer Farm in Holmbury St. Mary, Surrey, provided me with maps, information, and warm hospitality while I was researching this book.

Although the village of Holmbury St. Mary and its church do indeed exist, all the characters portrayed in this novel are entirely a product of the authors imagination.

His office seemed to shrink as he paced. The walls drew in, their angles distorted by the elongated shadows cast from the swivel lamp on his desk. The Yard always felt a bit eerie at night, as if the very emptiness of the rooms had a presence. He stopped at the bookcases and ran his finger along the spines of the well-thumbed books on the top shelf. Archeology, art canals crime reference Many of them were gifts from his mother, sent in her continual quest to remedy what she considered his lack of a proper education. Although hed tried to group them alphabetically by subject, there were a few inevitable strays. Kincaid shook his head-would that he could order his life even half as well as he did his books.

He glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, then crossed to his desk and sat down very deliberately. The call that had brought him in had been urgent-a high-ranking police officer found murdered-and if Gemma didnt arrive soon hed have to go on to the crime scene without her. Shed not been in to work since she had left his flat on Friday evening. And although she had called in and requested leave from the chief superintendent, she had not answered Kincaids increasingly frantic calls over the past five days. Tonight Kincaid had asked the duty sergeant to contact her, and shed responded.

Unable to contain his restlessness, he rose again and had reached to pull his jacket from the coat stand when he heard the soft click of the latch. He turned and saw her standing with her back to the door, watching him, and a foolish grin spread across his face. Gemma!

Hullo, guv.

Ive tried and tried to ring you. I thought something must have happened-

She was already shaking her head. I went to my sisters for a few days. I needed some time-

We have to talk. He moved a step nearer and stopped, examining her. She looked exhausted, her pale face almost transparent against the copper of her hair, and the skin beneath her eyes held faint purple shadows. Gemma-

Theres nothing to say. She slumped, resting her shoulders against the door as if she needed its support. It was all a dreadful mistake. You can see that, cant you?

He stared at her, astonishment freezing his tongue. A mistake? he managed finally, then wiped a hand across his suddenly dry lips. Gemma, I dont understand.

It never happened. She took a step towards him, entreating, then stopped as if afraid of his physical proximity.

It did happen. You cant change that, and I dont want to. He went to her then and put his hands on her shoulders, trying to draw her to him. Gemma, please, listen to me. For an instant he thought she might tilt her head into the hollow of his shoulder, relax against him. Then he felt her shoulders tense under his fingers and she pulled away.

Look at us. Look at where we bloody are, she said, thumping a fist against the door at her back. We cant do this. Ive compromised myself enough already. She took a ragged breath and added, spacing the words out as if to emphasize their weight, I cant afford it. Ive my career to think of and Toby.

The phone rang, its short double brrr echoing loudly in the small room. He stepped back to his desk and fumbled for the receiver, bringing it to his ear. Kincaid, he said shortly, then listened for a moment. Right, thanks. Replacing the handset in the cradle, he looked at Gemma. Cars waiting. Sentences formed and dissolved in his mind, each sounding more futile than the last. This was not the time or the place to discuss it, and he would only embarrass them both by going on about it now.

Finally, he turned away and slipped into his jacket, using the moment to swallow his disappointment and compose his features in as neutral an expression as he could manage. Facing her again, he said, Ready, Sergeant?

Big Ben struck ten oclock as the car sped south across Westminster bridge, and in the backseat beside Gemma, Kincaid watched the lights shimmer on the Thames. They sat in silence as the car zigzagged on through south London, inching its way towards Surrey. Even their driver, a usually chatty PC called Williams, seemed to have caught their mood, remaining hunched in taciturn concentration over the wheel.

Clapham had vanished behind them when Gemma spoke. Youd better fill me in on this one, guv.

Kincaid saw the flash of Williamss eyes as he cast a surprised glance at them in the rearview mirror. Gemma should have been briefed, of course, and he roused himself to answer as ordinarily as possible. Gossip in the ranks would do neither of them any good. Little village near Guildford. Whats it called, Williams?

Holmbury St. Mary, sir.

Right. Alastair Gilbert, the division commander at Not-ting Dale, found in his kitchen with his head bashed in.

He heard Gemma draw a sharp breath, then she said with the first spark of interest hed heard all evening, Commander Gilbert? Jesus. Any leads?

Not that Ive been told, but its early days yet, Kincaid said, turning to study her.

She shook her head. There will be an unholy stink over this one, then. And arent we the lucky coppers, having it land in our laps? When Kincaid snorted in wry agreement, she glanced at him and added, You must have known him.

Shrugging, he said, Didnt everyone? He was unwilling to elaborate in front of Williams.

Gemma settled back into her seat. After a moment she said, The local lads will have been there before us. Hope they havent messed about with the body.

Kincaid smiled in the dark. Gemmas possessiveness over bodies always amused him. From the beginning of a case, she considered the corpse her personal property and she didnt take unnecessary interference kindly. Tonight, however, her prickliness brought him a sense of relief. It meant she had engaged herself in the case, and it allowed him to hope that their working relationship, at least, was not beyond salvage. Theyve promised to leave it until weve had a chance to see things in situ.

Gemma nodded in satisfaction. Good. Do we know who found him?

Wife and daughter.

Ugh. She wrinkled her nose. Not at all nice.

At least theyll have a WPC to do the hand-holding, Kincaid said, making a halfhearted attempt to tease her. Lets you off the hook. Gemma often complained that female officers were good for more than breaking bad news to victims families and offering comforting shoulders, but when the task fell to her she did it exceptionally well.

I should hope so, she answered and looked away. But not before he thought he saw her lips curve in a smile.

A half hour later they left the A road at Abinger Hammer, and after a few miles of twisting and turning down a narrow lane, they entered the sleepy village of Holmbury St. Mary. Williams pulled onto the verge and consulted a scribbled sheet of directions under the map light. When the road curves left we stay straight on, just to the right of the pub, he muttered as he put the car into gear again.