Mourn not your Dead

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. “You’d better fill me in on this one, guv.”
    Kincaid saw the flash of Williams’s 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. What’s 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 he’d heard all evening, “Commander Gilbert? Jesus. Any leads?”
    “Not that I’ve been told, but it’s early days yet,” Kincaid said, turning to study her.
    She shook her head. “There will be an unholy stink over this one, then. And aren’t 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, “Didn’t 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 haven’t messed about with the body.”
    Kincaid smiled in the dark. Gemma’s possessiveness over bodies always amused him. From the beginning of a case, she considered the corpse her personal property and she didn’t 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. “They’ve promised to leave it until we’ve 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 they’ll 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.
    “There,” said Kincaid, wiping condensation from his window with the sleeve of his coat. “This must be it.”
    Turning to look out her window, Gemma said, “Look. I’ve never seen that particular sign before.” He heard the pleasure in her voice.
    Kincaid leaned across her just in time to catch a glimpse of a swinging pub sign showing two lovers silhouetted against a smiling moon. Then he felt Gemma’s breath against his cheek and caught the faint scent of peaches that always seemed to hover about her. He sat back quickly and turned his attention ahead.
    The lane narrowed past the pub, and the blue flashing of the panda cars’ lights lit the scene with an eerie radiance. Williams brought their car to a halt several yards back from the last car and almost against the right-hand hedge, making allowance, Kincaid guessed, for the passing of the coroner’s van. They slid from the car, stretching their cramped legs and huddling closer in their coats as the November chill struck them. A low mist hung in the still air, and plumes of condensation formed before their faces as they breathed.
    A constable materialized before them in the lane, Cheshire Cat-like, the white checks on his hatband creating a snaggle-toothed smile. Kincaid identified them, then peered through the gate from which the constable had come, trying to make out features in the dark bulk of the