Mourn not your Dead

a meeting at Guildford Police Station before she came down for breakfast. Over solitary toast and boiled egg she tried to convince herself that she really hadn’t any reason to feel guilty. Kincaid had excused himself after dinner with a too-polite reserve, and she’d been left to fend off the good-natured Deveney.
    She hadn’t deliberately set out to make Kincaid jealous—she’d always despised women who used such tactics—but Deveney’s interest and Kincaid’s growing discomfort had fueled her like water on a grease fire. In the more sober light of day, she realized she’d have to be a bit more careful with Nick Deveney. He was an attractive single man, but to have him making overtures was the last thing she needed just now. And Kincaid—the reasons she had enjoyed making him squirm didn’t bear too close an examination.
    Deliberately, she turned her attention to more comfortable subjects.
    Now, as the Surrey countryside gradually disappeared into the suburban sprawl of London, she thought about Alastair Gilbert, who had taken this same train every morning. She pictured him sitting where she sat, watching the world with careful eyes, briefcase close to his lap. What had he thought about as the miles clicked away? Or had he buried himself in his Times and not thought at all? Had any of the other passengers noticed his absence, wondered what had happened to the small, dapper man? Her eyes drifted closed until the squeal of brakes announced their arrival at Victoria.
    Gemma walked up Victoria Street towards Buckingham Gate, taking her time, enjoying the thin sunshine that had followed last night’s downpour. As she turned into Broadway, she found the sight of the Yard surprisingly welcome. For once, its stark aspect proved comforting, and it felt good to be on firm ground again.
    Having made a brief report to Chief Superintendent Childs, she appropriated Kincaid’s office, but found none of her usual satisfaction in it. It allowed her the peace she needed to organize her day, however, and soon she had made an appointment with Commander Gilbert’s staff officer, Chief Inspector David Ogilvie, and was on her way to the Divisional Headquarters in Notting Dale.
     
    SHE REMEMBERED OGILVIE FROM HER NOTTING HILL DAYS, before he, like Gilbert, had transferred to Divisional Headquarters. He’d been an inspector then, and she’d felt a bit frightened of him. His dark hawkish looks had made his reputation as a ladies’ man plausible, but he seldom smiled, and his tongue was known to be as sharp as the jut of his nose.
    Steeling herself for an unpleasant interview, she introduced herself to the duty officer and sat down in the reception area to wait until Ogilvie sent for her. Much to her surprise, Ogilvie appeared himself a few moments later, hand outstretched in welcome. He hadn’t changed much, she thought, studying him as she shook his hand. Flecks of gray had appeared in his thick, dark hair, and the angles of his face were a bit more prominent, his body a little leaner.
    He led her to his office, seated her cordially, then surprised her again by taking the initiative before she could get her notebook and pen out. “This business about Alastair Gilbert is shocking. I don’t think any of us have quite taken it in yet. We keep waiting for someone to tell us it was all a mistake.” He paused while he aligned some loose papers on his desk, then gazed at her directly.
    His eyes were a very dark pure gray, set off to perfection by the charcoal herringbone of his jacket. Gemma looked away. “I’m sure it must be hard for you, having worked with—”
    “You were part of the team called to the scene,” he interrupted, ignoring her condolence. “I want you to tell me what happened.”
    “But you’ll have seen a report—”
    Shaking his head, he leaned towards her, his eyes dilated. ‘That’s not good enough. I want to know what it looked like, what was said, down to the last detail.”
    Gemma felt a prickle of sweat break out under her arms. What in hell was he playing at? Was this some sort of test of her abilities? And was she obliged to answer him? The silence stretched, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. What harm could it do, after all? He had access to the incident files anyway, and she needed to establish some sort of rapport with him. She took a deep breath and began.
    Ogilvie sat very still while she talked, and when she’d finished he relaxed back into his chair and smiled at her.