Mourn not your Dead

daughter. “That’s too much for anyone to bear, surely. But what has it to do with this?”
    “I don’t know.” Kincaid sighed and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “But Alastair Gilbert was superintendent here then. A Sergeant David Ogilvie was the investigating officer.”
    Gemma closed her mouth when she realized she was gaping, then said, “I spoke to Ogilvie yesterday at Divisional Headquarters. He’s a chief inspector now, and he was Gilbert’s staff officer.” She recounted the interview, then her visit with Jackie Temple.
    “They go back a long way, then,” said Kincaid. “And it most likely has nothing to do with anything... but I think we should have a talk with David Ogilvie about it.”
    “What about Stephen Penmaric? Did they find out who ran him down?”
    Kincaid shook his head. “Hit and run. It was late at night, there were no witnesses. The copper on the beat saw tail-lights disappearing around the corner, but by the time he radioed for help the car had vanished.”
    “How dreadful for Claire. And for Lucy.”
    “He was a journalist, and from what Lucy told me I’d say that, unlike Alastair Gilbert, he was sorely missed.” Gathering up the loose papers, Kincaid closed the file and stacked it neatly with the others. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s walk for a bit.”
     
    IT PROMISED TO BE ANOTHER CLEAR DAY, AND EVEN IN MID-November the trees arching over Ladbroke Grove made a lacy canopy of green. Gemma had followed Kincaid without question and now paced beside him, breathing deeply of the still air but hugging her coat together against the cold.
    He glanced at her as if gauging her mood, then said, “I wanted to see it—the house in Elgin Crescent. For some reason I felt a need to meet the ghosts.”
    “Only Stephen’s dead,” Gemma said logically.
    “You could argue that the Claire and Lucy of twelve years ago no longer exist, either, if you wanted to get into the semantics of time.” He flashed her a grin, then sobered. “But I don’t want to argue with you at all, Gemma.” His steps slowed as he spoke. “I admit I had a double motive—I wanted a chance to talk to you. Look .., Gemma... if I’ve done something to offend you, it wasn’t intentional. And if I’ve taken our partnership for granted in the past, I can only say I’m sorry, because the past few days have made me realize how much I depend on your support, on your interpretation of things, on your gut reaction to people. I need you on this case. We need to be communicating, not bumping around in the dark like blind fish in a barrel.” They reached an intersection and he stopped, turning to her. “Can’t we be a team again?”
    Thoughts rattled around in Gemma’s head, as disorganized as her emotions. How could she explain to him why she’d been so angry when she didn’t know herself? She knew he was right—they were likely to make a real balls-up of the case if they kept on as they were—and she also knew neither of them could afford that. She, who prided herself on her professionalism above all else, had been behaving like an ass, but the words of an apology stuck in her throat and refused to budge.
    Finally, she managed a strangled, “Right, guv,” but she kept her eyes firmly on the pavement.
    “Good,” he said. Then as the light changed and they stepped into the street, he added so softly that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly, “That’s a start.”
    As they turned into Elgin Crescent a few minutes later, she searched for a safe subject. “It’s got more yuppified since I left.” Every house in the terrace boasted a different-hued stucco unified by gleaming white trim, and each sprouted its baby satellite dish and displayed a plaque announcing the possession of an alarm system.
    Kincaid consulted a scrap of paper, and they soon found the house where the Penmarics had occupied the top-floor flat. “And this is one of the victims,” Kincaid said as they surveyed the peach exterior and brilliant black front door. “Lucy said it had a yellow door.” He sounded disappointed.
    “I suppose it’s a good thing”—with her toe Gemma poked at a bit of plasterboard that had strayed from the rubbish tip and the scaffolding in the garden next door—“this gentrification. Improves the neighborhood and all that, but somehow I miss the character of the old one. It was comfortable and just
    a wee bit shabby, someplace where you could come home, take your