Mourn not your Dead

suspect it’s nothing personal—that David Ogilvie dislikes everyone equally. But why don’t you stop by the station again? Have a word with your friend Jackie if you can track her down, see what she thinks about Chief Inspector Ogilvie.
    “Then meet me at the Yard and we’ll take a car from the pool for the drive back to Surrey.” For a few minutes they walked in silence, then, as they reached the intersection where their ways parted, he mused aloud, “I do wonder, though, if Ogilvie was entirely immune to Claire Penmaric’s appeal.”
     
    JACKIE TEMPLE EASED A FINGER INTO THE WAISTBAND OF HER uniform trousers and took a deep breath. She found it difficult to believe that anyone who walked as many miles a day as she did could possibly put on weight, but the physical evidence was undeniable. Time to get out the sewing box and hope that the seam held a generous amount of fabric, she thought with a sigh. She did so look forward to her elevenses, and she only had a few blocks to go before she reached the stall just off the Portobello Road where she usually stopped for her break. Ordering one sticky bun rather than two with her tea would make her feel as though she’d taken a stand against the creeping pounds, but she’d be ravenous by the time she finished her shift at three.
    Slowing her pace, she scanned the knot of pedestrians blocking the pavement just ahead. It sorted itself out quickly enough—just a case of too many people going in opposite directions at the same time—and left her free to pursue her thoughts. In her years of walking the beat she’d developed a facility for dividing her mind. One half was ever alert for anything out of the ordinary in her territory. It responded to greetings from familiar residents and shopkeepers, made routine checks, noticed those loitering a bit too conspicuously, and all the while the other part of her mind lived a life of its own, speculating and daydreaming.
    She thought of her unexpected meeting with Gemma yesterday. Although she had to admit she envied her friend’s status as a sergeant in the CID just a bit, she’d never really wanted to do anything more than walk a beat. She’d found her niche, and it suited her.
    Not that she’d mind having Gemma’s figure, she thought with a smile as she passed the homeopathic chemist’s and saluted Mr. Dodd, the owner. In fact, she mused as she turned the corner and saw the stall’s cheerful red awning ahead, it seemed to her that Gemma was thinner than she remembered and had a transparent quality, as if she were stretched beyond her resources. Jackie suspected that this was not entirely due to pressure of work, but she’d never been one to force confidences.
    A few minutes later, holding her steaming tea in its polystyrene cup in one hand, and her solitary and virtuous bun in the other, Jackie leaned her back against the stall’s brick wall and surveyed the street. She blinked as she saw a flash of red hair, then a familiar face coming through the crowd towards her. It occurred to her that she should feel surprise, but instead she had an odd sense of inevitability. She waved, and a moment later Gemma reached her.
    “I was just thinking about you,” said Jackie. “Do you suppose I conjured you up, or is this one of those coincidences you read about in the tabloids?”
    “I don’t think I’d last long as a genic,” Gemma answered, laughing. Her cheeks were pink with the cold, and her copper hair had been teased from its plait by the wind. “But maybe you should nominate your guv’nor. He has you timed down to the minute.” Eyeing Jackie’s bun, she pinched a currant from it. “That looks wonderful. I’m starved. One thing about CID—you learn never to pass up an opportunity for a meal.”
    As she examined the stall’s menu board, Jackie studied her. Gemma’s loosely cut rust-colored blazer and tan chinos looked casual yet smart, something that Jackie never felt she quite managed to achieve. “Nice outfit,” she said, when Gemma had ordered tea and a croissant with ham and cheese. “I guess I’m just fashion-impaired, which is probably one reason I stayed in uniform.” With a mouthful of bun, she added, “You look much better today, by the way, roses back in your cheeks and all that. I’d just been thinking that you looked a bit done-up yesterday.”
    “Put it down to a good night’s sleep,” Gemma said easily, but she looked down, twisting the ring she wore on her right hand. Then she