Mourn not your Dead

“It was almost half past seven when the nine-nine-nine call came through.”
    “Was it?” Shifting in his chair, Geoff rubbed a thumb against his bare wrist. “I didn’t realize. I haven’t worn a watch since I bid Her Majesty’s hospitality farewell,” he said with an unexpected trace of humor.
    “You know I have to ask you this—” Gemma gave him an answering smile. “Where were you between six o’clock and half past seven on that Wednesday evening?”
    Geoff dropped his laced fingers into his lap. “I’d finished in Becca’s garden—about five, I’d say it was—then I came in and had a bath to get the muck off.”
    He’s on firm ground now, thought Kincaid, watching Geoff’s relaxed posture.
    “And after that?” asked Gemma, settling a bit more comfortably into her chair.
    “I got on-line. I’d been looking for some communications software that might perform a little better than what I’ve been using. Brian stopped by for a word at one point, but I’m not sure when.”
    Kincaid met Deveney’s eyes. The on-line connection shouldn’t be difficult to check, but how could they be sure Geoff didn’t leave the computer downloading automatically while he ran across the road long enough to kill the commander?
    “I’d just finished when I heard the sirens, then Brian came upstairs to tell me something had happened at the Gilberts’.”
    That struck Kincaid as a bit odd. With a bar full of able-bodied customers, why had Brian felt it necessary to inform his son before he charged across the road to investigate?
    “Anyone else see you?” Gemma asked hopefully, but Geoff shook his head.
    “Can I go home now?” he asked, but his tone held little optimism.
    Gemma glanced at Kincaid, then studied Geoff for a moment before she said, “I want to help you, Geoff, but I’m afraid we may need to keep you a bit longer. You do understand, don’t you, that if your neighbors positively identify the things we found in your room, we’ll have to charge you with burglary?”
     
     
    WILL DARLING STOOD IN THE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE THE INTER-view room, looking as relaxed as if he’d been napping on his feet. “Brian Genovase asked for a word with you in private, sir,” he said as Kincaid came out and shut the door. “I’ve put him in the canteen with a cuppa—thought it might be a bit more comfortable there.”
    “Thanks, Will.” Kincaid had left Gemma and Deveney to take Geoff s statement, in hopes that he might catch up on his own paperwork, but he should have known it wasn’t a likely prospect.
    The smell of hot grease made his throat close convulsively. It also made him realize, with a stomach-turning queasiness, that he was ravenously hungry. Vaguely, he remembered lunch, and a look at his watch told him it was after eight o’clock.
    The room was almost empty and he quickly spotted Brian, who sat staring fixedly into his cup. Kincaid got himself a cup of tea so dark it might have been coffee and joined Brian at the small orange-topped table. “Disgusting color, isn’t it?” Kincaid asked, rapping the table with his knuckles as he sat down. “Reminds me of baby food. Always wondered who’s in charge of the decorating.”
    Brian looked at him blankly, as if trying to decipher a foreign language, then said, “Is he all right? I’ve called our solicitor, but he’s not in.”
    “Geoff is making a statement just now, and he seems to be coping reasonably—”
    “No, no, you don’t understand,” said Brian, pushing his cup out of the way. The spoon fell from the saucer with a clatter. “I know you think I’m behaving like a broody old hen over a grown son, but you don’t understand about Geoff.
    “You see, his mum left us when Geoff was only six. The poor kid thought it was his fault, and he was terrified I’d leave him, too. I had a good job then as a commercial traveler, and I could afford to pay someone to stay with him when I was away, but he’d panic every time. At first I thought he’d get over it, but instead he got worse. Finally I quit the job and invested my savings in the pub.”
    “And did that help?” asked Kincaid, giving his muddy tea a desultory stir.
    “After a bit,” said Brian, sitting back in his chair and regarding Kincaid levelly. “But it was only then that I began to find out what she’d done to him. She told him it was his fault she was leaving, that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t ‘measure up.’ And before that, she did...” He shook his head,