Mourn not your Dead

drink.
    “And?” Gemma prompted, her curiosity thoroughly aroused.
    “He said that the way he heard it, the bad blood between Gilbert and Ogilvie had nothing to do with a woman. Rumor had it that Gilbert blocked Ogilvie’s promotion, told the review board that he thought Ogilvie was too much a maverick to make a good senior officer. They’d been partners, and it was common knowledge among the lads that Gilbert was incompetent and Ogilvie had covered his ass more than once.” Jackie shook her head in disgust. “Can you imagine? Ogilvie did get promoted eventually, when Gilbert was no longer his senior officer, but I doubt he ever forgave Gilbert.”
    “Do you suppose Ogilvie hated him enough to murder him, after all these years?” Gemma thought a moment, frowning. “From what I’ve learned about Alastair Gilbert, I wouldn’t be surprised if he blocked Ogilvie’s promotion out of spite, because he was jealous of him. This all happened about the time they both met Claire, didn’t it?”
    “I think so, but I’m not sure. You’d have to check the records. Gemma—”
    “I know. If I don’t let you get ready, you’ll be late.” Gemma picked up her empty glass, intending to take it to the kitchen.
    “That’s not it.” Jackie glanced at the clock on a side table. “Well, only partly, anyway.” She stopped, smoothing the folds of her dressing gown with her fingers, then said hesitantly, “I have some connections on the street, some sources. You know, you work a beat long enough—you accumulate them. When I got curious about this business I started asking some questions, putting out some feelers.” When Jackie paused again, her eyes on the fabric beneath her fingers, Gemma felt a prick of apprehension. “What is it, Jackie?”
    “You’ll have to decide what to do with this, whether to turn it over to C&D.” She waited until Gemma nodded assent before continuing. “Remember I said I thought I’d seen Gilbert talking to a snitch? Well, Gilbert was much too far up the ladder to be running informers, so I asked my bloke if he’d heard Gilbert’s name in connection with anything dirty.”
    “And?” Gemma prompted.
    “Drugs, he said. He’d heard hints of some high-up bloke running protection for the dealers.”
    “Gilbert?” Gemma’s voice rose in an incredulous squeak.
    Jackie shook her head. “David Ogilvie.”
     
    GOING BACK TO THE YARD HAD BEEN A MISTAKE, THOUGHT Gemma as she walked slowly up Richmond Avenue in the dark. She’d been inundated by piles of paper, and by the time she’d accomplished her own task of looking through every record pertaining to Gilbert or Ogilvie, her eyes burned and her back ached with fatigue. She’d missed Toby’s tea, and now, too tired to shop on the way home, she’d have to settle for whatever she could find in her meager pantry.
    Thornhill Gardens came into view, an even darker void against the black bulk of the surrounding houses. She picked her way along the pavement until she reached the Cavendishes’ walk, then stopped. The sitting room window shade hadn’t been pulled quite to the sill, and through the uncovered space she could see the blue flickering light of the telly. But there was an added glow, yellow-warm and wavering. Candles. For a moment she fancied she heard laughter, soft and intimate. Gemma shook herself and marched up the walk, but her knock was tentative.
    “Gemma, love!” said Hazel when she opened the door. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.” She looked rumpled, relaxed, and slightly flushed. “Come in,” she said, shooing Gemma into the hall. “The children were knackered, poor dears—I took them to the Serpentine today and wore them out—so we got them down early. Tim and I were just watching a video.”
    “I meant to call,” said Gemma, then as Hazel started towards the stairs, “Wait, Hazel. I’ll just nip up and get Toby. You go back to your video.”
    Hazel turned. “You’re sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “All right, then, love.” Padding back in her stockinged feet, Hazel squeezed Gemma’s shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
     
    TOBY LAY SPRAWLED ON HIS BACK, ARMS FLUNG UP IN THE air as if he’d been doing jumping jacks in his sleep. He’d kicked his covers off, as usual, which made it easier for Gemma to slip her arms under him, one hand cradling the back of his head. When she lifted him he barely stirred, and his head flopped against her