Mourn not your Dead

other with wide eyes. “If you ask me, I’d say the man’s bloody terrified.”
    “You don’t suppose ..Gemma said slowly. “The bad apple Jackie mentioned... you don’t suppose it could have been Sergeant Talley?”
     
    THE PLACARD ON OGILVIE’S SECRETARY’S DESK READ HELENE Vandemeer. Gemma had got it right, for a smile like a beacon lit Mrs. Vandemeer’s middle-aged and unassuming face when Kincaid introduced himself.
    Sounding genuinely regretful, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, the chief inspector’s away just now,” when Kincaid asked to see Ogilvie. “He left on Friday to teach a training seminar in the Midlands, and he won’t be back until”-—she flipped a page, and then another, on her calendar— “Wednesday. He’ll be so sorry to have missed you.”
    Absolutely heartbroken, thought Kincaid as he smiled back at her. As Gemma took the small cubicle’s only chair, he propped one hip on the corner of Mrs. Vandemeer’s pristine desk. She would have been Gilbert’s secretary as well, he remembered, wondering if she had been hired for her habits, or if she had acquired them through association. “Do you have the number where he might be reached?” he asked. Then he added confidentially, “It’s about Commander Gilbert. You see, we hadn’t really checked into what the commander might have done between the time he left the office that day and the time he arrived home. We thought DCI Ogilvie might be able to throw some light on the matter.”
    “Oh, dear. I’m afraid he won’t be much help to you, then. He had a meeting with a local citizens’ group after lunch that day, and it must have dragged on a bit, because he never made it back to his office. And the commander...” Helene Vandemeer took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if it suddenly hurt. “The commander left here on the dot of five, just like always. He put his head round my door and said, ‘Cheerio, Helene. See you tomorrow.’” She looked up at Kincaid, and he saw that her unmasked eyes were a startling, true violet. “Do you think I might have been the last person to speak to him?”
    “That’s difficult to say,” Kincaid temporized. “You’re sure the commander didn’t say anything about what he meant to do that afternoon or anything else unusual?” Looking as if she could hardly bear to disappoint him, Helene shook her head. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t think of a thing.”
    “You’ve been terrific,” he said warmly, avoiding Gemma’s derisive glance. “If you could just give us that phone number...” As she wrote, he added nonchalantly, “That citizens’ meeting DCI Ogilvie had that afternoon, you don’t happen to remember what the group was called?”
    “Let me think.” Glasses firmly in place again, Helene frowned, then gave him a brilliant smile. “I’ve got it. The Notting Hill Association for Noise Reduction. NHANR. They’re petitioning for traffic reduction on certain streets.” Taking the phone number she’d jotted down for him, he said, “Thanks, love,” and left the room on Gemma’s heels.
    When they were barely out the door, Gemma whispered, “You might as well hand out doggie treats while you’re at it.”
    The suspicion of a dimple intimated that she was taking the mickey, so he answered in mock defense, “Hey, it was your idea. And it got results, didn’t it?”
    He pulled out his phone as he left the building and began to dial, and only when he reached the pavement did he realize that Gemma was no longer by his side. Turning back, he saw her standing just at the top of the steps, looking stricken. “Gemma,” he began, but just then the Yard answered, and by the time he’d finished his call, she had caught up to him.
    “What’s next, guv?” she asked, determinedly businesslike.
    After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Let’s get a bite of lunch. Then I’d like to take a look at something, just to satisfy my curiosity.”
     
    THEY STOOD AT THE TOP OF A TINY, COBBLED MEWS, NOT FAR from the Notting Hill Police Station. Kincaid had finagled David Ogilvie’s address from a mate at the yard. On either side the houses stretched away like chocolate-box confections—peach and yellow, terra-cotta and pale sherbet green. Some had shiny black wrought-iron railings, others windowboxes overflowing with bright flowers, and like Elgin Crescent, every house sported a burglar alarm and a baby satellite dish.
    Kincaid whistled softly. “You