Mourn not your Dead

mischief he’d displayed a moment earlier. “Claire’s not telling us the whole story, Gemma. I’m sure of it, and I don’t like it one bit. I think it’s time I had another little talk with Dr. Gabriella Wilson.”
     
    AFTER A GOOD LOOK AT HER BOSS IN THE LIGHT OF THE YARD car park, Gemma insisted on driving the Rover they’d requisitioned from the pool. Kincaid was asleep before they’d crossed Westminster Bridge, and nothing disturbed him as they inched their way south through the clamor of London traffic. Glancing at him as she waited at another interminable traffic light, Gemma thought of the last time she’d watched him sleep, defenseless as a child, and for the first time doubt assailed her. Should she have listened, at least, to what he had to say?
    Kincaid stirred and opened his eyes for a moment, as if an awareness of her regard had reached him when the sound of honking horns and squealing brakes could not.
    Gemma gripped the wheel and concentrated on her driving.
     
    “FANCY A BITE OF LUNCH FIRST?” ASKED WILL DARLING AS HE whipped the car into a space in the Dorking car park, beating out another eager motorist.
    Gemma and Kincaid had swapped cars as soon as they arrived at Guildford Police Station—Gemma going with Will and Nick Deveney with Kincaid in the pool Rover.
    “It’s not gone twelve yet.” Gemma gave the frustrated driver an apologetic smile as she got out and jointed Will on the pavement.
    “Tell that to my stomach.” Will took her elbow, steering her towards the High Street. “I know a good pub.”
    “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. But no fish and chips,” Gemma admonished, remembering the last lunch they’d shared. As they walked along the busy street, bumping shoulders with the crush of lunchtime shoppers, she realized she was hungry. She couldn’t remember what she’d eaten since hearing the news about Jackie yesterday morning, but she supposed she must have gone through the motions.
    It was indeed a nice pub, and a favorite with the locals, as the early crowd demonstrated. When they’d placed their meal orders at the bar and settled into a corner table with their drinks, Will said, “You know the first rule of good policing: Eat first. You never know when you might have another chance.”
    “You’ve certainly taken it to heart.”
    “Could be the army had something to do with that.” Will stared out the window as he sipped the foam from his pint. “Living on the edge tends to make priorities easier to recognize.”
    “On the edge?” Gemma repeated, puzzled.
    “I served in Northern Ireland for two years.”
    The barmaid brought their food—jacket potato with prawn mayonnaise for Gemma, chicken basket for Will. As Gemma mixed the topping into her potato, she glanced up at Will through the rising steam. She imagined him in fatigues and boots, still looking like a red-cheeked Surrey farm boy.
    “When I went over I was just as ambitious as you,” continued Will, swallowing a mouthful of chicken. “Don’t bother arguing,” he added with a grin. “Women don’t reach your rank in the Met otherwise. You want to make DCI, don’t you, or even superintendent?” He waved a chip at her for emphasis. “So did I, only I had my sights set on a county force, preferably this one.”
    Gemma paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I don’t understand, Will. Surely it’s not too late. You’re only... what?” Remembering what he’d said about his birthday, she did the math in her head. “Thirty-four? And you’re a good cop—I don’t have to tell you that.”
    “Thanks all the same.” Wiping his fingers with his napkin, Will smiled at her. “And I imagine I’ll eventually rise up a rank or two by the sheer force of attrition above me. The thing is, it doesn’t really matter to me anymore. Two of. my best mates were working routine border checks one night.” He put his hand on his pint but didn’t lift it. “Unfortunately, the last lorry they stopped happened to be carrying a bomb.” His voice level, only the stillness of his hand on the glass betrayed him.
    “Oh, no,” Gemma breathed.
    Will shrugged. “We’d all been grousing about our posting. The usual complaints—boredom, lousy food, shortage of girls.” A hint of a dimple appeared in his cheek. “We were going to have such great adventures when we got out. My mum used to tell me that it was the journey that counted, not arriving at the station. It’s a well-worn platitude, I