Gemma and Kincaid glanced at each other, Kincaid raising a questioning eyebrow. Deveney leaned over and whispered, “The constable who was with them. His name is Darling.” Turning to Claire, he said, “He’s still here, Mrs. Gilbert. He’s just gone to give the other lads a hand for a bit.”
Tears filled Claire’s eyes and began to run down the sides of her nose, but she made no move to wipe them away.
“After you’d finished your shopping, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid prompted after a moment, “what did you do then?”
She seemed to focus on him with an effort. “After? We drove home.”
Kincaid thought of the quiet lane where they had left their car. “Did anyone see you? A neighbor, perhaps?”
Claire shook her head. “I don’t know.”.
While they talked, Gemma had unobtrusively pulled her notebook and pen from her bag. Now she said softly, “What time was this, Mrs. Gilbert?”
“Half past seven. Maybe later. I’m not quite sure.” She looked from Gemma to Kincaid, as if for reassurance, then spoke a little more forcefully. “We weren’t expecting Alastair. He had a meeting. Lucy and I had bought some pasta and ready-made sauce at Sainsbury’s. A bit of a treat, just for the two of us.”
“That’s why we were surprised to find his car in the garage,” added Lucy, when her mother didn’t continue.
“What did you do then?” Kincaid asked.
After a quick glance at Claire, Lucy went on. “We put Mum’s car in the garage. When we came around the corner of the garage into the garden we could see the door standing—”
“Where was the dog?” asked Kincaid. “What’s his name—Lewis?”
Lucy stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand the question, then said, “He was in his run, in the back garden.”
“What kind of dog is Lewis?”
“A Lab. He’s brilliant, really lovely.” Lucy smiled for the first time, and again he heard that flash of proprietary pride in her voice.
“Did he seem upset in any way? Disturbed?”
Mother and daughter glanced at each other, then Lucy answered. “Not then. It was only later, when the police came. He got so frantic we had to bring him in the house.”
Kincaid set his empty cup on the table, and Claire’s body jerked slightly as the china clinked. “Let’s go back to when you saw the open door.”
The silence stretched. Lucy moved a bit nearer her mother.
The fire settled and a shower of sparks rose, then flickered out. Kincaid waited another heartbeat, then spoke. “Please, Mrs. Gilbert, try to tell us exactly what happened next. I know that you’ve already been through this with Chief Inspector Deveney, but you might remember some tiny detail that could help us.”
After a moment Claire took Lucy’s hand and cradled it between her own, but Kincaid couldn’t tell if she was extending support or receiving comfort. “You saw. There was blood … everywhere. I could smell it.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, then continued. “I tried to lift him. Then I realized … I had some first-aid training, years ago. When I couldn’t find a pulse, I dialed nine-nine-nine.”
“Did you notice anything unusual as you came into the house?” asked Gemma. “Anything at all in the kitchen that wasn’t quite where it should be?”
Claire shook her head, and the lines of exhaustion seemed to deepen around her mouth.
“But I understand you’ve reported some things missing from the house,” said Kincaid, and Deveney gave him a quick nod of confirmation.
“My pearls. And the earrings Alastair gave me on my birthday … he had them specially made.” Claire sank back against the sofa cushion and closed her eyes.
“It sounds as if they must have been quite valuable,” said Gemma.
When Claire didn’t stir, Lucy glanced at her, then answered, “I suppose they were. I don’t know, really.” She pulled her hand free of her mother’s and held it out in a pleading gesture. “Please, Superintendent,” she said, and at the distress in her voice the dog began to bark, scrabbling against the door with his claws.
“Do shut him up, Lucy,” said Claire, but her voice was listless, and she didn’t move or open her eyes.
Lucy sprang up, but even as she did so the dog’s barking faded to a whimper, then subsided altogether. She sank back to the edge of the sofa, looking in mute appeal from her mother to Kincaid.
“Only one more thing, Lucy, I promise,” he said softly, then he turned to Claire. “Mrs. Gilbert, do you have any idea why your husband came home early?”
Claire pressed her fingers to her throat and said slowly, “No. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know who he was meet—”
“Please.” Lucy stood up, shivering. She crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts and said through chattering teeth, “She’s said already. She doesn’t know.”
“It’s all right, darling,” said Claire, rousing herself. With an apparent effort, she pushed herself to the edge of her seat. “Lucy’s right, Superintendent. It’s not—it wasn’t Alastair’s habit to share details about his work. He didn’t tell me whom he intended seeing.” She stood up, then swayed. Lucy reached out to support her, and as she was the taller of the two, her arm fit easily around her mother’s shoulders.
“Please, Mummy, do stop,” she said, then she looked at Kincaid. “Let me take her upstairs now.” Her voice held more question than command, and she seemed to Kincaid very much a child playing an adult’s part.
“There must be someone you can call,” said Gemma, standing and touching Lucy’s arm. “A neighbor? A relative?”
“We don’t need anyone else. We can manage,” Lucy said a little abruptly. Then her brief bravado seemed to dissolve as she added, “What should I do about the house … and things? What if…”
Deveney answered her gently, but without patronizing her. “Please don’t worry, Miss Penmaric. I’m sure that whoever did this won’t come back. And we’ll have someone here all night, either outside or in the kitchen.” He paused for a moment, and they heard a faint whimpering. “Why don’t you take the dog upstairs with you, if it makes you feel more comfortable?” he suggested, smiling.
Lucy gave it grave consideration. “He’d like that.”
“If there’s nothing else …” Claire’s speech had begun to slur, yet in spite of her exhaustion she still maintained a semblance of graciousness.
“That’s all for tonight, Mrs. Gilbert. And Lucy. Thank you for your patience,” said Kincaid as he stood beside Deveney and Gemma, and they all watched silently as mother and daughter left the room.
When the door had swung shut, Nick Deveney shook his head and ran his fingers through the early gray streaking his hair at the temple. “I’m not sure I’d have held up as well, under the circumstances. Lucky for them, isn’t it, that they have each other?”
The scene-of-crime team was still busily at work in the kitchen, but Alastair Gilbert’s body had been removed. The drying blood had smeared in streaks and swirls, like a child’s exercise in finger paints. Excusing himself to speak to one of the SOCOs, Deveney left Kincaid and Gemma standing in the doorway.
Kincaid felt the adrenaline that had sustained him for the last few hours ebbing. Glancing at Gemma, he found her studying him. Her freckles, usually an almost imperceptible dusting against her fair skin, stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor. He suddenly felt her exhaustion as if it were his own, and the familiar, intimate awareness of her ran through him like a shock. As he lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, she started to speak, and they both froze. They had lost the ease of it, all their carefully established camaraderie had gone, and it seemed to him as if she might misconstrue even his small gesture of comfort. Awkwardly, he dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket, as if removing it from temptation.