“Sorry?” said Will, taking his eyes off the curve of the road to give her a startled glance.
“Not you, Will. I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“Not a very pleasant conversation you were having,” he said, sounding amused. “Want to add a third party?”
“It seems to me you take on enough without adding my troubles,” Gemma answered in an attempt to change the subject. “How do you do it, Will? How can you stay objective when you seem to feel such empathy for the people involved?” She hadn’t meant to speak so plainly, but something about him eased the normal safeguards off her tongue. Hoping he hadn’t taken offense, she glanced at him, but he met her eyes and smiled.
“I have no trouble remaining objective when I’m presented with evidence of wrongdoing. But until then I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat people with as much decency and consideration as possible, especially when they’ve been through an experience as difficult as Claire Gilbert’s and her daughter’s.” He looked at her again and added, “You’ve brought out my upbringing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. My mum and dad were staunch supporters of the Golden Rule, though people don’t set much stock by it nowadays.”
He kept his attention on the road after that, for they had reached the A25 and the morning traffic was heavy.
Gemma watched him curiously. She didn’t often hear men talk willingly of their parents. Rob had been ashamed of his—hardworking tradespeople with unpolished accents—and she’d been furious with him when she’d heard him tell someone once that they were dead. “Will… earlier you said the cathedral always had special significance, and just then you said your parents were… are your parents dead, then?”
Will coaxed the car around a grumbling farm lorry before answering. “Two years ago, Christmastime.”
“An accident?”
“They were ill,” he said. Then with a grin he added, “Tell me about your family, Gemma. I couldn’t help noticing the set of plastic keys in your handbag.”
“Very professional of me, isn’t it? But if I don’t keep them handy Toby loses the real thing,” and before she knew it she had launched into a detailed account of Toby’s latest escapades.
The snapshot showed Claire and Lucy together, arms round one another, laughing into the camera, against a background that looked like the pier at Brighton. Gemma had borrowed it from a frame on the dresser in the conservatory. The spotty-faced clerk at Waterstones studied it, then tossed his hair back and looked at Gemma and Will with bright, intelligent eyes. “Nice bird. Bought a copy of Jude the Obscure. Wasn’t inclined to stay for a chat, though.”
“You do mean the daughter?” said Gemma a bit impatiently.
“The younger one, yeah. Though the other’s not bad, either,” he added with another considering glance at the photo.
“And you’re sure you didn’t see them both?” Gemma fought the urge to snatch the photo back, sure that he was smudging it with his fingerprints.
He tilted his head and eyed them speculatively. “Can’t swear to it, can I? It was a fairly busy afternoon, and I might not have even remembered her”—he tapped the paper Lucy—“if she hadn’t come to the register.” With an exaggerated little sigh of regret he returned the photo to Gemma.
Will, leafing idly through a volume on the sale table beside the register, looked up. “What time was it?”
For a moment the boy dropped his pose as he thought. “After four, because that’s when I take my break, and I remember I’d had it already. Nearer than that I can’t say.”
“Thanks,” said Gemma, making an effort to sound as if she meant it, and Will gave him a card with the usual instructions to call them if he remembered anything else.
“Prat,” said Gemma under her breath as they left the store.
“You’re not feeling very charitable this morning, are you?” Will asked as they dodged shoppers laden with bags and parcels. “Your boy will be just like that in a few years.”
Recognizing the tease, Gemma said, “God forbid,” and smiled. “He’d better not be. I hate men who leer. And boys.”
As they continued down their list of shops, the spotty-faced boy grew more appealing in retrospect. No one else had any recollection of mother or daughter, together or alone. “At least we’re warm and dry, which is more than some can say,” offered Will, dragging Gemma’s attention from the window of a boutique. They’d parked the car in the Bedford Road car park, just as Claire had done, and crossed over Onslow Street into the Friary by the covered pedestrian walkway. Gusts of wind had shaken the bridge as the first drops of rain slicked the street below.
“Mmmm,” she answered, eyes on the dress in the window again. It was short, clingy, and black, the kind of dress she never bought, never had occasion to wear.
“Nice dress. You’d look great in it.” Will studied her, and she felt conscious of her unremarkable trousers and jacket. “How long has it been since you’ve bought something you didn’t need for work?”
Gemma frowned. “I can’t remember. And I’ve never had a dress like that.”
“Go on,” Will urged, grinning. “Treat yourself. Have a quick look while I ring the station and check in.”
“You’re a bad influence, Will. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t…” She was still grumbling as Will waved at her and ambled off in the direction of the phone box, but there didn’t seem much point without an audience. Will was uncannily on the mark. She bought good quality, serviceable clothes, neutral enough to wear over and over, conservative enough not to hinder her career prospects—and she suddenly hated them. “The condemned went quietly,” she said under her breath and entered the shop.
She emerged feeling a decade older—the teenage sales clerk had been dreadfully condescending—and considerably lighter in her bank balance. Thrusting the plastic carrier bag at Will, she said accusingly, “I can’t go around making inquiries carrying my shopping. Now what will I do?”
“Roll it up and put it in your handbag.” Will demonstrated patiently. “You could hide an army in this thing. I’ve never understood why women don’t get permanently lopsided from carrying around the equivalent of a suitcase all day.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve still Sainsbury’s to try, but I’m starving. Let’s get a bite of lunch first, and maybe the rain will stop.”
After some debate they settled on the fish and chip shop in the food court and carried their trays to one of the molded plastic tables in the common area. Will tucked into his food with relish, but with the first bite of fish, grease coated Gemma’s mouth and ran down her throat, threatening to gag her with its rancid slickness. She pushed the tray away, and when Will looked up and frowned she snapped, “Don’t lecture me, Will. I’m not hungry. And I hate mushy peas.” She pushed at the distasteful mess with the tines of her plastic fork.
When he returned to his lunch without comment, Gemma felt a rush of shame. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m not usually like this. Really. It must be something about this case. Makes me feel all jumpy. And it’ll be worse once the press get in full swing.”
“Sensitive, are you?” Will said as he loaded his fork with fish and peas, adding a chip for good measure. “It’s your guv and mine who’ll have to tread carefully. Heads could roll if things aren’t sorted out fast enough to please the powers that be. I’d just as soon not be in their shoes. Give me door-to-door in the rain any day.” He smiled and she felt restored to his good graces.