“Holmbury St. Mary, sir.”

“Right. Alastair Gilbert, the division commander at Not-ting Dale, found in his kitchen with his head bashed in.”

He heard Gemma draw a sharp breath, then she said with the first spark of interest he’d heard all evening, “Commander Gilbert? Jesus. Any leads?”

“Not that I’ve been told, but it’s early days yet,” Kincaid said, turning to study her.

She shook her head. “There will be an unholy stink over this one, then. And aren’t we the lucky coppers, having it land in our laps?” When Kincaid snorted in wry agreement, she glanced at him and added, “You must have known him.”

Shrugging, he said, “Didn’t everyone?” He was unwilling to elaborate in front of Williams.

Gemma settled back into her seat. After a moment she said, “The local lads will have been there before us. Hope they haven’t messed about with the body.”

Kincaid smiled in the dark. Gemma’s possessiveness over bodies always amused him. From the beginning of a case, she considered the corpse her personal property and she didn’t take unnecessary interference kindly. Tonight, however, her prickliness brought him a sense of relief. It meant she had engaged herself in the case, and it allowed him to hope that their working relationship, at least, was not beyond salvage. “They’ve promised to leave it until we’ve had a chance to see things in situ.”

Gemma nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Do we know who found him?”

“Wife and daughter.”

“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not at all nice.”

“At least they’ll have a WPC to do the hand-holding,” Kincaid said, making a halfhearted attempt to tease her. “Lets you off the hook.” Gemma often complained that female officers were good for more than breaking bad news to victims’ families and offering comforting shoulders, but when the task fell to her she did it exceptionally well.