Free Trick of the Mind by Cassandra Chan Page A

likely right about where Constable Lemmy was and it reminded him that he was out of coffee.
    He stretched and rose, but encountered Lemmy before he was many steps away from his desk.
    “DCI wants you,” he told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of Carmichael’s office.
    Lemmy nodded stolidly, and turned his steps in that direction. O’Leary watched him go, a little perplexed by Lemmy’s lack of reaction. When he had been a newly christened detective constable, any mention of a DCI would have sent him trotting alertly off, eager to demonstrate his abilities. But since he had arrived at the Homicide Department, Lemmy had exhibited none of the bright-eyed enthusiasm, which was the normal earmark of new detectives. He was also a rather silent young man, which made him difficult for his colleagues to make out. He was amiable enough, and willing enough, but he appeared to be oddly lacking in interest in his supposed chosen profession.
    When O’Leary returned with a fresh coffee, he found Carmichael waiting impatiently by his desk.
    “Here I am, sir,” he called, hastening his pace. “Did you want me for something?”
    Carmichael muttered something O’Leary was too far away to catch, but the chief inspector’s tone was not encouraging. He turned a blue-eyed glare on O’Leary.
    “Did you leave here with Gibbons last night?” he demanded.
    O’Leary was taken aback. Subsequent events had superseded the ordinary routine of leaving work with a friend from his mind, and the unexpected memory brought him up short. “Er, yes, sir,” he said,
swallowing. “We stopped by the Feathers for a pint. We often do if we’re leaving at the same time.”
    Carmichael rolled his eyes. “And it didn’t occur to you to tell me?” he said. “Even though I had just stated the importance of tracking Gibbons’s movements yesterday?”
    O’Leary shook his head mutely, chagrined to be so caught out.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” he offered. “It was such an ordinary thing, I’d actually forgotten it.” He frowned. “Did Gibbons mention it in his report or something?”
    “Lemmy noticed the two of you walking out together,” answered Carmichael. “It’s a miracle he did—it’s about the first thing he’s noticed since he’s been here. Well, come along—out with it, lad. What time was all this? And did Gibbons give you any notion of where he was going when you parted?”
    O’Leary thought furiously but had to shake his head in the end.
    “No, sir,” he answered. “I had a date last night, and left the pub before he did. That was about half-six.”
    “And nothing unusual struck you during your conversation? Gibbons didn’t seem worried, or on edge, or anything?”
    “No, sir,” said O’Leary again, rather wishing he had something to report that was not negative. “It was quite an ordinary drink after work. He told me about these jewels that had been stolen, and I told him about the case I was working on.”
    “Hmm.” Carmichael hitched a hip onto the edge of O’Leary’s desk and folded his arms while he thought. “You’re on the Pennycook murder, right? I don’t remember much about the case—the victim was an old-time criminal, wasn’t he?”
    “Yes, sir,” said O’Leary. “Alfred Pennycook was a fence down in Walworth, and had been for decades. He did a couple of stints in prison for it along the way, but he was getting old for the game. Sixty-three he was, and as far as we’ve been able to make out, what business he still did was mostly carried on by his nephew. The old man had emphysema and didn’t get around much anymore. It’s hard to make out why anybody would want to kill him—by all accounts, he hadn’t much longer to go—so Inspector
Hollings and I have been looking into old grudges. There’s no lack of them.”
    “Yes, I remember now,” said Carmichael. “Old Pennycook was involved in the big McDonald jewel heist, way back in the seventies, wasn’t he?”
    “That’s right, sir. He