Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“Hello, Claire.”

“But what… I don’t understand.” Claire looked from Ogilvie to Gemma and Kincaid, her face slack with incomprehension.

“I’d say ‘long time no see,’ but it’s not exactly true on my part.” Ogilvie shook his head regretfully. “You know you made the wrong decision all those years ago, don’t you, love? It would have cost me my promotion either way-Alastair was vindictive as well as jealous-but at least I might have had you to console-”

“Mummy!” Lucy burst into the room with a wail of distress. “Something’s wrong with Lewis. I can’t wake-” She skidded to a stop beside her mother. “What-”

“He’s only drugged,” said Ogilvie. “You really should teach him not to accept steak from strangers. He should come round in a bit.” He turned his attention back to Claire. “But you were afraid of me. Do you remember telling me that, when you broke the news you were going to marry Alastair? You said I had a wild streak, and you had to consider Lucy’s need for a stable home.” He gave a snort of derision.

Claire drew Lucy close. “I only did what-”

“He blackmailed me into following you. His suspicion consumed him like a disease-he was riddled with it. For months I spent my off-duty hours watching your every move. You really lead a rather dull life, my love, with the occasional exception.” Ogilvie smiled at Claire. “You’d better be glad I didn’t tell him everything I discovered.”

His sharp gray eyes came back to Gemma and Kincaid. “Now, this has been quite pleasant, but I think we’ve chatted long enough. There’s an upstairs bedroom with a locking door, I believe?”

Claire nodded confirmation.

“All together now, like good girls and boys.” Ogilvie motioned towards the hallway with the gun.

The mudroom door banged again. They all turned like marionettes, waiting.

“Mrs. Gilbert, the door was standing open, and you’ve left your-” Will Darling came to a halt just inside the kitchen. “What the hell…” In a fraction of a second he took in the scene, then he spun around and dove for the door.

The gun cracked, and Will went down with a shout of pain. Rolling, he clutched at his thigh, and Gemma saw the bright stain blossom and spread on the light fabric of his trousers. Her ears ached from the sound, and she swallowed against the acrid smell of gunpowder.

Too much blood, she thought wildly. Oh, please God, don’t let it be the femoral artery. He’ll bleed to death. She tried to remember her first-aid training. Pressure. Apply pressure directly to the wound. Ignoring Ogilvie, she grabbed a tea towel from the cooker and ran to crouch beside Will. Folding the cloth into a thick pad, she pressed it against Will’s leg with all her weight. Will tried to push himself up, then fell back with a grunt of pain. He grabbed Gemma’s arm, pulling at her sleeve. “Gemma, help me. I’ve got to call for backup. What hap-”

“Shhh. You’ll be all right, Will. Lie still.” She glanced at Ogilvie then. His lips were clamped in a thin white line, his arm rigid. It could go either way, she thought. He’d broken the barrier that separated most people from the possibility of violence; now anything might happen.

“Listen, mate.” Kincaid took a slow step towards him, then another. “You can see there’s no point going on with this. What are you going to do-gun us all down? You’re not going to hurt Lucy or Claire, so give it up.”

“Back off.” Ogilvie turned the gun on Kincaid, raised it level with his heart.

Kincaid stopped, hands up, palms out. “Okay. You could lock us up, but you can’t leave the constable here without medical help. He was doing his job-you want that on your conscience?” He took another step towards Ogilvie, palms still out. “Give me the gun.”

“I’m telling you-” Ogilvie raised his left arm to support his right.

Firing stance, thought Gemma, watching in helpless, furious dismay. No.

“I’m cold, Gemma,” said Will. The tug at her sleeve was weaker. “The car lights. She’d left the car lights on. Why am I so cold?” His face was white now, covered with sweat, and the towel under Gemma’s hands felt warm and wet.

“Somebody help him,” Gemma said, clenching her teeth to stop them chattering.

Claire thrust Lucy behind her and stepped forwards. “David, listen to me. You can’t do this. I know you. I may have been wrong about Alastair, but I’m not wrong about you. If you shoot him you’ll have to take me next. Give it up.”

Gemma heard Lucy whimper, but she couldn’t look away from the frozen triad of Kincaid, Claire, and Ogilvie.

For a moment she thought she saw a tremor run down Ogilvie’s arm and his finger tighten on the trigger, then he smiled. “There is something to be said for a graceful defeat. And I suppose that one body on your kitchen floor was more than enough for you to have to deal with, my dear.” He transferred the gun to his left hand and handed it butt first to Kincaid, but he kept his eyes on Claire. He added softly, a little regretfully, “I could never refuse you anything.”

Claire stepped up to him and laid the back of her hand against his cheek. “David.”

Gun still raised, Kincaid backed across the kitchen, scrambled for the phone on the breakfast table, and punched 999.

Kincaid stood alone in the Gilberts’ kitchen. Gemma had gone with Will in the ambulance, and a squad car had picked up the unresisting David Ogilvie. Alerted by the lights and sirens, Brian had come across the road and shepherded a shaken Claire into the conservatory with a stiff drink.

The adrenaline rush had taken its toll on Kincaid as well. He raised his hands, wondering if the tremble he felt were visible. They would do, he thought, by the time he reached the station and began interviewing David Ogilvie. Later he would think about the possible consequences of what had happened.

He heard the mudroom door creak and a soft step, then Lucy entered the kitchen. She still wore her afternoon outfit, a high-waisted, calf-length dress in dark green. It made her look innocently old-fashioned and far removed from the cur rents of violence that had flowed through this house. He smiled at her.

“Mr. Kincaid?” She came to him and touched him lightly on the arm. On closer inspection he could see the tear streaks on her cheeks and a slight swelling of her eyelids. “It’s Lewis. I still can’t wake him and I don’t know what to do. Do you think you could have a look at him?”

“Let’s see what we can do.” He followed the bright path of her torch across the garden and knelt beside the dog.

Crouching next to him, Lucy said, “I’ve called the vet and left word with his answering service, but they said he may not be back for hours yet.”

Kincaid felt the dog’s respirations again, then pulled back an unresponsive lid and examined the eye with the aid of the torch. “It’s too bloody dark out here. Even with the torch I can’t make anything out. Shall we get him inside?”

“Oh, please,” said Lucy. “I tried to lift him, but he’s a bit much for me to manage on my own.”

Kincaid slid his arms under Lewis and heaved himself up. “There, just steady him.” The dog’s body felt reassuringly warm. Together he and Lucy crossed the garden and maneuvered through the doors, then Kincaid gratefully eased the dog onto the kitchen floor, half in Lucy’s lap.

He pulled back the dog’s lip and examined the gum. “See, there? His gums are pink and healthy looking. That means he’s got good circulation. And his breathing’s regular,” he added, watching the steady rise and fall of Lewis’s chest. I don’t know what else we can do until the vet comes, except maybe keep him warm. Have you a blanket?”