Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“His dad shot his mother, then himself. Will found them, curled up on the bed like lovers.” Deveney cleared his throat and looked away.

Kincaid said, “Oh, Christ,” but Gemma found herself unable to speak at all. Poor Will. And now this. It wasn’t fair. The door opened and her heart jerked again. This time she couldn’t stand.

The doctor still wore his pale green scrubs, and he’d pulled his mask down below his chin like a bib. Tubby and balding, with spectacles that glinted in the light, he smiled at them. “It was quite a job patching your boy up. He lost a lot of blood, but I think we’ve got him stabilized. I’m afraid it will be tomorrow before you can see him.”

The wave of weakness that washed through her made Gemma feel faint. She let Kincaid and Deveney thank the doctor and guide her, unresisting, towards the hall.

“Ogilvie’s solicitor showed up,” Deveney said to Gemma as they walked. “Slick as an American politician, and probably as rich. He shut Ogilvie up in a hurry, but we’ll get him for this. And for Gilbert, no matter what he says about an alibi.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Kincaid said slowly, and they stopped, looking at him. “You remember, Nick, Ogilvie saying that Gilbert underestimated Claire? I think perhaps we have, too.”

Gemma woke before daybreak. For a moment she felt disoriented, and then the patch of light beside the strange bed solidified into a net-curtained window, lit by a street lamp. The hotel on the High Street in Guildford, of course. The events of the previous day began to click into place. Will, lying in hospital. David Ogilvie had shot him.

She lay in bed, watching the window pale to pearl gray. Getting up, she washed, then dressed in the change of clothes she carried in her bag. Slipping a note under Kincaid’s door, she left the hotel and started walking down the High towards the bus station. No cars passed, no pedestrians peered into the windows of the shut-up shops, and Gemma felt eerily alone, as though she were the last person in the world.

Then she passed a greengrocer’s van unloading, and the driver called out a cheerful greeting. Turning into Friary Street, she looked up and saw a brilliant rose stain spreading across the sky from the east. Her spirits lifted, her step quickened, and soon she reached the station and found a taxi to take her across the mist-shrouded river and up the hill to the hospital.

“You’re too early, love,” the sister said kindly. “We haven’t finished our morning routine yet. Just have a seat and I’ll fetch you when you can see him. Or better yet, go downstairs and get yourself some breakfast.”

Gemma hadn’t realized until the sister spoke that she was starving. She took the advice, eating bacon and eggs and fried bread without a twinge of guilt, and when she went back upstairs the sister took her into the ward. “Not too long, now,” the sister cautioned. “He’s lost quite a bit of blood, and he’ll tire easily.”

Will’s bed stood at the end of the ward, the curtains half drawn. He appeared to be asleep, pale and vulnerable beneath the white sheet. Slipping quietly into the chair beside the bed, Gemma found herself feeling unexpectedly awkward.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Gemma.”

“How are you feeling, Will?”

“I’ll not be able to get through airport security without a medical card-they put a pin in my leg.” The smile widened almost to a grin, then he sobered. “They haven’t let anyone tell me anything. That was Ogilvie, wasn’t it, Gemma? Will they get him for Gilbert and your friend, too?”

“I don’t know. They’re checking his statement now.”

“Is Claire all right?” He shook his head in admiration. “Wasn’t she a cracker, the way she stood up to him?”

“You were the brave one, Will. I’m glad you’re all right. I should have-”

“Gemma.” He raised his hand from the sheet to halt her. “Bits of last night are fuzzy, but I remember what you did. The doctor said you saved my life.”

“Will, I only-”

“Don’t argue. I owe you, and I won’t forget it. Now, tell me everything from the beginning, blow by blow.”

She hadn’t reached his own part in the drama when his eyelids drooped, fluttered, drooped again. Leaning over, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back, Will.”

“How is he?” Kincaid asked as they left Guildford Police Station. Gemma had met him there after her visit to hospital, looking considerably brighter than the evening before. For a moment he felt jealous of her concern for Will, then he chided himself for such small-mindedness, wondering if he were not compensating for his own sense of failure.

“Game enough, even if a bit thin around the edges,” answered Gemma, smiling. “But the sister told me afterwards it’ll be a slow job, mending that leg.”

“You mean to visit him,” Kincaid said as he opened the Rover’s door, making every effort to sound casually unconcerned.

“As often as I can”-she glanced at him as she buckled herself into the passenger seat-“once this case is finished.”

Ogilvie’s painter had been found and interviewed first thing that morning, and he had, indeed, confirmed Ogilvie’s alibi. Deveney was now digging with bulldog determination, trying to find a hole in the man’s story or a connection between the two men. A second futile search of Gilbert’s study had been made after Ogilvie had been taken into custody, and they could only hope that C &D would have better luck turning up Gilbert’s evidence of Ogilvie’s corruption.

As if aware of his thoughts, Gemma said, “You believe Ogilvie, don’t you, guv?” as they swung around the roundabout and headed towards Holmbury St. Mary. “Why?”

Shrugging, Kincaid said, “I’m not sure I know.” Then he grinned at her. “The infamous gut feeling. Seriously… he lied about some things, and I could tell. Gilbert’s response when he told him he’d not do his dirty work anymore, for instance. But I don’t think he’s lying about Gilbert or Jackie.”

“Even if you’re right about that, and I don’t grant it to you, why Claire?”

He thought he heard a trace of resentment in her voice. Sighing, he thought he couldn’t blame her. He liked Claire Gilbert, too-admired her, even. And maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. “In the first place, there’s no physical evidence to place him there-not a hair nor a fiber in that kitchen.

“Then think about everything we’ve learned about Alastair Gilbert. He was a jealous and vindictive man with a megalomaniac’s thirst for power. He enjoyed inflicting pain on others, whether physical or emotional. Who would have borne the brunt of it?” He glanced at Gemma’s profile, then said emphatically, “His wife. I’ve always said this murder was committed in rage, and I think Claire Gilbert hated her husband.”

“ if you’re right,” said Gemma, “how are you going to prove it?”

Claire met them at the back door with an anxious expression. “I’ve called the hospital and they’re being very closemouthed about Constable Darling. Have you heard anything?”

“Better than that,” Gemma reassured her. “I’ve seen him, first thing this morning, and he’s doing fine.”

Kincaid paused in the mudroom, running his eye along the macintoshes hanging on a row of hooks. When he saw what he was searching for he didn’t know whether he felt jubilant or sorry.

“And… David?” Claire asked as they entered the kitchen. She looked at Kincaid.

“He’s still helping us with our inquiries.”

Lewis was lying on Lucy’s quilt, but this morning he lifted his head and thumped his tail. Kincaid knelt and scratched his ears. “I see this patient is improving, too, though he’s not entirely back to his rambunctious self.”