Mourn Not Your Dead

by Deborah Crombie

  She shook her head mutely, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, but after a few minutes she relaxed against his hand and the tightness in her chest began to subside. Opening her eyes, she glanced at his face. His concern for her was evident in the crease between his brows, and it seemed to her that he’d acquired new lines around his eyes. She thought of him driving up from Surrey so that she wouldn’t receive the news of

  Jackie’s death from an impersonal phone call. Such consideration deserved better treatment than she’d given him lately.

  “The sun’s starting to sink,” he said. “Dusk will come on fast. We’d better start down while we can see where we’re going.”

  They managed the last few hundred yards of the trail in gathering gloom, and by the time they reached the village, lights had begun to glow in a few of the houses.

  Kincaid looked at Gemma hugging his anorak tighter around her as they faced into the wind. She hadn’t spoken on the way back from the tower, but he sensed no hostility towards him in her silence, only a withdrawing into herself. She had smiled at him and taken his hand willingly in the rough spots.

  “Claire should be well back by now,” he said. “Let’s try the house first.”

  “Like this?” Gemma gestured at her mud-spattered trousers and shoes.

  “Why not? It will give us an air of country authenticity.”

  The gate creaked as they let themselves into the Gilberts’ garden, and the shrubbery assumed shapes of unexpected menace in the dim light. Kincaid stopped when they rounded the corner into the back garden, not sure at first what felt odd. He held up a hand to halt Gemma and peered towards the dog’s run. Was that a shadow or a still, dark shape?

  “Lewis?” he said softly, but the shape didn’t stir. Kincaid’s heart lurched in his chest. “Stay here,” he hissed at Gemma, but he felt her at his heels as he sprinted across towards the enclosure.

  The dark shadow coalesced as he drew closer, became a sleek, black dog splayed on its side. Kneeling, Kincaid thrust a hand through the octagonal space in the wire, scraping the skin from his knuckles. His straining fingers touched the dog. The coat felt warm, and under his hand the flank rose gently.

  “Is he…” Gemma didn’t finish her sentence.

  “He’s breathing.” He saw a smudge on the concrete near the dog’s head. Kincaid looked up at the dark windows of the house. “Something’s wrong, Gemma. You stay-”

  “I’m bloody not letting you go in on your own,” she whispered. “So don’t even think it.”

  They crossed the lawn together. When they reached the kitchen door, Kincaid eased it open and they moved through the mudroom as silently as wraiths. In the kitchen they stood in the dark, just touching. Kincaid turned full circle, willing his eyes to adjust, willing his ears to pick up a sound over the thumping of his heart.

  After a long moment his pulse began to slow, and beside him he felt some of the tension drain from Gemma’s body. The noise came just as she drew breath to speak. His arm shot around her and he clamped his hand over her mouth, feeling the bite of her teeth against his palm as she gasped in surprise.

  He heard it again, the faintest suggestion of a creak. The hair on the back of his neck rose. “The mobile phone,” he breathed at Gemma. “In my jacket, in the car. Go-”

  The voice came from the darker oblong of the doorway into the hall. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “DCI Ogilvie, I presume?” Kincaid’s voice sounded easily conversational, but Gemma could feel the tension in the hand across her mouth. She reached up carefully and tapped his hand, letting him know she understood, and it dropped away. He took a small step away from her and continued, “You’ve saved us a lot of trouble looking for you.”

  “Don’t move.” The man said sharply. A click, and the light came on in the hall behind him, silhouetting his body but leaving his face in shadow. The light sparked from an object in his hand-flat and compact, it looked like a toy. A gun. Gemma thought desperately of the firearms chapter in her criminal investigation text, trying to place the gun-semiautomatic, a Walther, maybe-while at the same time a small detached part of her mind wondered what difference it made. She couldn’t judge the caliber. From where she stood the opening at the end of the barrel looked big enough to swallow her.

  He moved another step into the room, throwing the gun into darkness again, but Gemma kept her eyes fixed on the spot where she knew it must be. “The pair of you are too clever by half,” he said, mocking them. “Now, the question is, what do I do with you?”

  “Why not slip out the front as we came in the back?” asked Kincaid. He might have been inquiring about tomorrow’s weather.

  “I tried.” There was a trace of humor in Ogilvie’s voice, for Gemma had no doubt now that it was he. “Damn Alastair and his paranoia. The front door has to be opened with a key, and I don’t happen to have it. And the windows seem to be stuck shut. So you can see my predicament. You two are all that stand between me and a tidy exit.”

  Gemma’s tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of her mouth, but she tried to match Kincaid’s matter-of-fact tone. “There’s no point in killing us, you know. We’ve turned everything we know over to C &D.”

  “Oh, but there is, Sergeant. I’d intended to brazen it out, come up with some plausible excuse for my sudden absence. They’ll not find anything concrete on me. But now that you’ve seen me here-”

  “Why are you here?” asked Kincaid. “Satisfy my curiosity.”

  Ogilvie gave an audible sigh. “Bloody Alastair managed to acquire some rather damaging evidence of my activities. I thought it prudent to get it back, but unfortunately he seems to have been more devious than I gave him credit for, and I’ve run out of time.”

  Gemma’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light well enough so that she could see the planes of Ogilvie’s face and the glint of teeth as he spoke. He’d traded his usual Bond Street attire for nondescript jeans and anorak, and he looked even more dangerous without the civilized veneer. The gun made a small arcing movement as he shifted his aim from her to Kincaid and back again.

  Kincaid moved a step nearer and put his arm around her, his fingers resting lightly on her shoulder. He meant more than comfort, she was sure, but what did he want her to do? All the should haves ran through her mind. They should have called for backup when they found the dog. She should have stayed outside, but would she have known Kincaid was in trouble before it was too late?

  She felt Kincaid’s hand tense, then freeze as Ogilvie drawled, “However, I’ve had a good run, and I have a considerable bit of money tucked away on the Continent. I think I might prefer to retire DCI Ogilvie and start afresh, rather than pop holes in you two. It makes such an unpleasant mess, and while I may have walked the other side of the line a few times, I haven’t resorted to murder. But I can’t have you raising the alarm too soon, can I? Sergeant-”

  “What about Jackie?” Gemma burst out. “Doesn’t having her gunned down in the street count? Or was that all right because you didn’t get your hands dirty?”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” said Ogilvie, sounding irritated for the first time.

  “And Gilbert?” asked Kincaid. “Did you come here looking for the evidence before, and he surprised-”

  There came the unmistakable sound of car tires on gravel, then the slamming of a door. Ogilvie swore, then laughed softly. “Well, I suppose we might as well turn on the lights and have a party. The more, the merrier.” Stepping forwards, he flipped the light switch, and Gemma blinked as Claire’s copper-shaded lamps came on. “Move!” he barked at them, motioning towards the far side of the kitchen with the gun. “Away from the door.” He smiled then, and Gemma shivered, for the light in his eyes reminded her of drawings she’d seen of Celtic warriors going into battle. David Ogilvie was enjoying himself.

  Voices, then footsteps. The mudroom door opened. Claire Gilbert came through into the kitchen, saying, “What’s going-” She stopped as she took
in the tableau before her. “David?” Her voice rose into a squeak of surprise.

  “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?”

  Lucy looked up from stroking the dog’s ears. “There’s a quilt at the foot of my bed. Would you-”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Finding Lucy’s room easily enough, he stood in the doorway for a moment as he surveyed it in surprise. Except for a motley collection of stuffed animals on the bed, there was none of the clutter he associated with teenagers’ rooms-no posters of ro
ck bands or fashion models, no piles of clothes making an obstacle course of the floor. It had, in fact, the same air of simplicity as Geoff’s room at the pub, and Kincaid wondered if Lucy had been influenced by him or if it were a natural expression of her own personality.

  The furniture looked old but well loved, and an Irish wool blanket in lovely shades of lilac and green covered the single bed. He picked up the faded and tattered quilt that lay neatly folded at the bed’s foot, yet still he lingered.

  Framed newspaper and magazine clippings covered the wall above the small desk-the simple wooden frames more of Geoff’s handiwork, thought Kincaid. Moving to examine them more closely, he saw that all the articles bore the byline of Lucy’s father, Stephen Penmaric.

  Hanging shelves either side of the window held books, and most prominently displayed was a set of C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books, complete with dustjackets. Pulling one from the shelf, he checked the copyright and whistled. They were first editions, and in flawless condition. His mother would likely give her firstborn grandchild for these.

  Beside the books rested a small cage filled with cedar shavings and a wire wheel. He tapped on it and was rewarded by a scuffling sound and the emergence of a tiny white mouse. It blinked its ruby eyes at him and scurried back under cover.

  Kincaid switched off the light and carried the quilt downstairs.

  Lucy looked at him expectantly as he entered the kitchen. “Did you meet Celeste? I forgot to tell you about her. I hope you’re not afraid of mice.”

  “Not at all. I kept them myself, until they had an unfortunate encounter with the family cat.” He knelt and tucked the quilt around Lucy as well as Lewis, for it felt chilly near the tile floor. “You don’t look very comfortable there. Will you be all right?”

  “I couldn’t bear to leave Lewis.” She glanced at Kincaid from under her lashes, then said hesitantly, “Mr. Kincaid, who was that man? He seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.”