Mourn Not Your Dead

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 rock 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.”

“He worked with your stepfather and was a friend of your mother’s after your dad died.” He’d leave it to Claire to explain the intricacies of that relationship, if she wished.

“I couldn’t help but notice your C. S. Lewis books. Did you know they’re quite valuable?”

“They were my dad’s. He named me for Lucy in the stories.” She gazed past Kincaid, and the hand stroking the dog’s head went still. “I always wanted to be like her. Brave, courageous, cheerful. The other children were tempted, but never Lucy. She was good, really good, all the way through. But I’m not.” She turned to Kincaid, and it seemed to him that her eyes held a sadness beyond her years.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “that was an unreasonable expectation.”

“Looks like we’ve got this one nailed,” said Nick Deveney to Kincaid. They sat in the Guildford Police Station canteen, having a quick sandwich and coffee while David Ogilvie waited in Interview Room A.

“He hasn’t admitted to anything,” Kincaid answered through a squishy bite of cheese and tomato. “And I don’t think we’re going to rattle him by making him wait. He’s been on the other side of the table too often.”

“No way he can wiggle out of Gilbert, after what he’s done. Jackie Temple may be a bit more difficult, if he can prove he was lecturing that evening.” Deveney grimaced. “God, I hate to see a copper go bad. And shooting another officer—” Finding no words to express his disgust, he shook his head.

“He wouldn’t have known Will was a cop,” Kincaid said reasonably, then wondered why he was defending Ogilvie, and why Ogilvie’s ignorance should make what he’d done any less reprehensible. “Any news of Will?”

“He’s in surgery. Fractured femur, they think, and ruptured femoral vein.”

Finishing his sandwich, Kincaid rolled the cling film into a tiny ball. “He was fast. Faster than I was. If I’d got out and called for backup, none of it might have happened.”

Deveney nodded, not bothering to excuse him. “You get slow in CID. You lose your edge. You spend too much time writing bloody reports, sitting on your backside at a desk.”

“I don’t think you’ll find that David Ogilvie’s gone soft at all,” said Kincaid.

Ogilvie looked none the worse for wear. He’d hung his anorak neatly over the back of his chair, and his white cotton shirt looked as crisp as if it had just come from the laundry. He smiled at Kincaid and Deveney as they came in and sat opposite him. “This should be an interesting experience,” he said as Deveney turned on the tape recorder.

“I should think you’re about to have quite a few new experiences,” said Kincaid, “including a very long stay in one of Her Majesty’s finer accommodations.”

“I’ve been intending to catch up on my reading,” countered Ogilvie. “And I have an exceptionally good solicitor, who is on his way here, by the way. I could refuse to say anything until he arrives.”

And why doesn’t he? Kincaid wondered as he tried to read the expression in Ogilvie’s dark eyes. David Ogilvie was highly intelligent as well as experienced in the rules of interviews. Did he want to talk, perhaps even need to talk?

Kincaid cast a warning glance at Nick Deveney—this was definitely an occasion when aggression wouldn’t get them anywhere. “Tell us about Claire,” he said to Ogilvie, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“Have you any idea how lovely she was ten years ago? I could never fathom what she saw in him.” Ogilvie sounded incredulous, as if the years had not dimmed his amazement. “It can’t have been sex—she always came to me starved, and I think she must have kept up her ice-queen façade until after they were married. Maybe she sensed that was what he wanted … I don’t know.”

So that had been the way of it, thought Kincaid. “I take it he didn’t know she was sleeping with you?”

Ogilvie shook his head. “I certainly didn’t tell him.”

“Not even after she told you she meant to marry him?”

“Don’t insult me, Superintendent. I’d not stoop to that.”

“Even though it might have botched things for Gilbert?”

“To what end? Claire would have despised me for betraying her. And I think by that time he was so determined to have her that it wouldn’t have stopped him. She was his porcelain prize, to be shown off as his latest accomplishment. The phrase ‘trophy wife’ might have been invented for Gilbert and Claire, but he underestimated her. I’ve often wondered how long it took for him to realize he’d got a real person.” Ogilvie’s face had relaxed as he talked about Claire, and for the first time Kincaid could imagine what she might have seen in him.

“You had no contact with her?”

“Not until tonight.” Ogilvie sipped from the cup of water on the table.

Kincaid sat forwards, hands on the table. “What evidence did Gilbert have against you?”

“Trying to take me by surprise, Superintendent?” The mocking wariness returned to Ogilvie’s mouth. “I think that’s something I’d prefer to discuss with my solicitor.”

“And the nature of the activities in which you were involved?”

“That as well.”

“Jackie Temple believed you were taking protection money from the big-time drug dealers. Is that why you had her killed?”

“I told you before. I had nothing to do with PC Temple’s death, and that’s all I intend to say on the matter.” Ogilvie’s mouth was set in a stubborn line.

Deveney moved restively in his chair. “Tell us about the day Commander Gilbert died,” he said. “What happened after you went to the bank?”

“The bank?” Ogilvie repeated, sounding unsure of himself for the first time.

Sweat, goddammit, thought Kincaid, and smiled at him. “The bank. The bank where you conned the manager into letting you see Claire’s file.”

“How in bloody hell …” Ogilvie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” He sipped at his water again and seemed to collect himself before continuing. “The problem with following Claire was that I couldn’t take a chance on her recognizing me, so I could never get too close. I’d seen her make stops at that bank several times, and I knew they did their personal banking at the Midlands in Guildford. For all I knew she was simply running errands for Gilbert’s mother, but I noticed that she always came from work and returned there, and that made me wonder. By that time the game had grown a bit stale, and I was intrigued.

“Oh, it was a game at first, I admit, a chance to use old skills, feel the edge of things again. And it was a challenge—give Alastair enough to keep him off my back, yet not enough to compromise Claire too badly. He should have blackmailed a less biased snoop.”

Deveney rubbed one thumb with the other. “I should think you’d have relished the opportunity to get even with her, after she threw you over for him.”

“And satisfy bloody Alastair Gilbert in the process? He wanted me to tell him his wife was cheating on him. He seemed to get some sort of perverse satisfaction out of it.”

Kincaid leaned forwards. “Was she?”

“I don’t intend to tell you that, either. What Claire did was her business.”

“But you told Gilbert about the bank account.”

“It seemed harmless enough. I called him that afternoon, told him I wanted to talk to him and that I’d meet his train in Dorking. I gave him the information and told him I was finished. In months of watching Claire, that was the only thing I’d come up with, and for all I knew she was saving up to buy him a bloody birthday present. I’d had enough.”

“And that was that?” Kincaid raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“He agreed,” said Ogilvie, his eyes shuttered.

Kincaid leaned forwards and thumped his fist on the table. “Bollocks! Gilbert would never have agreed. I know that for a fact, and I didn’t know him half as well as you. I think he laughed at you, told you he’d never let you off. And you believed him, didn’t you?” Kincaid sat back again and stared at Ogilvie, playing out the scenario in his head. “I think you followed him home from Dorking that evening, hoping for an opportunity. You left your car in the pub car park, where it would be unremarkable, or up at the end of the lane. You rang the doorbell and made an excuse, told him there was something you’d forgotten to mention, while you saw that no one else was home.

“And I think it was you Gilbert underestimated. He turned his back on you, and that was the end of it.”

The silence in the room grew thick. Kincaid imagined he heard their hearts beating in opposition and the sound of the blood pumping through their veins. Sweat stood out now on Ogilvie’s brow, glistening like oil.

Ogilvie moved, wiping his hand across his face impatiently. “No. I did not kill Alastair Gilbert. And I can prove it. I drove straight back to London, as I had an evening appointment with a painter to discuss the decorating of my flat.” He smiled. “An alibi from an unbiased witness, Superintendent. You’ll find it stands up.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Deveney. “Anyone is susceptible to a payoff. As you should know.”

“A dirty blow,” said Ogilvie. “Touché, Chief Inspector. But if we’re trading points here, I must say that in my old nick we at least gave the accused a cup of coffee. Do you think you could manage that?”

Deveney glanced at Kincaid, grimaced. “I suppose so.” He spoke into the tape recorder, giving the time and noting that they would take a brief recess, then switched it off.

When the door had closed behind him, Ogilvie gave Kincaid a considering look. “Off the record, Superintendent?”

“I can’t promise that.”

Ogilvie shrugged. “I’m not about to make a grand confession. I have nothing to confess, except that I’m tired. You seem like a sensible man. Let me give you a bit of advice, Duncan. It’s Duncan, isn’t it?” When Kincaid nodded, he went on. “Don’t let bitterness damage your judgment. I should have had Gilbert’s job. I was the better qualified, but he was better at sucking up to the powers that be, and he sabotaged me.

“After that I started to feel I deserved more, that the system owed it to me, and that was how I excused the little infractions. Then you begin to justify it in other ways—the stuff goes on no matter what we do, you say, so why not benefit from it?” Ogilvie paused and drained his water glass, then wiped his mouth. “After a while it wears on you, though, like a sickness. I knew I needed to get out, but I kept putting it off. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. That constable—how is he?”

“They say he’s in surgery, but it sounds as though he’ll be all right.” How easy it was to fall from grace by increments. Kincaid looked at Ogilvie, wished he’d met him a dozen years ago, untarnished. “But that doesn’t excuse what you did. And Jackie Temple—you may not have ordered her death, but she was killed because she asked questions about you. In my book that makes you guilty as hell.”

Ogilvie met his eyes. “I’ll have to live with that, won’t I?”

No matter how hard they tried to make the waiting room look comfortable and homelike, they couldn’t disguise a hospital. The smell crept under the doors and through the ventilation system, as pervasive as smoke. Gemma sat alone in the corner of the sofa, waiting. She felt very odd. Time seemed fluid, erratically arbitrary Her eyes trained on the pattern in the wallpaper, she heard the gunshot and saw Will fall, again and again, as if a film were looping inside her head.

She remembered a kind-faced sister ordering her down to the cafeteria for a supper she hadn’t been able to eat, but she had no idea how long ago that had been. Surely Will must be out of the theater soon, and someone would come.

Her trousers were splattered with mud and streaked with blood across the knees and thighs. Still huddled in Kincaid’s anorak, she was grateful for its warmth, but she kept fingering the stiff, stained cuffs, a voice in her head repeating Will’s blood, Will’s blood, like an incantation.

Her head jerked up. Had she been asleep? The voices and footsteps were real; she hadn’t been dreaming. She stood up, her heart racing, as Kincaid and Nick Deveney came through the door.

“Gemma, are you all right?” Kincaid asked. “It’s not bad news about Will, is it?”

Weak-kneed, she sat again, and Kincaid took the chair beside her. She shook her head. “No. It’s just… I thought it must be the doctor…. Sorry. You didn’t see anyone as you came in?”

“No, love.” Kincaid glanced around the empty room. “Doesn’t Will have family?”

“He told me his parents died,” said Gemma.

Deveney made a face. “He won’t have told you how.” When Gemma and Kincaid looked at him expectantly, he sighed and examined his fingernails. “They were devoted to each other, his parents. And to Will. They took it hard when he was posted to Ulster. Just after Will came home his mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and a few months later, his dad with terminal cancer.

“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.”