Mourn not your Dead

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 Ge mm a’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,