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
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.
