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 facade 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
