Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

Chapter Eleven

I wave the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing;

But och; it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feelin!

robert burns, “First Epistle to John Lapraik”

Carnmore, April

It was only after Charles had been buried in the Chapeltown churchyard that Livvy began to realize all griefs were unique.

She had lost her mother at sixteen, to a lingering respi-ratory illness that not even her physician father had been able to cure. Livvy’s grieving had been wild and hot, punctuated by racking sobs and waves of such hollowness that she thought surely her body must collapse into this interior abyss.

But with Charles’s death, she’d felt a surprised numbness, and a cold that grew daily, settling into bone and flesh like the weight of the snow that lay across the Braes.

She felt dull, diminished, as if her soul had become a hard, heavy thing inside her.

And secreted inside that brittle shell, a kernel of guilt; for Livvy knew Charles’s death to be her fault.

She had not loved him enough. She had liked him, respected him, admired him even, and between them had grown a comfortable intimacy and dependence. But there had been no passion on her part, and it was that missing bond that might have held him tethered, to her and to Will. Had he seen her failure, when he’d looked in her eyes for the last time?

In late March, the snow turned to rain. The already saturated ground became spongy with moisture; water seeped and trickled down the hillsides into the fast-flowing Crombie Burn. The village children came out to play, like rabbits emerging from their burrows, and the men began to talk about the spring planting.

Livvy began to feel a painful anticipation, as if possibilities waited alongside the green shoots in the earth, and it frightened her. So she tried not to think at all, throwing herself into the running of the house and, with Will, the business of the distillery.

She practiced holding each moment, like a pearl in her hand, but one by one they slipped inexorably away. And then on a morning when the sun shone and the breeze blew soft from the east, an auburn-haired man came riding up from the village on a bay horse, and she knew him.

Louise slipped out the front door while John was cooking a belated breakfast for the guests. There were still two white-coveralled technicians working in the scullery, and the guests were milling about in the hall and sitting room—no one seemed to want to face the dining room, where they had been interrogated by Chief Inspector Ross.

She’d had to ask John for the keys to the old Land Rover—letting go her car had been just one of the sacri-

fices they’d made when they came to this godforsaken place. When he’d questioned her, she’d told him they needed biscuits for tea that afternoon, and she’d offered no explanation to anyone else. The constable on the porch nodded but didn’t stop her.

The rain fell in a mist so fine and heavy that it felt as if she were walking through water, and she had forgotten an umbrella. By the time she reached the car she was sopping, bedraggled as a water rat.

There was English rain, she had discovered, and there was Scottish rain, and Scottish rain invariably made you wetter and colder.

Whatever had possessed her all those years ago, to give up life in London and come here? It had been Hazel, of course, the one person she had ever truly thought of as a friend, and now Hazel had come back and turned everything topsy-turvy once again.

How could they have taken Hazel away? Every time Louise thought of it, she came up against a wall in her mind, as if this shock on top of all the others had formed an impenetrable barrier. It couldn’t be happening—none of this could be happening. Donald couldn’t be dead. She saw the square shape of the mortuary van at the edge of the drive and looked away, her throat closing convulsively.

And John, where had John gone that morning? It shouldn’t have taken him more than half an hour to buy eggs, yet he had been gone a good deal longer than that. He was terrified, she could smell it on him, and this wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared without explanation.

Louise backed the Land Rover up and drove to the gate, rolling to a stop as a constable came up to the window.

His yellow-green jacket was slick with rain, the water

beaded on the bill of his cap. As she lowered the window, drops splattered on the sill of the car door.

“Ma’am,” said the constable, “you’re not to—”

“Chief Inspector Ross said we were free to go.”

Stepping back, he spoke into the radio on his shoulder.

After a moment he nodded at her. “Sorry, ma’am.”

The crowd milling about on the verge was not so obliging. Louise eased the car forward, avoiding eye contact with those who looked vaguely familiar, and when a man held a news camera up to the window she shook her head violently and pressed on the accelerator.

The bodies scattered and she was free, the car skimming along silently except for the rhythmic squeak of the wipers against the windscreen. A mile down the road, she slowed and turned to the right, bumping into a drive heavily rutted by the wheels of horse vans. A weathered sign on a post identified the MacGillivrays’ stable.

The house looked deserted, not even a wisp of smoke from the chimney visible in the rain. Nor was there any sign of Tom, Callum’s father, for which Louise was grateful. She couldn’t have coped with the man’s drunken ramblings, not today.

She drove down to the barn and got out, shielding her face from the rain as she ran in the open door. The air inside the barn smelled warm and ripe, even in the wet.

Two horses looked at her over their stall doors with mildly curious expressions, and she recognized one as Callum’s horse, Max. She called out Callum’s name, her voice tentative in the echoing space.

When there was no answer, she went out and looked down the hill towards the old crofter’s cottage that lay between the barn and the river meadow. She knew Callum lived there, rather than in the main house, but she’d never been inside. They had developed an unexpected friend-

ship in the past year, based at first on their common interest in native plants. Callum was odd, Louise had to admit, but in a way it was this very oddness that had allowed her to feel comfortable with him, to open up with him in a way she seldom did with other people. With Callum, there was no fear of not measuring up, of giving herself away as not belonging.

Until now, however, she had not visited him in his cottage. As she hesitated, wondering if she should have come, a light flickered faintly in the window.

Before she could change her mind, Louise ran down the pebble-strewn path and knocked lightly on the door.

A dog barked sharply, making her jump, and Callum’s voice called, “Come in with ye, then.”

Louise stepped in, holding out a hand for Murphy, Callum’s Labrador retriever, to sniff. There was only one room, she saw, warmed by an old stove and lit by a paraffin lamp standing on a scarred table. There Callum sat, pouring over what looked like account books.

Glancing up, he said, “Louise! What are ye doing here? I thought you were my father.” He stood, closing the topmost book.

“Have you heard?”

“It’s true, then, about Donald?”

She nodded. “How did you—”

“I saw the crowd round your gate. I stopped, but they wouldn’t let me through. It was Peter McNulty told me Donald had been shot!”

Louise felt suddenly faint, as if the reality of what had happened had finally caught up with her body. It must have shown in her face, because Callum hurried towards her.

“Sit ye down, Louise.” He pulled out a chair at the oak table. “I’ll make ye some tea.”

Obeying, she looked round the cottage in an effort to

focus on something other than the turmoil of her thoughts. The black iron stove, where Callum was putting a kettle on to boil, stood on a raised tile hearth. To one side of it stood a deep farmhouse sink, with a hand-made rack holding cups and plates; on the other, a tatty armchair and a small side table stacked with books, and what looked like a tin hip bath. There did not seem to be any indoor plumbing, except for the sink.

The two deep front windows let in little light, but she could see the outline of an alcove bed against the far wall, as well as a notched rack holding half a dozen fishing rods, and pegs hung with oilskins and tweed caps.

Murphy, apparently deciding the excitement was over, returned to a cushion near the stove and flopped down with a sigh, his black coat gleaming in the lamplight. The room smelled of peat smoke and warm dog.

Callum set a steaming mug before her, adding a dash of whisky from the bottle that stood on the table. “Drink up, now. You’ll feel better.”

He gave her a moment to sip, then said, “Tell me what happened.”

Haltingly, she related the events of the morning, ending with Hazel’s being taken for questioning.

“They took your friend? Do you think she can have done such a thing?”

“No! But if it was John’s gun . . . Who else could have taken it? And after . . .” She glanced up at him. “Callum, that woman last night . . . I saw you, watching from the hedge. Did you bring her to see Donald?”

He hesitated, spreading his fingers on the tabletop, and for the first time she noticed how large his hands were. “I didn’t bring her exactly, but aye, I did tell her where Donald was.”

“But why? Who is she?”

“She’s a friend of mine. Her name is Alison Grant.

She’s been going out with Donald, and I thought she should know he wasna telling her the truth about this weekend. He told her he had a business meeting.”

“But why would you—” Louise stopped, seeing the obvious. “You’re interested in her, this Alison? But she’s—” A slag, she had started to say, and caught herself just in time. “Callum, how did you know it wasn’t just a business meeting?”

“It was himself who told me.” Callum’s accent grew heavier under stress, she noticed, as did John’s.

“Himself? You mean Donald?”

“Aye. All about the woman of his dreams.”

“And look where it bloody got him,” Louise burst out, choking back a sob. She gulped at her tea, feeling the whisky bite at the back of her throat, and managed to say,

“He never had any sense where Hazel was concerned.”

“But, Louise, you canna be sure it had anything to do with her. You don’t know why the police took her in?”

She shook her head. “He’s cold, that detective. A cal-culating bastard. He—he frightened me.”

“You’ve no reason to be frightened.” Callum reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Whatever happened, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“But this could ruin our business, don’t you see? And John—” Now that she had come to it, the words stuck in her throat. She forced herself to go on. “Callum, you didn’t see John this morning, did you? He went to buy eggs, but he was gone for a long time.”

“John?” Callum stared at her. “But you canna think—”

“It’s not what I think—it’s what the police will think,”

she said urgently. “Do you know where he was this morning?”

There was a moment’s silence, then Callum said, a bit

too heartily, “No, Louise, I didna see him. I’m sure he will have some explanation—have you asked the man himself?”

“There was no chance, and now he’s got everyone in the kitchen, cooking for them.” She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.

“Aye, that’s his way,” said Callum, with a note of disapproval at her tone. That was a typical man, thought Louise—couldn’t bear to hear another man criticized.

“Hadn’t you better be getting back?” he added. “They’ll aye be wondering where you’ve gone.”

Louise stood, stung by what seemed to her a dismissal.

“Yes. All right.”

“I’m sorry, Louise,” said Callum, standing as well. “I didna mean to be crabbit with ye. It’s just that I’ll have to tell Alison, ye see. She goes to her mam’s in Carrbridge on a Sunday afternoon, but she’ll be back soon, and I’m fair dreading it.”

“It’s okay,” she told him, mollified. “And you’re right, of course you’re right. I’d better go.”

It was only as she turned to the door that she saw a shotgun standing beside it, as if it had been set down carelessly after a walk. Beside the gun sat a pair of heavy boots, streaked with what Louise could have sworn was drying silt from the river.

Gemma caught Chief Inspector Ross as he was getting into his car. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at him, ignoring the rain streaking her face.

“What do you mean by taking Hazel away?”

Ross turned to her, his hand still on the open car door.

“She’s helping us with our inquiries, Inspector. That should certainly be obvious to you,” he said, with exag-gerated patience.

“But you can’t believe she had something to do with Donald’s death!”

“She had motive—they were heard arguing. She had means—access to Mr. Innes’s shotgun. And she had opportunity, as far as I’m concerned, unless she can prove her unlikely account of her movements this morning.”

“But there must be more than that—”

“You also know that I can’t discuss details of the investigation with you, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind”—Ross grimaced and brushed at the water beading on his shoulders—“it’s a wee bit wet.”

He got into the car and his sergeant pulled away, leaving Gemma standing in the drive. She stared after him, momentarily paralyzed by fury. Pulling herself together, she sprinted across to the hired Honda, found it locked, and swore aloud. Hazel must have taken the keys with her—she’d had no opportunity to return to their room.

Nor could Gemma search the room in any case; all the bedrooms in the B&B were off limits until the forensics team had finished with them.

Gemma pushed a sodden strand of hair from her face and tried to think calmly. First, she had to find out where they had taken Hazel. If she could just manage to get a word with her, tell her not to say anything without counsel. Not that she thought Ross would give her access, but she might be able to pull rank on someone with less authority.

Going in search of Constable Mackenzie, she found the officer in the scullery, packing up her test kits. “Do you know where the chief inspector will be conducting his interviews?” she asked from the doorway, trying to sound casual.

“They’re setting up an incident room at Aviemore Police Station, so I should think all inquiries would proceed

from there.” Mackenzie hesitated a moment, then added awkwardly, “I’m sorry about your friend, ma’am.”

Gemma forced a smile, touched by the young woman’s consideration. “Thanks. But don’t worry. I’m sure it will be sorted soon.”

As the technicians were still taking prints and collecting trace evidence in the scullery, Gemma went round the house again and in through the front door. She found the group assembled in the sitting room, picking with varying degrees of enthusiasm at plates of bacon, eggs, and toast.

John turned from the salvers he’d trundled in on a cart.

“No one wanted to eat in the dining room,” he explained.

“Here, I’ll get ye a plate.”

Shaking her head, Gemma said, “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.” Her stomach felt tied in knots, and a sense of urgency gnawed at her. “What I wanted was to know if I could borrow a car. Hazel has the keys to our hired car, and I need to get to the police station in Aviemore.”

“You’ve just missed Louise, I’m afraid. Otherwise she could have given you a lift.”

“Louise is gone?” Gemma asked, startled.

“She ran out to the farm shop for a few things for tea.

We’ll miss lunch, I think, with breakfast so late, so I thought we’d do a proper afternoon tea.”

What the hell difference did it make, Gemma wanted to shout—lunch, high tea, low tea—with Donald dead and Hazel taken off to the nick?

Biting her lip, she said as evenly as she could, “Is there anyone else who could give me a lift, or loan me a car for a bit?”

“Sorry,” said Martin Gilmore, looking up from his empty plate. “I left my old banger in Dundee. John collected me at the station.”

Gemma looked at Heather, who was pushing un-touched eggs round her plate with a fork. “I’ve got to get to the distillery,” Heather responded, a tremor in her voice. “And I’ll need Pascal’s help.”

“Then I shall ride with you,” said Pascal, “and Gemma can drive my car.” Like Martin’s, Pascal’s appetite seemed undiminished by the tragedy, nor had he lost his manners. He stood, fishing a key from his trouser pocket.

“It’s the black one, a bit of a beast.”

Gemma had noticed the car, a new model BMW, polished to perfection. Under other circumstances she would have hesitated to drive such a car, but she accepted the keys with alacrity. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and wished that scraping Pascal’s paint were the worst of her worries.

Retracing the drive she’d made less than two days before with Hazel, it looked to Gemma as if she’d entered a different world. The mountains that had floated hazily in the distance now seemed to brood, their peaks wreathed in cloud, and the river that had sparkled silver in the sunlight now flowed sullenly against its banks.

And if she had thought Aviemore less than charming on a golden evening, the drizzling rain rendered it less salubrious still. There were a few fine Victorian houses along the main street, but they were overshadowed by the souvenir and coffee shops, and the mock chalets hawking ski wear.

Gemma found the police station without difficulty, a new building of honey-colored stone next to the car park.

The sergeant on duty was a good-looking man with sil-very blond hair, a lilting Highland accent, and a helpful manner, but Gemma soon discovered that the public-friendly policing went only so far. Not even the produc-

tion of her identification convinced him to let her talk to Hazel, and after an hour’s wait in the anteroom, she went out into the street again, seething with frustration.

Ducking into a restaurant across the street from the station, she took a table by the window. When she’d ordered coffee and a sandwich to mollify her suddenly protesting stomach, she took out her mobile and rang Kincaid. To her relief it was he who answered, rather than Kit or Toby. She didn’t think she could bear to talk to the children at the moment.

She poured out what had happened since she’d spoken to him earlier that morning, her voice rising until she caught a few other patrons staring at her. Shifting her body towards the window, she forced herself to whisper.

“He must have something else, some sort of evidence, but he won’t tell me what it is, and he won’t let me see Hazel—”

“Gemma, calm down,” Kincaid said soothingly in her ear. “I’ll admit your chief inspector hasn’t been very accommodating, but you really couldn’t expect him to share forensic information with you. Whatever he’s got, I’m sure there’s an explanation. It will just take—”

“But Ross could bully Hazel into something. I’m telling you, you haven’t met him. She needs some sort of representation. Is Tim coming?” Of course, Tim would have to be told about Hazel and Donald, but she only hoped he would support her, considering the seriousness of her situation.

There was a moment’s silence at Kincaid’s end, then he said quietly, “I didn’t speak to Tim. He’d gone away for the weekend, and there was no way to contact him.”

“Gone away?” Gemma repeated, wondering if she’d misheard. “What do you mean, gone away? What about Holly?”

“His parents came to stay at the house. I spoke to his mother. Apparently, Tim had a last-minute invitation to go walking with some friends. He won’t be home until this evening.”

Gemma watched the rain falling in the street, glistening on the hoods and umbrellas of the few resolute shoppers hurrying by. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, flatly. “Tim’s so conscientious; he always makes sure he can be reached in case of an emergency.” Her imagination raced. What if Tim had somehow learned about Donald, decided to do something stupid—no, she couldn’t voice that fear, even to herself. “You’ve got to find him, Duncan. Talk to him—”

“I’ll go back tonight. If he hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll put Cullen to work on it. In the meantime, Gemma, you’re not doing Hazel any good by staying in Aviemore.

Go back to the B&B, talk to the others, see what you can learn. And Hazel has family there—a cousin, didn’t you say? Maybe there’s a family solicitor who would act on Hazel’s behalf.”

“Yes, but—” Gemma stopped, unable to come up with an argument. She knew Kincaid was right, but she felt suddenly deflated and near to tears. Her determination to storm Ross on his own patch had kept her going, in spite of her fear and her shock, and she was afraid to let it go.

“All right,” she said quietly, making an effort to keep her voice steady. “Ring me tonight, then.”

“I will. Don’t worry, love,” he added, with an easy affection that came near to undoing her. “And, Gemma, I’m catching the early train tomorrow. I should be in Aviemore by midafternoon.”

“Up ye go, then,” said Alison patiently as she climbed the stairs in Chrissy’s wake. She knew better than to offer to

help her daughter in her slow progress, or to pass her by, even though her hands were smarting from the weight of the supermarket carrier bags.

It was their usual Sunday routine. A trip to the supermarket for the week’s shopping, and before that, a visit to her mum in Carrbridge, complete with a tea of bread-and-butter sandwiches and store-bought cakes. Chrissy loved her grandmother and never seemed to tire of the fare, but today her usual sunny chatter had been subdued.

Alison knew it was last night’s row with Donald that had upset her, and she was furious with herself for having taken Chrissy to the bed-and-breakfast. She hadn’t meant it to turn into a shouting match; hadn’t meant even to ring the bell. She’d only wanted to see the place, to see if Donald was there, to see if what Callum had told her was true.

But then she had caught a glimpse of Donald in the lamplit sitting room, pouring his precious whisky for the pretty, dark-haired woman, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick sheep.

She remembered Chrissy tugging at her hand as she strode towards the door, but she was past reason then, burning to tell the bastard what she thought of him. All her dreams had gone up in smoke in that moment, and it was knowing herself for a fool that made it harder to bear.

Now it was all clear, all the little slights and excuses.

He had been ashamed of her, and she had been too stupid to see it. He’d never meant to move her into the house at Benvulin, never intended anything more than for her to warm his bed and pass the time until something better came along.

And then last night she had burned her bridges by telling him off. She’d no hope of salvaging anything now, not even a parting guilt-induced gift.

Chrissy reached the top of the stairs and unlocked the door with her own key. The flat was cold and smelled faintly of the cabbage that seemed to constitute the daily diet of their downstairs neighbor. From now on, thought Alison, this would be their life; tea with her mum, shopping at the supermarket with an anxious eye on every penny, a week’s work under the cold, fishy eye of Mrs.

Witherspoon—and then it would start all over again.

Then, as Alison watched Chrissy putting away the cornflakes in the cupboard and carefully placing apples in a bowl, her little face intent, she felt ashamed. She had Chrissy, that was what mattered, and somehow they would get on.

“We could watch a video tonight,” she suggested brightly. “Something special. And hot cocoa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

Chrissy turned and looked at her, her gaze unexpectedly solemn. “It’s all right, Mummy. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to make up for Donald.”

“But . . . I thought . . . I thought you’d be disappointed. The pony . . .”

Chrissy shrugged her thin shoulders and slid a carton of milk into the fridge. “I never really believed it. It was like a story in a book. It’s okay, really it is.”

“But, baby . . .” Alison brushed at the sudden tears threatening to smear her mascara.

“Can we watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmarron?”

Chrissy asked, closing the subject.

“Again?” asked Alison, choking back a half laugh, half sob. When Chrissy glared at her she added, “Okay, okay. I know I promis—”

The knock on the door made her jump. “What the hell . . . ,” she muttered, crossing the room and yanking the door wide.

Callum MacGillivray stood on the mat, looking excep-tionally clean and brushed in MacGillivray tartan, his expression pinched and anxious.

Alison felt the blood rise in her face. “What do ye think you’re doing here?” she said furiously. “Go to hell, Callum. I don’t want to see you.”

“Alison—”

“Could ye not have left me to make a fool of myself in my own time?” She started to slam the door, but Callum thrust out a strong arm. “Alison, I’ve got to talk to ye—”

“You’ve done enough damage. I’ve nothing to say.”

“Alison, I’ve something to tell ye. It’s bad news.”

The fear swept over her then, clenching her gut. Her knees seemed to dissolve and she found herself clutching the doorframe, unable to speak.

“Chrissy, I think maybe ye should go to your room,”

Callum said gently, but Chrissy shook her head and stepped closer to her mother.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not Max, is it, Callum? Or Grandma?”

Some small detached part of Alison’s mind almost laughed at her daughter’s priorities. Would she, she wondered, have the dubious honor of coming before the horse?

“No,” she said, in a calm voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. She forced herself to focus on Callum. “It’s Donald. He’s dead, isn’t he? And you bloody killed him.”