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

Chapter Twelve

The sharp constraint of fingertips Or the shuddering touch of lips, And all old memories of delight Crowd upon my soul tonight.

—robert louis stevenson,

“I Saw Red Evening Through the Rain”

Carnmore, April

Will stood in the door of the warehouse, gazing at the ranks of casks. He had discovered in the past few months that this was the one thing that gave him a sense of satisfaction, of completion. Some of these casks now were his, his legacy, as the ones before had been his father’s.

He breathed in the scent of oak, of hard-packed earth, and even on this cold April day the ever-present vapor of maturing whisky. This was his life, his world, embodied in barrels and hogsheads, stamped with the Carnmore seal. He had put away his books, and along with them his dreams of university in Edinburgh, of studying medicine.

The promise he had made his father bound him more

tightly than any physical constraint, and he had determined that he would commit himself well.

Will poured over his father’s ledgers and account books, he questioned the men, absorbing details of the distilling process he had never thought to notice. They were patient with him, these men who had been his friends since childhood, and he noticed that as time passed they listened more and more readily when he offered an opinion. He could only hope that he would live up to their expectations.

Closing and locking the warehouse doors, he started out across the yard towards the office. He had paperwork to do, there were orders to be filled, but just for a moment he stopped at the edge of the yard and looked out across the Braes.

They were strip-burning the heather up on the moors—

late this year because of the persistent rains in March.

The smoke rose in curls, and he caught the smell of it, sharp and acrid on the dry air.

Since he had put aside his books, he had begun to feel the land like a living thing, a presence that never left him.

The life and rhythm of it pulsed in his blood, in his skin, the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. When the first buds appeared on the trees, he’d felt the hard nodules on the ends of his fingers, masked by velvety skin. He felt the water moving through the earth, the green shoots pushing upwards, the delight of the lambs frisking in the fields.

He told no one, afraid they would think him mad.

It was the same in the distillery. He felt the whisky at every step, from the malting of the barley to the final dis-tillate—and he knew when it was right. He began to wonder if his father had found grace with God after all, and so been allowed to bestow a last gift upon his son. What

other explanation was there for what had happened to him?

This uncanny awareness did not extend to people, however. Watching his mother as she went about her daily tasks, he was unable to penetrate her reserve. It was not that she seemed desperately unhappy, but that his father’s death had changed her in some basic way that Will couldn’t fathom.

And then Rab Brodie had come calling from Benvulin.

It was almost fifteen miles from the Speyside distillery to Carnmore, and Will wondered if the condolences Mr.

Brodie had come to offer merited such a ride. Brodie had walked round the distillery with an assessing eye that made Will uncomfortable, but it was the man’s easy condescension that made Will’s skin prickle.

He knew from the men’s gossip that Benvulin had not fared well in the Pattison’s disaster, and if Brodie was struggling to keep his own distillery afloat, what possible interest could he have in Carnmore?

After another futile visit to the police station, where even the friendly sergeant’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, Gemma retreated to the car. She considered going round the town, trying to find a witness who had seen Hazel early that morning, but she had to admit that the likelihood of finding anything on her own was slim.

She knew she should take Kincaid’s advice and go back to the B&B, but it galled her to do it. She couldn’t banish the thought of Hazel, alone in an interview room, or worse, being badgered by Chief Inspector Ross, after what she had already been through that day.

Gemma made an effort to put herself in Ross’s position. Wouldn’t she have done the same, with the information Ross had?

No, she couldn’t summon the detachment, she was too close, and yet the effort brought with it a small worm of doubt. What had Hazel done last night? Had she argued with Donald? And why had she left so precipitously this morning? Where had she been at the moment Donald was shot? Two days ago it would never have occurred to Gemma that Hazel might hide secrets. How well, she wondered, did she really know her friend?

Unwilling to follow that train of thought any further, Gemma started the car and drove out of Aviemore, head-ing north towards Innesfree. As she crossed the bridge over the Spey, she realized that her wipers were squeak-ing. The rain had stopped. Looking up, she saw that a clear ribbon of sky had appeared beneath a dark and for-bidding bank of cloud. In the distance, the hills glowed impossibly green, and it suddenly seemed to Gemma that the morning’s violence had been a dream.

How could such a thing have happened in this place, where beauty took the breath away? She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave, and turned up the car’s heater.

As she neared the B&B, she saw that the crowd had dispersed except for a few stragglers and an isolated television van. Slowing for the turn, she remembered that Heather had meant to go to Benvulin. Why not go there and talk to her, ask about the solicitor as Kincaid had suggested?

Gemma drove on, finding that it seemed logical to go on to Benvulin, but she knew that what drew her most was the chance to return to the place where she had felt closest to Donald Brodie.

Graced by the late-afternoon sun, Benvulin looked much as it had the day before, except for the two police cars

parked in the drive alongside Heather’s Audi. Deciding to try her luck first in the office, Gemma went up the steps and entered the small stone building next to the old mill.

This was not included in the visitors tour, Gemma quickly surmised. It was a real, working office, crammed with file cabinets, computer desks, and the piles of paperwork that any business generated. There was no one in the first room on the right, but from the size of the desk and the memorabilia on the walls, she assumed the office was Donald’s. A large, carved sideboard held an array of Benvulin whiskies and a tray filled with crystal tumblers.

For an instant, Gemma imagined Donald sitting in the leather-backed chair, half turned towards the window so that he could survey the domain he had so loved. She blinked, shook her head to dispel the vision. Donald Brodie was gone.

She went on, and in the next room along the corridor she found Heather Urquhart. The woman sat hunched over her desk, her face covered by her long, slender fingers. At the sound of Gemma’s footfall, she looked up, startled, and snapped, “What are you doing here?”

Heather looked so miserable that instead of making a retort, Gemma sat down and said gently, “You must be having a dreadful time of it. What are the police doing here?”

“Searching the bloody house. For what, I don’t know.”

Sarcastically, Heather added, “A note inviting Donald to a secret assignation in the meadow, signed with the murderer’s name?”

Gemma had to smile. “They should be so lucky.”

“Well, then, what are they looking for?”

“Details,” Gemma said slowly. “Details of a life. All the bits and pieces that make up the whole, and they hope

that when they put it all together, they’ll see a pattern that will point them in the right direction.”

“They’ve taken away the computers. You’d think they’d realize we still had a business to run.”

Gemma hesitated, then said, “I can’t speak for Chief Inspector Ross, but it’s not usually the aim of the police to make life difficult for those trying to deal with a tragic death. They just want to solve the case—and so do you. The consequences of not succeeding are terrible for everyone concerned with the victim. Trust me on this.”

“So you’re saying we should cooperate?”

“Yes, and cooperate fully, rather than grudgingly.

That’s when the little, innocuous things come out that can glue the entire case together.”

“But I can’t abide that man,” Heather protested, her earlier hostility towards Gemma apparently forgotten.

“He makes me feel guilty even though I haven’t done anything. Do you know I actually started thinking about the time I stole a bag of marbles from the novelty shop when I was six?”

“I hope you didn’t confess,” Gemma said, grinning.

“But I know what you mean. He’s rather terrifying.”

Heather’s answering smile was fleeting. “You went to Aviemore—what about Hazel? Did you see her?”

“Ross is still detaining her, and no, I wasn’t able to see her, I’m afraid. She should have a solicitor. Is there someone you could call?”

“There’s Giles Glover, the firm’s legal adviser. But I’ve rung him already. He’s out of town for the weekend, won’t be back until tomorrow morning. About Hazel—I hope—you don’t think Ross took her in because of something I said?” Heather twisted her hair into a careless knot.

“What did you tell him?” asked Gemma, making an effort to keep her voice even, friendly.

“Only that Donald and Hazel had had a relationship, but years ago. I didn’t say—you’d think he’d have taken in that Alison woman. I mean, she was the one screaming at him like a fishwife last night—”

“Her name is Alison? I had the impression you knew her,” Gemma added, with some satisfaction.

“Alison Grant.” Heather made a grimace of distaste.

“She lives in Aviemore, works at the gift shop there. It was nothing serious between her and Donald, at least on his part.”

“So do you think someone told her Donald had another . . . um . . . romantic agenda for the weekend?”

“Someone must have, but I’ve no idea who.” With a return of her former prickliness, Heather added, “It wasn’t me.”

“No, no, I didn’t think it was. Where’s Pascal?”

Gemma asked, hoping to diffuse the tension. “I thought he was coming with you.”

“He did. He’s in the stillroom with Peter McNulty, the stillman. Peter showed up here this afternoon already half pissed, and is now proceeding to drink his way through an eighteen-year-old bottle of Benvulin. It seemed the least I could offer,” Heather said bitterly. “He was devoted to Donald. Everyone was devoted to Donald.”

“Including you.”

Heather’s eyes filled, and she swiped angrily at the tears. “Yes. Including me. God, what a bloody mess.”

“What will happen to the distillery? Will you stay on?”

“It will depend on the disposition of Donald’s shares. And on the board of directors. I’ve rung them with the news.”

“And the house?”

“It belongs to the distillery, not Donald personally.

Donald’s father mortgaged it when the distillery had a cash shortage back in the eighties. Donald’s mother has no claim. She remarried shortly after she and Bruce divorced, and lives in California now. I’ve rung her as well.”

“What was he like, Donald’s father?” asked Gemma.

“Bruce Brodie was . . . difficult. He bullied Donald, as hard as that is to imagine.” Heather’s smile was fleeting.

“When he was killed—that was not long after I came to work here—I’d almost say Donald was . . . relieved.”

Gemma sat up a bit, her interest quickening. “He was killed?”

“Did Hazel never tell you? It was a climbing accident, on Cairngorm. Almost ten years ago, now. Donald’s sister, Lizzie, died, too.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Gemma. “How did it happen?”

“An early snowstorm. It was four days before Mountain Rescue found their bodies. The weather forecast had been a bit dicey, but Bruce ignored it. He was always reckless. And Lizzie . . . Lizzie would have followed her father to the end of the earth. I suppose you could say she did.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, wishing she had more comfort to offer. “It must have been very hard for you, especially if you and Donald were close.”

“Do you mean if we were lovers?” said Heather, hostility back in full force. “At least you had a little more tact than Chief Inspector Ross. Why does everyone find it so hard to believe that men and women can be friends?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, it was stupid of me.” Even as she cursed herself for her clumsiness, Gemma noticed that Heather had not answered the question directly.

Heather stood abruptly and went to the window, where she stood with her back to Gemma, looking out.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Gemma got up and examined the photos on the wall behind Heather’s desk. There were many of Heather, or Heather and Donald, in the distillery with various members of the staff.

Another picture caught Gemma’s eye, Heather and Donald in evening dress at a banquet. It must have been an affair honoring whisky, as bottles marched down the center of the table. Heather looked happy in a way Gemma had not seen before.

Among the business shots, Gemma spied a framed photo of a slightly younger Heather with an older couple Gemma took to be her mum and dad. And then she noticed an unframed snap, stuck into the corner of a corkboard, half covered by papers. She peered at it, trying to make out the details. It was a distillery, but not Benvulin.

The buildings were spare and white-harled, and looked bleak against a snowy ground and barren moors.

There were two girls, off to one side, in the shadow.

One was surely Heather, the long, dark hair distinctive even then, and the other, half-hidden by the corkboard’s edge—was it Hazel?

“It’s Carnmore.” Heather had turned round and was watching her. “My family’s distillery.”

“Your family? But I thought Hazel’s father—”

“My father was the younger brother. It should have come to him, but he wasn’t in a financial position to take on the business when Uncle Robert decided to sell,” explained Heather, her tone once again bitter.

“Did you and Hazel spend much time together?” asked Gemma, still studying the photo.

“We were inseparable. I never imagined things would turn out the way they did.” Heather moved to the cork-

board and touched the snapshot with a fingertip. “Losing Carnmore was bad enough, but I thought Hazel would write, that she’d come back for the summers. I never dreamed she would just disappear.”

Was this the source of Heather’s ambition? wondered Gemma. A longing for a childhood idyll, rather than a passion for the whisky itself? “It might have been hard for her to come back,” suggested Gemma. “To be reminded of what she’d lost.”

“I know that now. But I didn’t at twelve. Look . . .”

Heather turned to face her. “What I said this morning, about what’s happened being Hazel’s fault. I don’t really believe that. But why—after all this time—would someone choose this particular weekend to shoot Donald?”

When Kit learned that Kincaid had arranged for Wesley to come and stay from Monday afternoon, he had gone ominously quiet.

First, Kincaid tried determined cheerfulness, but as the afternoon wore on and Kit’s attitude did not improve, he called the boy into the study, a cozy room that held not only Kincaid’s desk but also a squashy sofa and the television.

“Kit, what’s the problem, here? I thought you got on with Wes—”

“It’s nothing to do with him.” Kit stood before the desk, hands shoved in his pockets, spots of color high on his cheekbones. “I just don’t see why we need anyone—”

“I thought we’d already had this argument. I don’t know how long I’ll be away, and I’m not leaving you and Toby alone without an adult in the house. That’s just not an option.” Leaving Kit alone really would give Kit’s grandmother ammunition to accuse him of improper

care, Kincaid thought with a shudder, but he wasn’t going to remind Kit of that. He tried to curb his exasperation.

“Now, why don’t we take the dogs for a run before—”

“Then let me go with you. Toby can stay here with Wesley.”

“Kit—”

“I can help you. I could do all sorts of things for you.”

Kincaid had a sudden flash of understanding. “Kit, if you’re worried about Gemma and Hazel, I’m sure they’ll be fine. There’s no—”

“How can you say that? A man’s dead. Someone they knew. That means Gemma could— Hazel could—”

To Kincaid’s horror, he saw that Kit was fighting back tears. Thinking of how close they had come to losing Gemma just a few months earlier when she had miscarried and subsequently hemorrhaged, he said with more certainty than he felt, “Kit, I promise you Gemma and Hazel will be all right. That’s why I’m going to Scotland, to make sure of it. And I need you to help Wesley keep things running smoothly here.”

Kit shook his head and bolted from the room, but not before Kincaid had seen the accusation in his eyes.

They both knew what Kit had not said—that safety was illusory, and that promises could be broken. For Kincaid had failed his son once before, when he had let Kit’s mother die.

“Sod it,” muttered Kincaid, sitting once more in the traffic on the Euston Road. Sod Hazel Cavendish for having got them into this mess. Sod Tim Cavendish for having done a bloody runner over the weekend.

But his anger couldn’t quite mask his worry. He kept replaying his confrontation with Kit, and remembering Gemma’s fear that Hazel might be in danger, too. The

only way he could assure Hazel’s safety was by learning why Donald Brodie had been killed, and in the meantime, he was just as happy to have Hazel safely in the Aviemore nick.

Neither Tim nor Carolyn Cavendish had rung him back over the course of the afternoon, and when he had called the Cavendishes’ number, he’d got the answer phone.

After the third try, he’d made the boys their tea and climbed back in the car, this time without any of the morning’s pleasure at the prospect of the drive.

His uneasiness was confirmed when he turned into Thornhill Gardens. Tim Cavendish’s mud-bespattered car was parked in its usual spot in front of the house. Kincaid got out and rang the bell. When there was no answer, he walked round the corner to the garage flat and went in through the garden gate.

Tim sat in one of the white iron patio chairs, a beer in his hand, while Holly dug in the sand pit at the bottom of the garden. Under other circumstances, a scene of perfect normalcy, but on this evening it jarred on Kincaid like a note out of place. Something here was very wrong.

“Tim!” he called out. Tim looked up but didn’t speak while Holly dropped her trowel and came running to him, clinging to his leg like a limpet.

“Duncan!”

“Hullo, poppet.” Kincaid swung her up to his hip and hugged her, finding unexpected comfort in the damp-child smell of her.

“Where’s Toby? Is Toby with you?”

“No, sweetheart, not this time,” he said as he carried her across the garden. Someone, he noticed, had carefully plaited her unruly dark hair, but strands had sprung loose to float about her face. “I’ve come to see your dad,” he added as he reached the patio and set her down.

“Duncan,” said Tim at last, looking up at him.

Tim Cavendish had shaved the beard he’d worn when Kincaid had first known him, and it struck Kincaid now that his face looked naked without it, defenseless.

“Holly, go finish your barn while I talk to Duncan.”

Tim’s tone brooked no argument, and Holly trudged obe-diently off towards the sand pit, dragging her feet to express her displeasure.

Kincaid shifted a chair round to face Tim and sat down. “Tim—”

“Have a beer?” Tim gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. There was no slur to his words, Kincaid thought with relief—at least he wasn’t drunk.

“No, thanks. Tim, your mother must have told you I came by—”

“She’s been playing farm,” interrupted Tim, watching his daughter. “My mother bought her a set of barnyard animals. Spoil her rotten, my parents.”

“Tim. I told your mother there was a shooting at the B&B in Scotland. A man named Donald Brodie was killed. What I didn’t know this morning was that Hazel’s been taken in for questioning.”

“Hazel? They think Hazel shot him?” Tim looked squarely at him for the first time. Kincaid saw the dark circles under his eyes, the lines cutting grooves about his mouth. The man was clearly exhausted. “My wife is capable of many things,” Tim added, his tone meditative,

“but I think even she would draw the line at that.”

He knew, Kincaid realized. Tim knew about Hazel and Donald. “Tim—”

“You don’t have to spell it out for me, you know. I’m not stupid—or at least not anymore. So why do the police think my wife shot her . . . lover?”

Denials ran through Kincaid’s head—there was no

proof, after all, that Hazel had done more than renew her friendship with Brodie—but he knew at heart that anything he said would be cold comfort to Tim Cavendish. “I don’t know. The officer in charge of the case wouldn’t speak to Gemma. I’ll take the train up in the morning, see what I can find out.”

“Bully for you. Duncan to the rescue.” Tim took another swig of his beer, then held up the bottle and squinted at it in the fading light.

“Come with me. Holly can stay with Wesley and the boys. We’ll get this sorted out—”

“No. You can’t fix this,” Tim said fiercely. “I can’t fix this, and I’m not traipsing up to the bloody Highlands to make an even bigger fool of myself. Hazel made her own bed—excuse the metaphor—let her lie in it.”

“Tim, you can’t mean that,” Kincaid argued reasonably. “She’s still your wife, and Holly’s mother. Do you realize the seriousness of the situation? If she’s accused of murder—”

“She’ll have to get a lawyer, then, won’t she?” said Tim, tapping his empty bottle against the flagstone.

“Tim, you can’t make these kinds of judgments when you don’t have all the facts. You’ve too much at stake—”

“Facts? What’s between Hazel and me isn’t a police case, Duncan. What I know for a fact is that my wife lied to me, and that she went to Scotland to meet a man who had been her lover. If it were Gemma, wouldn’t you put two and two together?”

“Not without talking to her,” Kincaid protested, but he couldn’t help but wonder how he would feel in Tim’s shoes. “Surely, you can—”

“No!” The bottle in Tim’s hand shattered against the patio.

Holly, Kincaid saw, had stopped digging and was sit-

ting very still, her face turned away from them. Deep shadow had stolen over the garden, and the lightless house seemed desolate without Hazel’s presence.

“Okay, Tim,” Kincaid said quietly. “Just take it easy.

You’re scaring Holly. Let her come to us—”

“She’s my daughter,” Tim responded, but kept his voice down. “She stays here with me. Now why don’t you just sod off, Duncan, and play knight somewhere else?”

“All right, I’ll go. But first tell me one thing: Where were you this weekend?”

“Why should I?”

“The police will get round to asking you, you know.

Why not tell me, if you’ve nothing to hide?”

Tim gazed out across the garden for a moment, then shrugged. “I went walking. My mum told you.”

“With your friends?”

Kincaid saw Tim hesitate before he said, “No. That fell through. I went on my own.”

Had there ever been any friends? wondered Kincaid.

“Where did you go?”

“Hampshire. I needed to think.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“A few sheep,” answered Tim.

“You must have gone in a pub, a petrol station—”

“Daddy.” Holly had given up her digging and edged her way back to the patio. She watched her father from a foot away, her brow creased with worry.

“Baa.” Tim reached out and gathered her to him, burying his face in her dark hair. “Can you say ‘baa,’ sweetheart?”

Holly pulled away. “Daddy, when’s Mummy coming home? I want Mummy.”

“We’ll manage just fine on our own.” Tim stood and

lifted her up. “I’m going to make you macaroni cheese.

How would you like that?”

Kincaid didn’t see how he could continue questioning Tim without upsetting Holly further. “Tim, ring me if you change your mind,” he said reluctantly, and went out the way he had come in.

Walking round to the front of the house, he stood for a moment, looking back at the darkened windows. He didn’t like leaving the child alone with Tim, but he had no authority to do otherwise. The little girl was obviously sensing her dad’s anger, and missing her mother. Tim Cavendish was a therapist, he told himself, a man who understood the fragility of children, but he feared Tim’s judgment was compromised by his emotions.

Could he contact Tim’s parents, ask them to come back? Tim would protest, he felt sure, but perhaps they’d have more leverage with him.

Had Tim really gone to Hampshire? Kincaid ran a finger over the rain-speckled boot of Tim’s dark blue Peu-geot. The south of England had been dry the entire weekend.

Ross had always been one for expending the least effort necessary to get results, and so he had left Hazel Cavendish alone in an interview room for the afternoon. Oh, he’d sent in sandwiches and coffee—no one could accuse him of ill treatment—but he’d been happy enough to let her stew in solitude while he organized the gathering of information. In his opinion, there was nothing like a few hours in an empty room to induce a confessional state of mind.

In the meantime, he had set in motion a house-to-house inquiry along the Inneses’ road, although the scattered nature of the properties made the results less than promising. He’d assigned an officer to enter all the data

collected into HOLMES, and a family liaison officer to trace Donald Brodie’s living relatives. As well as the team working at Innesfree, he had a team searching Brodie’s house and business, and another team had been delegated to canvas the railway station and nearby shops in Aviemore, in an effort to substantiate Hazel Cavendish’s early-morning movements.

And he had spoken to the press, who had followed him from the crime scene to Aviemore Police Station like vultures after a carcass. Although he knew rumors as to the victim’s identity were flying, he had asked the media to keep such speculations to themselves until any next of kin had been notified.

Only then had he felt ready to interview Hazel Cavendish. He summoned Munro, who appeared looking even more lugubrious than he had earlier in the day. Eey-ore the donkey, thought Ross, that’s who Munro reminded him of—although Munro’s nature was surprisingly optimistic considering his countenance.

“Two things, sir,” said Munro as they clattered down the stairs. “We found Alison Grant’s address here in Aviemore, traced her phone and electricity services. A constable went round, but there was no one at home.

He’ll try again in a bit.”

“Why don’t you go, Sergeant?” suggested Ross. “I’d rather trust your judgment on this one. What else?”

“John Innes’s gun, sir. It’s not licensed. His other two shotguns are, but not the little Purdy.”

Ross was not surprised. “Damn family guns,” he muttered. “Just because there’s no record of purchase, people can’t be bothered. Well, I’ll throw the book at him on this one.” They had reached the interview room. He stopped and automatically straightened his tie. “Now, let’s see how our wee birdie’s getting on.”

Hazel Cavendish stood up abruptly at their entrance, sloshing coffee over the table, then looked round wildly for something to mop it up.

“Sergeant, see if you can grab a kitchen roll,” said Ross. When Munro had gone, he studied the woman before him. Time and isolation had taken their toll, he noticed. The flesh seemed to have molded itself more tightly to the bones of her face, leaving the planes and hollows more pronounced. And he saw that her hands were trembling, although she clasped them together to hide it. The remains of her sandwich lay in the open plastic box, shredded to bits. Ross couldn’t tell that she had actually eaten any of it.

He shook his head disapprovingly. “Ye need to eat, lassie, keep up your strength.”

“What I need,” she countered, facing him across the table, “is to go home and see my daughter.”

“Weel, the sooner you answer our questions satisfacto-rily, the sooner ye can go—although you may be obliged to stay in Scotland for a few more days.” To his delight, it did not seem to have occurred to her that she could refuse to talk to him until she had a lawyer’s counsel, and as he had not actually charged her, he was not obliged to advise her of her rights.

Munro came back, his arrival silencing her protests for the moment. While Munro swabbed the table, Ross turned on the recorder, stated the date and time, and identified the participants.

“Can we get ye some more coffee, Mrs. Cavendish?”

he asked as he sat down. “Munro can fetch it from the machine—”

“No, please, I don’t want anything, except to go home.

I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here.”

“Ach, weel, why don’t we start at the beginning, then.

Tell me about your relationship with the deceased, Donald Brodie.”

She twisted her hands together in her lap but met his gaze directly. “We were close once, years ago, before I was married. But I hadn’t seen him in years.”

“Then how do you explain your row with him after Alison Grant came calling at the B&B last night?”

Her hands tightened, and he heard the small catch of breath in her throat. “You’re mistaken, Chief Inspector.

We didn’t argue.”

“Is that so?” He smiled at her. “Weel, I have it otherwise from a number of sources. How do you explain that, Mrs. Cavendish?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You and Mr. Brodie went out together after dinner, and you were heard shouting. Now, I would call that a row, myself.”

“I—I was worried about the child. She had a child with her when she came to see him.”

“Alison Grant?”

Hazel nodded. “I was afraid he’d made promises to the woman—to Alison—that would hurt the child.”

“A very noble sentiment, Mrs. Cavendish. And it was that worry drove you to have sex in the woods with Mr.

Brodie?” Ross thought it worth the gamble that the DNA test on the semen sample found in the woods would give him a positive identification. He knew Hazel Cavendish had been there from the fiber match, and it seemed highly unlikely that she’d been meeting someone else.

Her eyes had widened. “Oh, God,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

“It will go easier for ye, lass, if you’ll just tell us the truth,” encouraged Ross at his most sympathetic.

“It wasn’t like that—what you said.” She dropped her

hands, gripping the table edge as if it might anchor her.

“He’d asked me to come. Donald. He wanted me to leave my husband. It wasn’t until I saw that woman and her child that it really hit me what damage we were contemplating. Not just my husband, my daughter, but this woman who cared about him, and her child, and then I saw that it would ripple outwards from there.

“We did argue. I was angry with him, but even angrier with myself. I told him it was never going to work out between us. What we did then . . . in the woods . . . I suppose it was a good-bye.”

“And this morning?”

“I couldn’t face seeing him again. I thought I’d just pack and leave, but there was no train. I decided I had to face up to things, so I came back. And that was when . . .

Gemma told me . . .” She lifted a hand to her mouth, pressing her fingers against quivering lips.

“Why didn’t you tell us this from the start?”

“I was so ashamed. And I suppose I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come out, that my husband wouldn’t have to know.”

That was it, thought Ross, feeling a firecracker fizz of inspiration. That was the reason that made the pieces fit.

Of course she hadn’t wanted her husband to find out, not if she’d made up her mind to go back to him.

“That’s all very plausible, Mrs. Cavendish,” he said.

“But I think that’s not quite how it happened. I think you met Mr. Brodie again this morning, and that when you told him you meant to go back to your husband, he threatened to expose you. Then you found some excuse to take the gun—no, wait.” Ross frowned, working out an even better scenario. “I think you told him last night, and he threatened you then. Was that why you argued? And the sex, you were placating him. Did

you invite him to meet you this morning, a romantic rendezvous? He would never have thought you meant to harm him—”

“No!” Hazel pushed away from the table and stood. “I would never have hurt Donald! How could you even think—”

“Sit ye down, Mrs. Cavendish,” soothed Ross. Having failed to shock her into a confession, he knew he had little hard evidence to support his theory. “If you’ll—”

There was a knock at the interview room door. Munro got up, and as he went out, Ross glimpsed one of the officers assigned to the Aviemore detail.

A moment later, Munro looked in again and said, “Sir, a word with ye . . .”

Ross switched off the tape recorder and joined him in the corridor.

“You’d better hear what P. C. Clarke has to say,”

Munro told him quietly, “before you go any further.”

The constable nodded at him. “Sir. Someone from the car hire office in the railway station recalls seeing a woman matching Mrs. Cavendish’s description early this morning.

He remembered because it was odd to see someone turn up, bags and all, two hours before the scheduled train. He said she sat in the waiting area for half an hour, then went out again.”

“Did he remember the time?” asked Ross, his heart sinking.

“Getting on for six o’clock, sir. He had come in to arrange an early car pickup.”

“All right,” Ross growled. “Get a statement. Then have him make a definite identification.” He turned away, swearing under his breath. That would make it just about the time Inspector James had reported hearing a gunshot, and he bloody well couldn’t make a case on the premise

that Hazel Cavendish had been in two places at the same time.

Gemma left Benvulin when the team arrived to search the offices. With a last glance back at the house, set like a jewel above the river, and the distinctive twin pagodas of the distillery, she got into the BMW and eased the car into the drive. When she reached the road, she hesitated a moment, then turned left, away from Innesfree.

Heather had said she’d bring Pascal back to the B&B

to collect his car later on, so Gemma had no reason to hurry. Nor was she sure the forensics team at the B&B

would have finished their search of the room she shared with Hazel, and the thought of being on the premises while someone went through her belongings made her skin crawl.

But there was more to her reluctance than that, she realized—she just wasn’t ready to face the others, to answer their questions about Hazel, to see those she had considered friends as suspects.

She drove on, absently watching the light and shadow play across the hills, through the hamlet of Nethy Bridge, and then across the Spey and into the planned Victorian town of Grantown-on-Spey. Finding a spot in the car park, she carefully locked the BMW and walked down to the High Street.

Most of the shops were closed, it being a Sunday afternoon, but the newsagents and pubs and cafés seemed to be doing a brisk business. There were people walking purposefully along the pavements, which suited Gemma—she felt the need to be near people doing ordinary things, but she didn’t want to speak to anyone.

“Wallpaper,” Kincaid would say accusingly to her when she got into such a mood. “You want human wallpaper.”

Imagining the sound of his voice made her throat tighten with longing, and she felt a wash of relief as she thought of his arrival tomorrow.

Damn her pride—she must have sounded an ungrateful cow on the phone earlier. Not that she had exactly protested, but he must have heard the reluctance in her voice. How could she have even considered letting her desire to do it all herself—and to get the better of Chief Inspector Ross—get in the way of anything that might help Hazel?

She walked on, trying to put her mind into neutral, admiring the tidy symmetry of Grantown’s High Street, which opened out into a large green at the top end. The town was ringed by the hills that rose above it on the north and west, and by the heavily wooded valley of the Spey on the southeast. It gave the place a secure feel, and as lights began to glow in the windows of the large houses facing the square, she found herself enchanted.

The imposing edifice of the Grant Arms Hotel anchored the square. Gemma was just crossing the greensward to have a better look when the sky darkened and a squall of wind and stinging rain blew up out of nowhere.

Sprinting for the hotel entrance, she darted inside and stood in the lobby, panting and shaking the water from her hair like a drenched dog.

Although she had seen tour coaches parked outside, the hotel appeared comfortably elegant. The woman from the reception desk crossed the lobby, and in a friendly, Highland voice she asked Gemma if there was anything she needed.

“A cup of coffee would be grand,” admitted Gemma, still shivering slightly from her unexpected soaking. “The rain caught me by surprise.”

“That’s the Highlands for you,” the young woman said with a smile. “We pride ourselves on our unpredictabil-ity. The restaurant’s closed until dinner, but I’ll just fetch you a cup from the kitchen, if you don’t mind having it in here.”

Having accepted gladly, Gemma wandered about the lobby as she waited, discovering a small plaque detailing the history of the hotel. When the receptionist returned with her coffee, Gemma said, “I see you had Queen Victoria as a guest.”

“In .” The young woman grinned. “That was the greatest moment in Grantown history, if you can believe it. Still,” she added a bit wistfully, “it must have been grand in those days—all the balls and dinner dances. And the clothes must have been lovely.”

“And bloody uncomfortable,” offered Gemma, and they both laughed. “Can you imagine corsets?”

When she’d finished her coffee, the rain had stopped.

She went out again onto the green and stood for a moment, looking up at the hotel in the gathering dusk, imagining the square filled with carriages and traps and the chatter of excited voices.

With a sigh of regret, she turned away. She had no business indulging in a fantasy of a happier time. Returning to the car, she phoned the police station in Aviemore and inquired about Hazel. There was a different—and much less accommodating—sergeant on duty, who told her only that he believed Mrs. Cavendish was still with Chief Inspector Ross.

Gemma then rang the bed-and-breakfast and spoke to Louise.

“You’re coming back for supper?” Louise said, an appeal in her voice. “John’s put together a goat cheese tart.

He thought it would suit Hazel . . . he was hoping . . .”

“Don’t count on me,” Gemma told her evasively. “I’ve a few more things to do, and I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” The idea of sitting in the Inneses’ dining room, facing two empty chairs, suddenly struck her as an impossible feat.

But the truth, she realized as she drove slowly out of Grantown, was that she had nothing to do, and her frustration at her lack of control was interfering with her ability to think clearly. She somehow had to let it go, to find a different perspective. She’d stop somewhere, have a pub meal, think things through.

Once on the main road, she passed up the turning for Nethy Bridge and took the next, the route to the village of Boat of Garten. The receptionist had recommended the bar meals in the Boat Hotel there. She found the place easily enough, but as she climbed out of the car, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the car window. For the first time that day, it occurred to her that she was un-washed, uncombed, and still wearing the clothes she had thrown on before six that morning. Oh, well, she thought, shrugging as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she would just have to do.

Entering the bar, Gemma gave her order and took a table by the window. Over her solitary meal of cock-a-leekie soup, she tried to sort out the events of the day in her mind. So accustomed was she to having Kincaid as a sounding board that she felt handicapped without his presence.

But it was more than that, she admitted to herself as she finished her half pint of cider and walked back out to the car park. It wasn’t her lack of authority in the investigation that had her stumbling round so ineffectu-ally, nor was it the absence of her usual intellectual give-and-take with Duncan. It was her doubts about

Hazel that were keeping her from approaching the case in a logical way.

She thought of all the times Hazel had been there for her, a calm center when she’d struggled with crises at work and at home, an unwavering support through the loss of her baby. Hazel might be more complex, and less perfect, than Gemma had realized, but she was still her friend, and Gemma owed her the same support. She would put away her doubts, and start from there.

Looking up, she saw that the long dusk was fading into night, and the last remnants of clouds had been swept away by the wind. Lights had begun to wink on in the comfortable houses lining the village street. Below the hotel, the locomotive belonging to the steam railway that went from Aviemore to Boat of Garten sat on the track like a great black slumbering beast, and beyond the little railway station, the ever-present River Spey flowed silently, cold and deep.

Chiding herself for her fancies, Gemma was nonethe-less glad to shut herself in the close warmth of the car.

When her mobile phone rang, she jumped as if she’d been bitten, and her heart gave an irrational flutter of fear.

But it was Kincaid’s voice she heard when she answered, and a smile of pleasure lit her face.

“Any news, love?” he asked.

Sobering quickly, she said, “No. Hazel’s still at Aviemore Police Station. But I can’t believe they’ll keep her much longer, unless Ross actually means to charge her.”

“What about getting a solicitor?”

She told him about her conversation with Heather Urquhart. “Heather said she’d tell Mr. Glover as soon as he rings in the morning.”

“Can you trust her to do it?”

“Yes,” answered Gemma, rather to her surprise. “I think so.”

“Good. I’ll be getting the seven o’clock train. Can you pick me up at Aviemore at half-past two tomorrow afternoon?”

“What about Tim? Did you see him? Is he coming with you? Holly could stay—”

“Gemma, I did see him,” Kincaid said flatly. “But he’s not coming.”

“Not coming? But—”

“He knows about Hazel and Donald. I didn’t ask him how he found out. He says he won’t help her. He doesn’t want to see her at all.”

There was silence on the line as Gemma tried to come to grips with this latest disaster.

“You’ll have to tell Hazel,” Kincaid said, breaking into her thoughts. “And, Gemma, I’m not at all sure Tim’s telling the truth about where he was over the weekend.”

Her stomach knotted as the implication sunk in. “No. I can’t believe Tim had anything to do with this. Not Tim—”

“He’s got motive. He’s got no witnesses to his movements. He’s obviously distraught. And his car’s muddy. It didn’t rain in Hampshire.”

“It did here,” Gemma said slowly, unwillingly. “But even if Tim drove to Scotland—and that’s a long shot—

how could he have walked into the B&B in the middle of the night and taken John Innes’s gun?”

“They haven’t proven that Brodie was shot with that gun.”

“No,” mused Gemma. “But I can’t believe that John Innes’s small-bore shotgun would mysteriously disappear at the same time Donald was killed with a different gun.

That’s stretching coincidence a bit too far. And how would Tim have known who Donald was?”

“Tim left London on Friday. He could have been watching her the entire weekend.”

Gemma thought of the scene between Donald and Hazel she had witnessed by the river on Saturday morning, and of the nest she’d discovered in the woods. She felt cold.

“Gemma, you’ll have to tell your Scottish detective. It will be up to him to follow through.”

“But this is Tim! How can I give Hazel’s husband to the police as a suspect?” She was near shouting.

“How can you do otherwise, when Hazel herself is a suspect? Don’t kill the messenger, love,” he added, sounding as weary and discouraged as she felt. “I’m only telling you what you already know. And if you’re lucky, if your chief inspector is doing his job properly, he might beat you to it.” Kincaid paused a moment.

“Gemma, about Tim . . . Hazel may not thank me for interfering, but after I left the house tonight, I rang Tim’s parents and asked them to go back. Tim’s mother seems a sensible woman. She said they’d take Holly home with them.”

“You told Tim’s mother—”

“As little as I could. That it was a stressful situation, and I thought Holly might be better with her grandparents. Will you tell Hazel? And I’ll ring you from the train in the morning.”

“Wait.” The rush of her anger had drained away, leaving her feeling shaken and hollow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s—it’s been a beastly day.”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. “Get some rest, love.”

“Tell the boys I miss them.”

There was the slightest pause before he answered.

“Right . . . They miss you, too.”

When he’d rung off, she sat for a moment, wondering

if she had imagined his hesitation. Another sliver of worry lodged itself in her heart. Was there something wrong at home that he had failed to tell her?

On reaching the B&B, Gemma drove past the front of the house and parked near the barn. She’d seen the pale blur of faces through the uncurtained sitting room window, but she was determined to freshen up a bit before she returned Pascal’s keys. And she wanted to check on her room, see what sort of mess the forensics team had made.

They had left the lights on, she thought with a flicker of irritation as she stepped inside. Turning, she gasped in surprise. Hazel stood by the bed, her suitcase open, a half-folded nightdress clasped against her chest.

“Hazel! You’re back. I’ve been so worried—”

“He had to let me go. Someone saw me in the railway station this morning, just at the time you reported hearing a gunshot.”

Relief flooded through Gemma. “Thank God.” Then she remembered what she had to tell Hazel, and her heart sank. “Hazel—”

“I’m going home. There’s a late train.” Hazel put the nightdress carefully into her case. “Chief Inspector Ross said I could.”

Gemma pulled out the dressing table chair and sat down. “Hazel, there’s something you have to know,” she said reluctantly, knowing there was no way to cushion the news. “Duncan went to see Tim this evening. Tim knows about you and Donald.”

“Oh, Christ.” Hazel sank down onto the bed as if her knees had given way. “But how—”

“He didn’t say. I’m sorry.”

Hazel gazed into space, her expression desolate. “I had

meant to tell him, but in my own way, and in my own time. But now . . . how am I going to face him?”

Gemma felt a moment’s qualm at the idea of Hazel going home to her angry and disillusioned husband. But surely she was safer there than here, where Donald had been murdered. “Don’t,” she told Hazel. “Go back to London, but don’t see Tim just yet. Pick Holly up from Tim’s parents and go to our house. Then, when Tim’s calmed down a bit, you can meet him on neutral ground.”

“That’s good advice.” Hazel’s smile held a bitter irony.

“I might have given it myself, once. What about you?”

Gemma hadn’t reconsidered her own plans. With Hazel cleared by the police and off to London, there was nothing stopping her from going as well. She could ring Duncan tonight and tell him not to come—she could, in fact, pack her things and get on the train with Hazel.

Except that she found she couldn’t. She had known Donald Brodie, and had liked him, and someone had murdered him, had shot him while she slept a few hundred yards away. She could not—would not—leave it in other hands.

“I think I’ll stay,” she said slowly. “At least another day or two. If John and Louise can’t keep me here, I’ll find a room somewhere else. I want to see things . . . wrapped up.”

Standing, Hazel went to the bedside table and picked up a bottle of Scotch Gemma hadn’t noticed. It was, she saw, the last-issue Carnmore that Donald had given Hazel the previous night. Hazel cradled it, as if it were a living thing, stroking the label with a fingertip. “You intend to find Donald’s killer yourself,” she said quietly, not meeting Gemma’s gaze. “Do you think I would do less for him?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“As long as I know Holly’s all right, I’m staying, too.” She looked up, and Gemma saw an unexpected resolution in her eyes. “I’ll see Donald buried—I owe him that.”