“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 corkboard 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 obediently 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 sitting 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 Peugeot. 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.
Now May You Weep Page 18