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 no
ticed 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 groo
ves 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.
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 18