“I don’t believe that. She’s my cousin, for God’s sake.
I’ve known her since she was a child.”
“You don’t know her now,” Gemma argued. “You haven’t seen her in ten years.”
“That doesn’t matter. I know she couldn’t have shot Donald. She loved him— I don’t mean they were lovers, but they were friends. She was like family to him.”
Too often, Gemma had seen love mutate into violence, but she didn’t have the heart to share that with Hazel. Instead she asked, “What are you going to do? Will you sell Pascal the shares?”
“How could I? That would mean betraying Donald—
and how could I agree to profit from Donald’s death?
That’s—that’s obscene.” Hazel pushed her bowl away abruptly, as if the smell made her ill. Her eyes filled with the tears she’d managed to hold in check for two days.
“This is too much. And then, when I talked to Carolyn tonight . . .”
“Tim’s mum?”
Hazel nodded. “We were friends, Carolyn and I, and now I’ve betrayed her, too. She kept trying to comfort me, telling me it was all some dreadful mistake and that things would be all right. But it’s not going to be all right.
If I’d had the slightest hope that Tim and I could patch things up, Donald giving me those shares put an end to it.
How can I possibly explain this to Tim?”
“Right now it’s more a question of Tim explaining where he was over the weekend,” said Gemma practically. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Tim had been there, perhaps close enough to touch, and yet she knew that was the last thing Hazel would accept.
“I’m sure he just wanted some time on his own. Why are the police talking to him, anyway, if they think Donald was shot with John’s gun?”
“They have to be thorough,” Gemma told her, feeling a twinge of guilt for having insisted that Ross have Tim interviewed.
“Not that I believe for a minute that John would do something like that,” continued Hazel. “I mean, why would he have wanted to hurt Donald?”
Gemma thought of the usual motives for murder. There was jealousy, but John had never met Hazel until that weekend. There was greed, but she couldn’t see how John had benefited from Donald’s death. There was revenge, but as far as she knew, Donald had been a good friend to John. And then there was the desire to protect a secret.
“Hazel, what do you really know about John?” she asked. “You and Louise hadn’t seen each other for years.”
Hazel considered for a moment. “Louise met John after Donald and I split up—after I’d gone back to England—so I never knew him when Louise and I were living in Grantown. I don’t think she ever really dated anyone seriously until she met John, come to think of it.
Um, let’s see.” She chewed her thumbnail. “I know he sold commercial real estate in Edinburgh before they came here, and that he and Louise had a flat in the New Town. I know he always wanted to cook. And then there are the obvious things, of course—he’s married to Louise; he has a much younger brother, Martin, from his mother’s second marriage.”
John did have another connection with Donald, Gemma realized, one she had forgotten. They had both been friends with Callum MacGillivray.
“This is dreadful,” Hazel said suddenly. “These are my friends. How can I be sitting here, speculating about them?” She pushed her bowl aside.
“I’m sorry.” Gemma could have kicked herself for being so insensitive. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked
you. This is hard enough for me, and I’ve only known them a few days.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Hazel gave her a tremulous smile.
“You’re trying to help, and I snapped at you. And here you must be worried sick about Kit, and I’ve been no use to you at all.”
“I’m certain he’s all right with Nathan,” said Gemma, reassuring herself as much as Hazel. She wondered what had happened to Duncan, and if he had succeeded in reaching Ian. “Why don’t you go on to bed,” she told Hazel, “and I’ll give Louise a hand in the kitchen.”
Hazel had protested, but without much force, and Gemma soon convinced her to go back to her room for a bath.
“You’re not staying with me, are you?” asked Hazel. “I think Louise meant to put you and Duncan in Pascal’s room.”
“You’re certain you don’t mind?” Gemma still didn’t feel entirely comfortable leaving Hazel alone, but she didn’t want to worry her by saying so.
“Positive.”
“Okay. I’ll just pop in and get my things later on.”
When she had seen Hazel out the front door, she stood in the hall for a moment, listening. There was a low murmur of male voices from upstairs. Duncan and Martin had obviously found something to talk about.
Collecting a stack of dirty dishes from the dining room, she carried them into the kitchen and looked around. There were cooking pots piled in the sink and an unfinished bowl of Cullen Skink on the small table, but there was no sign of Louise. Gemma thought she would have heard if Louise had gone up the stairs, so she stepped out through the scullery to have a look outside.
The garden was quiet, deep in the shadows of the late dusk. From somewhere nearby she caught the faint, pungent scent of tobacco smoke. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed a flickering glow of light coming from the garden shed. “Louise?” she called out, crossing the lawn.
When she looked inside the shed’s open door, she saw Louise sitting on a campstool, smoking a cigarette. On the potting bench burned a small spirit lamp. “Do you mind if I come in?” Gemma asked.
“Suit yourself. I had to get out for a bit.” Louise had thrown a cardigan on over her kitchen apron but still hugged herself as if she were cold.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Gemma said as she took the other stool.
“I don’t, usually. These are John’s. It’s a little game we play. I pretend I don’t know he smokes them, and then occasionally I nick one or two, but he can’t say anything to me without admitting that he bought them in the first place.”
Gemma smiled. “That sounds like one of those things that keep marriage interesting.”
“I suppose you could look at it like that.” Louise took a last drag on the cigarette, ground it out under her foot, then set the fag end carefully on the bench. “But you and Duncan aren’t married, are you? Why not?”
“Oh, um, it’s complicated,” said Gemma, taken by surprise. “I was married before, and so was he, and neither of us was very successful at it. Maybe we’re afraid to jinx what we’ve got.”
“And the son who played truant today, he doesn’t belong to both of you?”
“He’s Duncan’s son from his first marriage. Toby, the four-year-old, is my son from my first marriage.” She
couldn’t help thinking of the child they had lost, the little boy who would have been due any day now, if he had lived.
“It sounds complicated,” said Louise, bringing Gemma back to the present. “Blending a family like that.”
“Sometimes. But no more complicated than most families, I think.” Gemma saw an opportunity. “Louise, speaking of families, why do you dislike Martin so much? He is John’s brother, after all.”
“Half brother,” Louise corrected, “and he presumes on it. He always has some sad story, although I don’t know the whole of it this time. John’s always taken care of himself—why should he feel obliged to bail Martin out of trouble time and again?” she added bitterly.
“I suppose John feels responsible because Martin’s so much younger,” Gemma suggested, privately wondering if it had something to do with the fact that John and Louise had no children of their own. “Louise, are you sure you don’t have any idea where John was yesterday morning? Could it have had something to do with Martin?”
Louise frowned. “I don’t see how. I saw John leave on his own, and Martin was here.”
“You’d have seen Martin go out?”
“Well,”
Louise hesitated. “I think so. But I was working in the garden, and I was in and out of the shed, so I can’t be absolutely certain. And I can’t imagine what Martin and John would have been doing together at that time of the morning.”
“Fishing?” Gemma said, remembering her conversation with Callum MacGillivray.
Louise looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about? John doesn’t have time to fish.”
“But Callum MacGillivray told me that he and John and Donald fished together.”
“You’ve talked to Callum?” asked Louise, sounding surprised.
“Earlier this afternoon, after I picked Duncan up at the station. I saw Alison Grant, the woman who came to see Donald on Saturday night, and she said it was Callum who told her Hazel would be here.”
“And what did Callum tell you?”
“He wanted to convince Alison that Donald wasn’t serious about her.” Gemma thought back to her conversation with Hazel in the dining room and saw an angle she hadn’t considered. “Louise, do you know if John knew Alison Grant?”
The shadows from the spirit lamp flickered across Louise’s face, making it difficult for Gemma to read her expression. “If he did,” Louise said carefully, “he never told me.”
Callum had sat through dinner with his aunt and his father in the farmhouse kitchen, picking at his food. From the worktop, Aunt Janet’s old black-and-white television had re-layed the local news, and they had all watched, transfixed by the fuzzy images. The police had released Donald’s name, and the television producers had managed to unearth a tape showing Donald opening the previous year’s local Highland Games. This they had juxtaposed with footage of Benvulin, of the crowd milling about the gate at Innesfree, and of the white mortuary van turning out of Innesfree’s drive.
It had made Callum’s throat tighten with renewed grief, and he thought with horror of Alison and Chrissy watching from their sitting room.
His father, befuddled with gin, kept repeating, “Is that Donald Brodie? I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is dead, Tom,” Janet said patiently. “That’s just a film.”
Callum fought against a rising tide of hysteria, unsure whether he was going to laugh or sob. He forced himself to kiss his aunt’s cheek, and to nod a good night to his father, then he escaped into the stable yard with Murphy at his side.
They had eaten unusually late, having waited for the vet to stop by to see one of the horses, and now the gathering dusk was pooling in the yard’s corners and cran-nies. Callum felt the cool darkness brush against his skin like velvet, and the scent of the river came to him for an instant. A curlew piped as it settled down for the night.
He felt his love for the land, and for this place, as an ache lodged in his chest, and for the first time he saw clearly the futility of his desire to share it with Alison.
How could he have been so stupid? It had to be bred in the bone, in the sinews, in the blood, and he could no more force it on someone else than he could take it out of himself.
Chrissy, now, she was different. He had seen it in her eyes from the first, when Alison brought her to the stables. There was something about the way she stood so still, taking everything in, and in the expression of delight that slowly blossomed on her small, round face. She understood the language of the horses, and of the other animals; she listened when he told her the stories of the land, and of the men who had shaped it.
There was so much he could have taught her, but he had lost that opportunity when he had turned Alison against him.
Beside him, Murphy lifted his nose to the wind, sniffing, and the hackles rose along his back. Callum caught the scent a moment later, the faintest trace of cold metal and brine. The mild, clear evening was a treacherous de-
ception—there was snow coming, and before long, if he was not mistaken.
Snow in May was not unheard of in the Highlands, but always dreaded for the damage it did to plants and animals alike. Callum felt a chill worm its way down his spine, which had nothing to do with the weather, and he was suddenly eager for the close warmth of the cottage.
He made a last circuit of the barn, checking on the horses, before going into the cottage and banking up the stove. He fetched a mug and the distinctive dark green bottle from the shelf above the sink, then settled himself in the worn armchair. This was not mellow, honeyed Benvulin, but Lagavulin from Islay, redolent of peat fires, coal tar, and sea winds. This was a night for a whisky that would scour the soul.
Usually, he allowed himself only a dram in the evening—he had no wish to end up like his father. But tonight he poured an inch in the cup, stared at it, then poured another. The bottle felt unexpectedly light. He shook it experimentally, then upended it once more, splashing the last few drops into the mug.
The first swallow bit into his throat, but after a moment he felt the familiar warmth spreading from his belly, eras-ing the cold as it coursed outwards towards his fingers and toes. He drank steadily, seeking the drowsy oblivion that would blot out thought and feeling.
He had almost drained the cup when he realized something was wrong. A strange, cold numbness filled his mouth, then the room tilted sickeningly. This was not the soft blurring of edges that came with drinking good whisky, even too much good whisky. His heart gave a thump of panic, but it felt oddly separate from him. Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed himself
up. The room spun, and then he was on his knees, without quite knowing how he had got there.
Help, he thought fuzzily, he had to get help. But his mobile phone, his one concession to modernity, was still in the pocket of his jacket, and his jacket was hanging on a hook by the door.
A wet, black nose pressed against his face. Murphy, thinking this was some sort of new game, had come to investigate. Callum pulled himself up again, carefully, carefully, using the dog and the chair for support. He managed to lurch halfway across the room before a wave of nausea brought him to his knees. He crawled the last few feet. Clutching at the jacket, he pulled it from its hook.
But when he managed to pull the phone from the pocket, he found the numbers a wavering blur. In desperation, he stabbed at the keypad, following the pattern im-printed in his tactile memory.
It was Chrissy who answered. Sickness filled Callum’s throat, but he managed to choke out a few words. “Chrissy . . .
something wrong . . . whisky. Ill. Get your mum.”
Then darkness overtook him, and he remembered nothing else.
Chapter Seventeen
So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp, The momentary pictures gleam and fade And perish, and the night resurges—these Shall I remember, and then all forget.
—robert louis stevenson,
“To My Old Familiars”
Gemma slipped into the double bed in the upstairs bedroom, alone. It was a pleasant room, the bed covered in a white, puffy duvet, the walls a deep, sea blue, the furniture simple farmhouse pine.
Leaving the small bedside lamp switched on, she lay quietly, thinking over the events of the evening, feeling the starched coolness of the sheets against her skin.
After their conversation in the shed, she’d insisted on helping Louise with the washing up. They had almost finished when they heard the sound of a car in the drive, and a moment later John appeared in the scullery door.
“John! Thank God.” Louise had spun round, the last soapy dish in her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” He came into the kitchen, then stopped, as if not quite sure what to do next. His shirttail had come un-
tucked, his thinning hair stood on end, and to Gemma he seemed somehow shrunken, deflated.
“What happened? What have they done to you?” asked Louise, but still she didn’t go to him.
“They’ve done nothing but ask me the same questions until I was fit to go mad, and keep me from my dinner,”
John told her wearily. “Is there soup left?”
“I’ve just put it up.” Louise made a move towards the
fridge, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Och, never mind. I canna be bothered. A drink is what I need.”
Gemma dried her hands and faced him. “What about the gun, John?” she asked.
He met her eyes briefly, and nodded. “Aye, there’s no doubt. My grandfather’s initials are worked into the carving on the stock.”
There was an awkward pause, and Gemma wondered if her presence was keeping them from speaking freely, or if the constraint in the atmosphere was due to John’s reluctance to discuss the interview with Louise.
Louise broke the silence. “What about the car?” she asked matter-of-factly, turning back to the sink.
“The chief inspector said they would return it in the morning, when they’ve finished their tests. He had a constable bring me back and drop me off with a ‘cheerio,’ as if we’d been for an ice cream. I’m that fed up with this business.”
“Not as fed up as Donald Brodie,” Gemma said sharply. “We’re inconvenienced; Donald is dead.”
“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, Gemma.” John rubbed his hand across his darkly stubbled chin. “You’re right, and I’ve been a self-absorbed boor. But I’m still going to have that dram. You can consider it my wake for Donald.” With that, John had shambled out of the kitchen, presumably to join Kincaid and Martin in the sitting room.
Louise stared after him, her lips compressed, and had only made the barest response to Gemma’s further attempts at conversation. Gemma could only guess at what was wrong between husband and wife. Did Louise suspect John of having something to do with Donald’s death? Or did she merely suspect John of having an affair, perhaps with Alison Grant? But why had Louise seemed surprised when Gemma had mentioned John fishing with Callum and Donald? She couldn’t imagine why John would have neglected to tell his wife such an innocent thing, nor could she see why Callum would have invented it.
When Louise announced, a few minutes later, that she was going up to bed, Gemma bid her good night and wandered into the sitting room. A half-empty bottle of Benvulin stood on the low table between the men, who were sprawled in the tartan chairs in varying degrees of inebriation. John’s glass held a generous measure, and Martin’s face was already flushed from overconsump-tion, but Kincaid, although a bit more bright-eyed than usual, seemed little the worse for wear.
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