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

Had she heard a shot? She sat up and turned on the light. Hazel’s bed was empty, although the indentation in the duvet indicated that she had at least rested there. But

her overnight bag was gone, as were her bits and pots on the dressing table.

Gemma jumped out of bed, barely noticing the frigid flagstones beneath her feet, and checked the bathroom.

No toothpaste, no toothbrush, no shampoo hiding in the corner of the tub. Back in the bedroom, she pulled aside the curtains and peered at the still-shadowed drive. The red Honda was gone as well.

Fighting the beginnings of panic, she shoved on jeans, sweater, and boots, then looked round the room once more for a note. Surely Hazel wouldn’t have abandoned her without leaving a note? Unless she’d gone to Donald Brodie’s for a spot of illicit sex . . . but then why take all her things?

She grabbed a jacket and went out into the drive. The sun hovered behind the screen of trees to the east, casting deep shadows in the garden. There was no sign of life from the house, and she hesitated to knock anyone up so early. Her fears would sound absurd, surely, if she voiced them to anyone else.

Donald’s Land Rover, she saw, was still parked in the drive—had he gone with Hazel in the hire car?

She rocked on her heels for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Well, she could at least investigate the gunshot, put her mind to rest on one score, and perhaps by the time she came back the house would be astir.

Starting towards the track that led into the woods, she pushed away the nagging fear that Hazel and the gunshot were somehow connected. Pure paranoia, she told herself firmly, but her mouth went dry and her heart gave a painful squeeze.

Gemma slowed her pace as she entered the trees, listening, scanning automatically for signs of a disturbance. Halfway along the path she found something, an

area of crushed bracken and bluebells, as if something heavy had lain there. But there was no sign of violence, and she breathed a bit easier as she came to the end of the wood.

From that point, the path was bordered on one side by the meadow and, on the other, by a tussocky mix of bracken and heather. She almost turned back, almost convinced herself that her fears had been groundless, but she couldn’t quite silence the nagging disquiet.

And then she saw something, a few yards farther along the track, a flash of red half hidden in the heather. An abandoned sweater or jacket, Gemma told herself, but a wave of dread made her stomach lurch. Realizing she had halted, she forced herself to go on, one deliberate step at a time. And as she drew nearer, other shapes began to attach themselves to the splash of scarlet—a white strip here, a brown patch there.

Suddenly, the shapes shifted and coalesced, and she knew what she was seeing.

The red was a kilt, the scarlet Brodie tartan, and below it were dark green hose and sturdy brown boots. Above the kilt, an Arran pullover that had once been cream, but now bore a stain of deep red in its center. And the face, auburn-bearded, Donald’s face . . .

“Oh, no. Please,” Gemma whispered, only then aware that she had clamped her hand to her mouth. She felt her knees give way and she sank to the ground, unable to tear her gaze from the sightless eyes staring into the morning sky.

Chapter Seven

So lying, tyne the memories of day And let my loose insatiate being pass Into the blackbird’s song of summer ease Or, with the white moon, rise in spirit from the trees.

—robert louis stevenson,

“A Sonnet on the Ross of Mull”

Breathe. Gemma knelt, eyes closed, fighting the slickness of nausea in the back of her throat. Get it under control, she told herself. This was a crime scene. You didn’t sick it up in the middle of a crime scene. A murder.

Unless . . . It was unusual, but she had seen a chest-shot suicide once before. Forcing open her eyes, she scanned the immediate area. No gun visible. Not suicide, then.

Someone had shot Donald Brodie with a shotgun, and at point-blank range, by the tight circumference of the wound and the singeing of the wool round its edges. Not an accident.

How long had it been since she’d heard the shot? An hour—no, longer—she’d drifted back to sleep for at least a few minutes. Suddenly, the hair rose on the back of

Gemma’s neck. Could Donald’s killer still be close by?

The rustle of the rising morning breeze through the heather seemed unnaturally loud; the call of a curlew overhead made her heart thud painfully in her chest.

No. It had been too long, the risk of discovery too great for the killer to stay. Still, she felt exposed, vulnerable.

She must get help, and quickly. The sooner the police were called in, the greater likelihood of catching the shooter.

A fly buzzed past her ear, then another—the morning was warming, soon the air would be thick with them. Already they were clustering over the chest wound, their black bodies iridescent in the sunlight. Shuddering, Gemma wiped the back of her hand against a tickle on her cheek, felt unexpected moisture. Had she been crying? She saw that her hand was trembling, tucked it firmly under her arm.

The gesture strengthened her resolve. She had left her phone in the room so she’d have to go for help. But first she would have one more look, before the scene was damaged or interfered with. She might see something that would later be missed.

Gemma forced herself to sit back, to examine the body as if it were not someone she knew . . . not Donald. What struck her?

If Donald had been shot at close range in the chest, he must have seen his killer. Had he been afraid? There was no sign of defensive posture, and the gunshot was dead center—he had not even tried to turn away. Had he known his killer, considered him a friend?

Had he realized what was happening to him, in that instant before his heart stopped? Had he thought of Hazel in a last flash of consciousness?

“Oh, dear God,” whispered Gemma. She would have

to tell Hazel. And then she remembered that Hazel was gone, vanished in the wee hours of the morning without a word of explanation.

The fear that had driven Gemma to search the woods flooded back. Where was Hazel? Had something happened to her, as well?

No. Gemma shook her head. Why would someone murder Donald and Hazel? And besides, she had heard only one shot, and Hazel must have taken the car well before that. Hazel was safe, Gemma told herself, and she would find her.

She stood carefully, trying to minimize her impact on the grass and bracken beneath her feet. Examining the ground, she saw some evidence of trampling in front of Donald’s body, but nothing so distinct as a footprint. The soil was rocky, and even if it were damp, it would not take a good impression. There was no obvious point of entry or exit from the crime scene, and no token or arti-cle of clothing had been obligingly dropped. Nor could she see an ejected shell casing, an indication that the shotgun had been single-barreled.

Moving forward a few steps, she sank down on the balls of her feet again. She was close enough now to touch him, and for an instant she was tempted to brush his cheek with her fingertips, or to close his eyes.

Instead, she stood slowly, hands firmly shoved in her jacket pockets. She couldn’t risk contaminating Donald’s body, and she knew that a last human contact would comfort no one but herself.