at the scarred wooden table where he had spent so much time with Hazel, Gemma, and the children. The kitchen looked much the same; the old glass-fronted cabinets were still stained a mossy green, the walls sponged peach, and a basket of Hazel’s knitting sat on the table end.
“Tim’s out?”
“Away for the weekend,” she corrected. “Well, it was such lovely weather, and it was no trouble for us to come from Wimbledon. Usually, Holly comes to us, but she had a birthday party here in the neighborhood yesterday.
One of her school friends. Not that Hazel would have approved of all the sugar,” she added ruefully. “You should have seen them, little savages—”
“Mrs. Cavendish.” Kincaid abandoned his manners in his rising anxiety. “Where
“Walking. Some friends rang on Friday, after Hazel had got the train, and invited him to go. It seemed the perfect opportunity. He hasn’t had a holiday in ages, poor dear.”
“Where are Tim and his friends walking?” he asked carefully, trying not to betray his dismay.
“Um, Hampshire, I think he said. The Downs.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Sometime this evening.” She frowned slightly. “Is there something wrong?”
“Can you get in touch with him? Did he take his mobile phone?”
“No, I don’t believe he did. He said they were planning a real getaway. Has something happened?”
He forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that there’s been an accident at the B&B
where Hazel and Gemma are staying—Hazel’s fine, don’t worry—but I thought Tim should know as soon as possible.”
“An accident?”
“One of the other guests,” Kincaid explained. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. The police will have questions, and it’s always possible that the story could make the national media. I didn’t want Tim reading about it in the papers before Hazel had a chance to call him.”
He finished his coffee and stood. “Will you tell Tim to ring me as soon as he gets in?”
“Yes, of course, but—” She touched his arm. “This man, you said there was an accident. What happened?”
“He was shot.”
Mrs. Cavendish lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You’re sure Hazel’s all right? Did she—”
“Hazel’s fine,” he assured her again. “But that’s all I know, Mrs. Cavendish. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s more news.” He took his leave, but once in the car he sat for a moment, his unease growing as he thought over what he had heard.
Surely it was a coincidence that Tim Cavendish had had an unexpected invitation to go out of town on the very weekend Hazel had meant to see another man—the weather was lovely, after all. But although he didn’t think of Tim as a close friend, they had spent a good deal of time in idle chat, and he had never once heard Tim mention an interest in walking.
That could well be coincidence again—perhaps the subject had just never happened to come up. But Kincaid had learned over the years to distrust coincidence—especially when there was murder involved.
behind an increasingly ominous bank of cloud and chill spurts of wind eddied through the trees and bracken. If the rain held off another hour, they would be lucky.
At least the police surgeon, Jimmy Webb, arrived quickly. Giving Ross no more than a nod of greeting, he suited up and knelt over the body. Although the heavy-jowled Webb was taciturn, he was direct and efficient, and Ross was always glad to find him on duty.
Webb soon finished with his poking and prodding, and shucked his white coverall like a mollusk sliding out of its shell. “You’d best get your tarps up,” he said, glancing at the sky as he came over to Ross.
“The lads are fetching them now.” Ross gestured at the team of uniformed officers emerging from the woods, carrying awkward bundles of canvas sheeting. “What can you tell me?”
“Cause of death is obvious enough, but I can’t be definite about the size of the gun. The pathologist should be able to tell you more when he gets him on the slab.”
Wadding up his coverall, Webb handed it to the nearest constable. “I can tell ye that it’s my opinion the body hasn’t been moved.”
“Time of death?”
“Sometime after midnight.” Web smiled at Ross’s grimace. “Well, what did ye expect, man? Miracles?” He shook his head. “It’s a shame, that. The man made good whisky.”
And that, thought Ross as the doctor stumped away, was surely the highest compliment a Highlander could give.
He directed a team to set up shelter over the trysting place in the wood as well, but there was no way he could protect all the area that needed to be covered in the fingertip search. The officers would just have to do the best
they could if it rained. It wouldn’t be the first time they had worked in the muck, nor would it be the last.
Damn it! He needed more men, and soon, while the weather held off. He made his way back to the house and stopped at the garden’s edge, looking for his sergeant, Munro. The graveled car park was a hive of yellow- jacketed activity, the officers’ muted conversation provid-ing a constant hum. But after a moment’s search he spotted Munro, giving instructions to a newly arrived search team. Not that Munro would be easy to miss, Ross thought affectionately—the man was a head taller than anyone else, with a pale cadaverous face that concealed a quick wit and slightly malicious sense of humor.
Munro having acknowledged his presence with a nod and a lift of his hand, Ross surveyed his surroundings while he waited for the sergeant to finish. It was a nice old property, well situated, and he recognized the hand of a fellow gardener at work. But why, with his own grand house just down the road, had Donald Brodie chosen to stay the night at a B&B?
Nor would he be the only one speculating, thought Ross as he saw the first of the television vans pull up at the drive’s end. The constable on duty refused the driver entry, but this one was merely the first of many—soon the media would be thick as maggots on a corpse.
While he waited for Munro to join him, Ross examined the list of the B&B’s residents and guests compiled by the first officer on the scene. Mackenzie, her name was, and a bonny wee lass who had no business in a man’s uniform. She was sharp enough, though, and according to her report, the woman who had discovered the body was a London copper, CID, no less.
Well, he supposed even the Metropolitan Police deserved a holiday now and again, but still, it struck him
as odd to find another copper at a murder scene. He would definitely interview Detective Inspector Gemma James first.
She reminded him a bit of his daughter, Ross thought as he studied her, not so much in looks or coloring, but in her direct and confident manner. Her hair was the deep red of burnished copper; her face bore a light dusting of freckles; a wide, generous mouth; hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the irises. She was attractive rather than beautiful, he decided, with an air of friendly competence—and he found that he thoroughly distrusted her.
He’d begun by asking her to relate the events of the morning, while behind him, Munro took notes from a chair in the corner. With the ease born of practice, Inspector James told her story with a conciseness marred only by the occasional furrowing of her brow as she added a detail. Once or twice she paused to allow Munro to catch up, and he saw his normally lugubrious sergeant tighten his lips in what passed for a smile.
