His yellow-green jacket was slick with rain, the water
beaded on the bill of his cap. As she lowered the window, drops splattered on the sill of the car door.
“Ma’am,” said the constable, “you’re not to—”
“Chief Inspector Ross said we were free to go.”
Stepping back, he spoke into the radio on his shoulder.
After a moment he nodded at her. “Sorry, ma’am.”
The crowd milling about on the verge was not so obliging. Louise eased the car forward, avoiding eye contact with those who looked vaguely familiar, and when a man held a news camera up to the window she shook her head violently and pressed on the accelerator.
The bodies scattered and she was free, the car skimming along silently except for the rhythmic squeak of the wipers against the windscreen. A mile down the road, she slowed and turned to the right, bumping into a drive heavily rutted by the wheels of horse vans. A weathered sign on a post identified the MacGillivrays’ stable.
The house looked deserted, not even a wisp of smoke from the chimney visible in the rain. Nor was there any sign of Tom, Callum’s father, for which Louise was grateful. She couldn’t have coped with the man’s drunken ramblings, not today.
She drove down to the barn and got out, shielding her face from the rain as she ran in the open door. The air inside the barn smelled warm and ripe, even in the wet.
Two horses looked at her over their stall doors with mildly curious expressions, and she recognized one as Callum’s horse, Max. She called out Callum’s name, her voice tentative in the echoing space.
When there was no answer, she went out and looked down the hill towards the old crofter’s cottage that lay between the barn and the river meadow. She knew Callum lived there, rather than in the main house, but she’d never been inside. They had developed an unexpected friend-
ship in the past year, based at first on their common interest in native plants. Callum was odd, Louise had to admit, but in a way it was this very oddness that had allowed her to feel comfortable with him, to open up with him in a way she seldom did with other people. With Callum, there was no fear of not measuring up, of giving herself away as not belonging.
Until now, however, she had not visited him in his cottage. As she hesitated, wondering if she should have come, a light flickered faintly in the window.
Before she could change her mind, Louise ran down the pebble-strewn path and knocked lightly on the door.
A dog barked sharply, making her jump, and Callum’s voice called, “Come in with ye, then.”
Louise stepped in, holding out a hand for Murphy, Callum’s Labrador retriever, to sniff. There was only one room, she saw, warmed by an old stove and lit by a paraffin lamp standing on a scarred table. There Callum sat, pouring over what looked like account books.
Glancing up, he said, “Louise! What are ye doing here? I thought you were my father.” He stood, closing the topmost book.
“Have you heard?”
“It’s true, then, about Donald?”
She nodded. “How did you—”
“I saw the crowd round your gate. I stopped, but they wouldn’t let me through. It was Peter McNulty told me Donald had been shot!”
Louise felt suddenly faint, as if the reality of what had happened had finally caught up with her body. It must have shown in her face, because Callum hurried towards her.
“Sit ye down, Louise.” He pulled out a chair at the oak table. “I’ll make ye some tea.”
Obeying, she looked round the cottage in an effort to
focus on something other than the turmoil of her thoughts. The black iron stove, where Callum was putting a kettle on to boil, stood on a raised tile hearth. To one side of it stood a deep farmhouse sink, with a hand-made rack holding cups and plates; on the other, a tatty armchair and a small side table stacked with books, and what looked like a tin hip bath. There did not seem to be any indoor plumbing, except for the sink.
The two deep front windows let in little light, but she could see the outline of an alcove bed against the far wall, as well as a notched rack holding half a dozen fishing rods, and pegs hung with oilskins and tweed caps.
Murphy, apparently deciding the excitement was over, returned to a cushion near the stove and flopped down with a sigh, his black coat gleaming in the lamplight. The room smelled of peat smoke and warm dog.
Callum set a steaming mug before her, adding a dash of whisky from the bottle that stood on the table. “Drink up, now. You’ll feel better.”
He gave her a moment to sip, then said, “Tell me what happened.”
Haltingly, she related the events of the morning, ending with Hazel’s being taken for questioning.
“They took your friend? Do you think she can have done such a thing?”
“No! But if it was John’s gun . . . Who else could have taken it? And after . . .” She glanced up at him. “Callum, that woman last night . . . I saw you, watching from the hedge. Did you bring her to see Donald?”
He hesitated, spreading his fingers on the tabletop, and for the first time she noticed how large his hands were. “I didn’t bring her exactly, but aye, I did tell her where Donald was.”
“But why? Who is she?”
“She’s a friend of mine. Her name is Alison Grant.
She’s been going out with Donald, and I thought she should know he wasna telling her the truth about this weekend. He told her he had a business meeting.”
“But why would you—” Louise stopped, seeing the obvious. “
“It was himself who told me.” Callum’s accent grew heavier under stress, she noticed, as did John’s.
“Himself? You mean Donald?”
“Aye. All about the woman of his dreams.”
“And look where it bloody got him,” Louise burst out, choking back a sob. She gulped at her tea, feeling the whisky bite at the back of her throat, and managed to say,
“He never had any sense where Hazel was concerned.”
“But, Louise, you canna be sure it had anything to do with her. You don’t know why the police took her in?”
She shook her head. “He’s cold, that detective. A cal-culating bastard. He—he frightened me.”
“You’ve no reason to be frightened.” Callum reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Whatever happened, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“But this could ruin our business, don’t you see? And John—” Now that she had come to it, the words stuck in her throat. She forced herself to go on. “Callum, you didn’t see John this morning, did you? He went to buy eggs, but he was gone for a long time.”
“John?” Callum stared at her. “But you canna think—”
“It’s not what I think—it’s what the police will think,”
she said urgently. “Do you know where he was this morning?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Callum said, a bit
too heartily, “No, Louise, I didna see him. I’m sure he will have some explanation—have you asked the man himself?”
“There was no chance, and now he’s got everyone in the kitchen, cooking for them.” She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.
“Aye, that’s his way,” said Callum, with a note of disapproval at her tone. That was a typical man, thought Louise—couldn’t bear to hear another man criticized.
“Hadn’t you better be getting back?” he added. “They’ll aye be wondering where you’ve gone.”
Louise stood, stung by what seemed to her a dismissal.
“Yes. All right.”
“I’m sorry, Louise,” said Callum, standing as well. “I didna mean to be crabbit with ye. It’s just that I’ll have to tell Alison, ye see. She goes to her mam’s in Carrbridge on a Sunday afternoon, but she’ll be back soon, and I’m fair dreading it.”
