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

“It’s okay,” she told him, mollified. “And you’re right, of course you’re right. I’d better go.”

It was only as she turned to the door that she saw a shotgun standing beside it, as if it had been set down carelessly after a walk. Beside the gun sat a pair of heavy boots, streaked with what Louise could have sworn was drying silt from the river.

Gemma caught Chief Inspector Ross as he was getting into his car. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at him, ignoring the rain streaking her face.

“What do you mean by taking Hazel away?”

Ross turned to her, his hand still on the open car door.

“She’s helping us with our inquiries, Inspector. That should certainly be obvious to you,” he said, with exag- gerated patience.

“But you can’t believe she had something to do with Donald’s death!”

“She had motive—they were heard arguing. She had means—access to Mr. Innes’s shotgun. And she had opportunity, as far as I’m concerned, unless she can prove her unlikely account of her movements this morning.”

“But there must be more than that—”

“You also know that I can’t discuss details of the investigation with you, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind”—Ross grimaced and brushed at the water beading on his shoulders—“it’s a wee bit wet.”

He got into the car and his sergeant pulled away, leaving Gemma standing in the drive. She stared after him, momentarily paralyzed by fury. Pulling herself together, she sprinted across to the hired Honda, found it locked, and swore aloud. Hazel must have taken the keys with her—she’d had no opportunity to return to their room.

Nor could Gemma search the room in any case; all the bedrooms in the B&B were off limits until the forensics team had finished with them.

Gemma pushed a sodden strand of hair from her face and tried to think calmly. First, she had to find out where they had taken Hazel. If she could just manage to get a word with her, tell her not to say anything without counsel. Not that she thought Ross would give her access, but she might be able to pull rank on someone with less authority.

Going in search of Constable Mackenzie, she found the officer in the scullery, packing up her test kits. “Do you know where the chief inspector will be conducting his interviews?” she asked from the doorway, trying to sound casual.

“They’re setting up an incident room at Aviemore Police Station, so I should think all inquiries would proceed

from there.” Mackenzie hesitated a moment, then added awkwardly, “I’m sorry about your friend, ma’am.”

Gemma forced a smile, touched by the young woman’s consideration. “Thanks. But don’t worry. I’m sure it will be sorted soon.”

As the technicians were still taking prints and collecting trace evidence in the scullery, Gemma went round the house again and in through the front door. She found the group assembled in the sitting room, picking with varying degrees of enthusiasm at plates of bacon, eggs, and toast.

John turned from the salvers he’d trundled in on a cart.

“No one wanted to eat in the dining room,” he explained.

“Here, I’ll get ye a plate.”

Shaking her head, Gemma said, “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.” Her stomach felt tied in knots, and a sense of urgency gnawed at her. “What I wanted was to know if I could borrow a car. Hazel has the keys to our hired car, and I need to get to the police station in Aviemore.”

“You’ve just missed Louise, I’m afraid. Otherwise she could have given you a lift.”

“Louise is gone?” Gemma asked, startled.

“She ran out to the farm shop for a few things for tea.

We’ll miss lunch, I think, with breakfast so late, so I thought we’d do a proper afternoon tea.”

What the hell difference did it make, Gemma wanted to shout—lunch, high tea, low tea—with Donald dead and Hazel taken off to the nick?

Biting her lip, she said as evenly as she could, “Is there anyone else who could give me a lift, or loan me a car for a bit?”

“Sorry,” said Martin Gilmore, looking up from his empty plate. “I left my old banger in Dundee. John collected me at the station.”

Gemma looked at Heather, who was pushing un-touched eggs round her plate with a fork. “I’ve got to get to the distillery,” Heather responded, a tremor in her voice. “And I’ll need Pascal’s help.”

“Then I shall ride with you,” said Pascal, “and Gemma can drive my car.” Like Martin’s, Pascal’s appetite seemed undiminished by the tragedy, nor had he lost his manners. He stood, fishing a key from his trouser pocket.

“It’s the black one, a bit of a beast.”

Gemma had noticed the car, a new model BMW, polished to perfection. Under other circumstances she would have hesitated to drive such a car, but she accepted the keys with alacrity. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and wished that scraping Pascal’s paint were the worst of her worries.

Retracing the drive she’d made less than two days before with Hazel, it looked to Gemma as if she’d entered a different world. The mountains that had floated hazily in the distance now seemed to brood, their peaks wreathed in cloud, and the river that had sparkled silver in the sunlight now flowed sullenly against its banks.

And if she had thought Aviemore less than charming on a golden evening, the drizzling rain rendered it less salubrious still. There were a few fine Victorian houses along the main street, but they were overshadowed by the souvenir and coffee shops, and the mock chalets hawking ski wear.

Gemma found the police station without difficulty, a new building of honey-colored stone next to the car park.

The sergeant on duty was a good-looking man with sil-very blond hair, a lilting Highland accent, and a helpful manner, but Gemma soon discovered that the public-friendly policing went only so far. Not even the produc-

tion of her identification convinced him to let her talk to Hazel, and after an hour’s wait in the anteroom, she went out into the street again, seething with frustration.

Ducking into a restaurant across the street from the station, she took a table by the window. When she’d ordered coffee and a sandwich to mollify her suddenly protesting stomach, she took out her mobile and rang Kincaid. To her relief it was he who answered, rather than Kit or Toby. She didn’t think she could bear to talk to the children at the moment.

She poured out what had happened since she’d spoken to him earlier that morning, her voice rising until she caught a few other patrons staring at her. Shifting her body towards the window, she forced herself to whisper.

“He must have something else, some sort of evidence, but he won’t tell me what it is, and he won’t let me see Hazel—”

“Gemma, calm down,” Kincaid said soothingly in her ear. “I’ll admit your chief inspector hasn’t been very accommodating, but you really couldn’t expect him to share forensic information with you. Whatever he’s got, I’m sure there’s an explanation. It will just take—”

“But Ross could bully Hazel into something. I’m telling you, you haven’t met him. She needs some sort of representation. Is Tim coming?” Of course, Tim would have to be told about Hazel and Donald, but she only hoped he would support her, considering the seriousness of her situation.

There was a moment’s silence at Kincaid’s end, then he said quietly, “I didn’t speak to Tim. He’d gone away for the weekend, and there was no way to contact him.”

“Gone away?” Gemma repeated, wondering if she’d misheard. “What do you mean, gone away? What about Holly?”

“His parents came to stay at the house. I spoke to his mother. Apparently, Tim had a last-minute invitation to go walking with some friends. He won’t be home until this evening.”

Gemma watched the rain falling in the street, glistening on the hoods and umbrellas of the few resolute shoppers hurrying by. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, flatly. “Tim’s so conscientious; he always makes sure he