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

can be reached in case of an emergency.” Her imagination raced. What if Tim had somehow learned about Donald, decided to do something stupid—no, she couldn’t voice that fear, even to herself. “You’ve got to find him, Duncan. Talk to him—”

“I’ll go back tonight. If he hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll put Cullen to work on it. In the meantime, Gemma, you’re not doing Hazel any good by staying in Aviemore.

Go back to the B&B, talk to the others, see what you can learn. And Hazel has family there—a cousin, didn’t you say? Maybe there’s a family solicitor who would act on Hazel’s behalf.”

“Yes, but—” Gemma stopped, unable to come up with an argument. She knew Kincaid was right, but she felt suddenly deflated and near to tears. Her determination to storm Ross on his own patch had kept her going, in spite of her fear and her shock, and she was afraid to let it go.

“All right,” she said quietly, making an effort to keep her voice steady. “Ring me tonight, then.”

“I will. Don’t worry, love,” he added, with an easy affection that came near to undoing her. “And, Gemma, I’m catching the early train tomorrow. I should be in Aviemore by midafternoon.”

“Up ye go, then,” said Alison patiently as she climbed the stairs in Chrissy’s wake. She knew better than to offer to

help her daughter in her slow progress, or to pass her by, even though her hands were smarting from the weight of the supermarket carrier bags.

It was their usual Sunday routine. A trip to the supermarket for the week’s shopping, and before that, a visit to her mum in Carrbridge, complete with a tea of bread-and-butter sandwiches and store-bought cakes. Chrissy loved her grandmother and never seemed to tire of the fare, but today her usual sunny chatter had been subdued.

Alison knew it was last night’s row with Donald that had upset her, and she was furious with herself for having taken Chrissy to the bed-and-breakfast. She hadn’t meant it to turn into a shouting match; hadn’t meant even to ring the bell. She’d only wanted to see the place, to see if Donald was there, to see if what Callum had told her was true.

But then she had caught a glimpse of Donald in the lamplit sitting room, pouring his precious whisky for the pretty, dark-haired woman, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick sheep.

She remembered Chrissy tugging at her hand as she strode towards the door, but she was past reason then, burning to tell the bastard what she thought of him. All her dreams had gone up in smoke in that moment, and it was knowing herself for a fool that made it harder to bear.

Now it was all clear, all the little slights and excuses.

He had been ashamed of her, and she had been too stupid to see it. He’d never meant to move her into the house at Benvulin, never intended anything more than for her to warm his bed and pass the time until something better came along.

And then last night she had burned her bridges by telling him off. She’d no hope of salvaging anything now, not even a parting guilt-induced gift.

Chrissy reached the top of the stairs and unlocked the door with her own key. The flat was cold and smelled faintly of the cabbage that seemed to constitute the daily diet of their downstairs neighbor. From now on, thought Alison, this would be their life; tea with her mum, shopping at the supermarket with an anxious eye on every penny, a week’s work under the cold, fishy eye of Mrs.

Witherspoon—and then it would start all over again.

Then, as Alison watched Chrissy putting away the cornflakes in the cupboard and carefully placing apples in a bowl, her little face intent, she felt ashamed. She had Chrissy, that was what mattered, and somehow they would get on.

“We could watch a video tonight,” she suggested brightly. “Something special. And hot cocoa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

Chrissy turned and looked at her, her gaze unexpectedly solemn. “It’s all right, Mummy. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to make up for Donald.”

“But . . . I thought . . . I thought you’d be disappointed. The pony . . .”

Chrissy shrugged her thin shoulders and slid a carton of milk into the fridge. “I never really believed it. It was like a story in a book. It’s okay, really it is.”

“But, baby . . .” Alison brushed at the sudden tears threatening to smear her mascara.

“Can we watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmarron?”

Chrissy asked, closing the subject.

“Again?” asked Alison, choking back a half laugh, half sob. When Chrissy glared at her she added, “Okay, okay. I know I promis—”

The knock on the door made her jump. “What the hell . . . ,” she muttered, crossing the room and yanking the door wide.

Callum MacGillivray stood on the mat, looking excep-tionally clean and brushed in MacGillivray tartan, his expression pinched and anxious.

Alison felt the blood rise in her face. “What do ye think you’re doing here?” she said furiously. “Go to hell, Callum. I don’t want to see you.”

“Alison—”

“Could ye not have left me to make a fool of myself in my own time?” She started to slam the door, but Callum thrust out a strong arm. “Alison, I’ve got to talk to ye—”

“You’ve done enough damage. I’ve nothing to say.”

“Alison, I’ve something to tell ye. It’s bad news.”

The fear swept over her then, clenching her gut. Her knees seemed to dissolve and she found herself clutching the doorframe, unable to speak.

“Chrissy, I think maybe ye should go to your room,”

Callum said gently, but Chrissy shook her head and stepped closer to her mother.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not Max, is it, Callum? Or Grandma?”

Some small detached part of Alison’s mind almost laughed at her daughter’s priorities. Would she, she wondered, have the dubious honor of coming before the horse?

“No,” she said, in a calm voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. She forced herself to focus on Callum. “It’s Donald. He’s dead, isn’t he? And you bloody killed him.”

Chapter Twelve

The sharp constraint of fingertips Or the shuddering touch of lips, And all old memories of delight Crowd upon my soul tonight.

—robert louis stevenson,

“I Saw Red Evening Through the Rain”

Carnmore, April

Will stood in the door of the warehouse, gazing at the ranks of casks. He had discovered in the past few months that this was the one thing that gave him a sense of satisfaction, of completion. Some of these casks now were his, his legacy, as the ones before had been his father’s.

He breathed in the scent of oak, of hard-packed earth, and even on this cold April day the ever- present vapor of maturing whisky. This was his life, his world, embodied in barrels and hogsheads, stamped with the Carnmore seal. He had put away his books, and along with them his dreams of university in Edinburgh, of studying medicine.

The promise he had made his father bound him more

tightly than any physical constraint, and he had determined that he would commit himself well.