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

“I can help you. I could do all sorts of things for you.”

Kincaid had a sudden flash of understanding. “Kit, if you’re worried about Gemma and Hazel, I’m sure they’ll be fine. There’s no—”

“How can you say that? A man’s dead. Someone they knew. That means Gemma could— Hazel could—”

To Kincaid’s horror, he saw that Kit was fighting back tears. Thinking of how close they had come to losing Gemma just a few months earlier when she had miscarried and subsequently hemorrhaged, he said with more certainty than he felt, “Kit, I promise you Gemma and Hazel will be all right. That’s why I’m going to Scotland, to make sure of it. And I need you to help Wesley keep things running smoothly here.”

Kit shook his head and bolted from the room, but not before Kincaid had seen the accusation in his eyes.

They both knew what Kit had not said—that safety was illusory, and that promises could be broken. For Kincaid had failed his son once before, when he had let Kit’s mother die.

“Sod it,” muttered Kincaid, sitting once more in the traffic on the Euston Road. Sod Hazel Cavendish for having got them into this mess. Sod Tim Cavendish for having done a bloody runner over the weekend.

But his anger couldn’t quite mask his worry. He kept replaying his confrontation with Kit, and remembering Gemma’s fear that Hazel might be in danger, too. The

only way he could assure Hazel’s safety was by learning why Donald Brodie had been killed, and in the meantime, he was just as happy to have Hazel safely in the Aviemore nick.

Neither Tim nor Carolyn Cavendish had rung him back over the course of the afternoon, and when he had called the Cavendishes’ number, he’d got the answer phone.

After the third try, he’d made the boys their tea and climbed back in the car, this time without any of the morning’s pleasure at the prospect of the drive.

His uneasiness was confirmed when he turned into Thornhill Gardens. Tim Cavendish’s mud-bespattered car was parked in its usual spot in front of the house. Kincaid got out and rang the bell. When there was no answer, he walked round the corner to the garage flat and went in through the garden gate.

Tim sat in one of the white iron patio chairs, a beer in his hand, while Holly dug in the sand pit at the bottom of the garden. Under other circumstances, a scene of perfect normalcy, but on this evening it jarred on Kincaid like a note out of place. Something here was very wrong.

“Tim!” he called out. Tim looked up but didn’t speak while Holly dropped her trowel and came running to him, clinging to his leg like a limpet.

“Duncan!”

“Hullo, poppet.” Kincaid swung her up to his hip and hugged her, finding unexpected comfort in the damp- child smell of her.

“Where’s Toby? Is Toby with you?”

“No, sweetheart, not this time,” he said as he carried her across the garden. Someone, he noticed, had carefully plaited her unruly dark hair, but strands had sprung loose to float about her face. “I’ve come to see your dad,” he added as he reached the patio and set her down.

“Duncan,” said Tim at last, looking up at him.

Tim Cavendish had shaved the beard he’d worn when Kincaid had first known him, and it struck Kincaid now that his face looked naked without it, defenseless.

“Holly, go finish your barn while I talk to Duncan.”

Tim’s tone brooked no argument, and Holly trudged obe-diently off towards the sand pit, dragging her feet to express her displeasure.

Kincaid shifted a chair round to face Tim and sat down. “Tim—”

“Have a beer?” Tim gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. There was no slur to his words, Kincaid thought with relief—at least he wasn’t drunk.

“No, thanks. Tim, your mother must have told you I came by—”

“She’s been playing farm,” interrupted Tim, watching his daughter. “My mother bought her a set of barnyard animals. Spoil her rotten, my parents.”

“Tim. I told your mother there was a shooting at the B&B in Scotland. A man named Donald Brodie was killed. What I didn’t know this morning was that Hazel’s been taken in for questioning.”

“Hazel? They think Hazel shot him?” Tim looked squarely at him for the first time. Kincaid saw the dark circles under his eyes, the lines cutting grooves about his mouth. The man was clearly exhausted. “My wife is capable of many things,” Tim added, his tone meditative,

“but I think even she would draw the line at that.”

He knew, Kincaid realized. Tim knew about Hazel and Donald. “Tim—”

“You don’t have to spell it out for me, you know. I’m not stupid—or at least not anymore. So why do the police think my wife shot her . . . lover?”

Denials ran through Kincaid’s head—there was no

proof, after all, that Hazel had done more than renew her friendship with Brodie—but he knew at heart that anything he said would be cold comfort to Tim Cavendish. “I don’t know. The officer in charge of the case wouldn’t speak to Gemma. I’ll take the train up in the morning, see what I can find out.”

“Bully for you. Duncan to the rescue.” Tim took another swig of his beer, then held up the bottle and squinted at it in the fading light.

“Come with me. Holly can stay with Wesley and the boys. We’ll get this sorted out—”

“No. You can’t fix this,” Tim said fiercely. “I can’t fix this, and I’m not traipsing up to the bloody Highlands to make an even bigger fool of myself. Hazel made her own bed—excuse the metaphor—let her lie in it.”

“Tim, you can’t mean that,” Kincaid argued reasonably. “She’s still your wife, and Holly’s mother. Do you realize the seriousness of the situation? If she’s accused of murder—”

“She’ll have to get a lawyer, then, won’t she?” said Tim, tapping his empty bottle against the flagstone.

“Tim, you can’t make these kinds of judgments when you don’t have all the facts. You’ve too much at stake —”

“Facts? What’s between Hazel and me isn’t a police case, Duncan. What I know for a fact is that my wife lied to me, and that she went to Scotland to meet a man who had been her lover. If it were Gemma, wouldn’t you put two and two together?”

“Not without talking to her,” Kincaid protested, but he couldn’t help but wonder how he would feel in Tim’s shoes. “Surely, you can—”

“No!” The bottle in Tim’s hand shattered against the patio.

Holly, Kincaid saw, had stopped digging and was sit-

ting very still, her face turned away from them. Deep shadow had stolen over the garden, and the lightless house seemed desolate without Hazel’s presence.

“Okay, Tim,” Kincaid said quietly. “Just take it easy.

You’re scaring Holly. Let her come to us—”

“She’s my daughter,” Tim responded, but kept his voice down. “She stays here with me. Now why don’t you just sod off, Duncan, and play knight somewhere else?”

“All right, I’ll go. But first tell me one thing: Where were you this weekend?”

“Why should I?”

“The police will get round to asking you, you know.

Why not tell me, if you’ve nothing to hide?”

Tim gazed out across the garden for a moment, then shrugged. “I went walking. My mum told you.”

“With your friends?”

Kincaid saw Tim hesitate before he said, “No. That fell through. I went on my own.”

Had there ever been any friends? wondered Kincaid.

“Where did you go?”

“Hampshire. I needed to think.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“A few sheep,” answered Tim.

“You must have gone in a pub, a petrol station—”