“Why didn’t you tell us this from the start?”
“I was so ashamed. And I suppose I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come out, that my husband wouldn’t have to know.”
That was it, thought Ross, feeling a firecracker fizz of inspiration. That was the reason that made the pieces fit.
Of course she hadn’t wanted her husband to find out, not if she’d made up her mind to go back to him.
“That’s all very plausible, Mrs. Cavendish,” he said.
“But I think that’s not quite how it happened. I think you met Mr. Brodie again this morning, and that when you told him you meant to go back to your husband, he threatened to expose you. Then you found some excuse to take the gun—no, wait.” Ross frowned, working out an even better scenario. “I think you told him last night, and he threatened you then. Was that why you argued? And the sex, you were placating him. Did
you invite him to meet you this morning, a romantic rendezvous? He would never have thought you meant to harm him—”
“No!” Hazel pushed away from the table and stood. “I would never have hurt Donald! How could you even think—”
“Sit ye down, Mrs. Cavendish,” soothed Ross. Having failed to shock her into a confession, he knew he had little hard evidence to support his theory. “If you’ll—”
There was a knock at the interview room door. Munro got up, and as he went out, Ross glimpsed one of the officers assigned to the Aviemore detail.
A moment later, Munro looked in again and said, “Sir, a word with ye . . .”
Ross switched off the tape recorder and joined him in the corridor.
“You’d better hear what P. C. Clarke has to say,”
Munro told him quietly, “before you go any further.”
The constable nodded at him. “Sir. Someone from the car hire office in the railway station recalls seeing a woman matching Mrs. Cavendish’s description early this morning.
He remembered because it was odd to see someone turn up, bags and all, two hours before the scheduled train. He said she sat in the waiting area for half an hour, then went out again.”
“Did he remember the time?” asked Ross, his heart sinking.
“Getting on for six o’clock, sir. He had come in to arrange an early car pickup.”
“All right,” Ross growled. “Get a statement. Then have him make a definite identification.” He turned away, swearing under his breath. That would make it just about the time Inspector James had reported hearing a gunshot, and he bloody well couldn’t make a case on the premise
that Hazel Cavendish had been in two places at the same time.
Heather had said she’d bring Pascal back to the B&B
to collect his car later on, so Gemma had no reason to hurry. Nor was she sure the forensics team at the B&B
would have finished their search of the room she shared with Hazel, and the thought of being on the premises while someone went through her belongings made her skin crawl.
But there was more to her reluctance than that, she realized—she just wasn’t ready to face the others, to answer their questions about Hazel, to see those she had considered friends as suspects.
She drove on, absently watching the light and shadow play across the hills, through the hamlet of Nethy Bridge, and then across the Spey and into the planned Victorian town of Grantown-on-Spey. Finding a spot in the car park, she carefully locked the BMW and walked down to the High Street.
Most of the shops were closed, it being a Sunday afternoon, but the newsagents and pubs and cafes seemed to be doing a brisk business. There were people walking purposefully along the pavements, which suited Gemma— she felt the need to be near people doing ordinary things, but she didn’t want to speak to anyone.
“Wallpaper,” Kincaid would say accusingly to her when she got into such a mood. “You want human wallpaper.”
Imagining the sound of his voice made her throat tighten with longing, and she felt a wash of relief as she thought of his arrival tomorrow.
Damn her pride—she must have sounded an ungrateful cow on the phone earlier. Not that she had exactly protested, but he must have heard the reluctance in her voice. How could she have even considered letting her desire to do it all herself—and to get the better of Chief Inspector Ross—get in the way of anything that might help Hazel?
She walked on, trying to put her mind into neutral, admiring the tidy symmetry of Grantown’s High Street, which opened out into a large green at the top end. The town was ringed by the hills that rose above it on the north and west, and by the heavily wooded valley of the Spey on the southeast. It gave the place a secure feel, and as lights began to glow in the windows of the large houses facing the square, she found herself enchanted.
The imposing edifice of the Grant Arms Hotel anchored the square. Gemma was just crossing the greensward to have a better look when the sky darkened and a squall of wind and stinging rain blew up out of nowhere.
Sprinting for the hotel entrance, she darted inside and stood in the lobby, panting and shaking the water from her hair like a drenched dog.
Although she had seen tour coaches parked outside, the hotel appeared comfortably elegant. The woman from the reception desk crossed the lobby, and in a friendly, Highland voice she asked Gemma if there was anything she needed.
“A cup of coffee would be grand,” admitted Gemma, still shivering slightly from her unexpected soaking. “The rain caught me by surprise.”
“That’s the Highlands for you,” the young woman said with a smile. “We pride ourselves on our unpredictabil- ity. The restaurant’s closed until dinner, but I’ll just fetch you a cup from the kitchen, if you don’t mind having it in here.”
Having accepted gladly, Gemma wandered about the lobby as she waited, discovering a small plaque detailing the history of the hotel. When the receptionist returned with her coffee, Gemma said, “I see you had Queen Victoria as a guest.”
“In .” The young woman grinned. “That was the greatest moment in Grantown history, if you can believe it. Still,” she added a bit wistfully, “it must have been grand in those days—all the balls and dinner dances. And the clothes must have been lovely.”
“And bloody uncomfortable,” offered Gemma, and they both laughed. “Can you imagine corsets?”
When she’d finished her coffee, the rain had stopped.
She went out again onto the green and stood for a moment, looking up at the hotel in the gathering dusk, imagining the square filled with carriages and traps and the chatter of excited voices.
With a sigh of regret, she turned away. She had no business indulging in a fantasy of a happier time. Returning to the car, she phoned the police station in Aviemore and inquired about Hazel. There was a different— and much less accommodating—sergeant on duty, who told her only that he believed Mrs. Cavendish was still with Chief Inspector Ross.
Gemma then rang the bed-and-breakfast and spoke to Louise.
“You’re coming back for supper?” Louise said, an appeal in her voice. “John’s put together a goat cheese tart.
He thought it would suit Hazel . . . he was hoping . . .”
“Don’t count on me,” Gemma told her evasively. “I’ve a few more things to do, and I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” The idea of sitting in the Inneses’ dining room, facing
But the truth, she realized as she drove slowly out of Grantown, was that she had nothing to do, and her frustration at her lack of control was interfering with her ability to think clearly. She somehow had to let it go, to find a different perspective. She’d stop somewhere, have a pub meal, think things through.
