Once on the main road, she passed up the turning for Nethy Bridge and took the next, the route to the village of Boat of Garten. The receptionist had recommended the bar meals in the Boat Hotel there. She found the place easily enough, but as she climbed out of the car, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the car window. For the first time that day, it occurred to her that she was un-washed, uncombed, and still wearing the clothes she had thrown on before six that morning. Oh, well, she thought, shrugging as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she would just have to do.
Entering the bar, Gemma gave her order and took a table by the window. Over her solitary meal of cock-a- leekie soup, she tried to sort out the events of the day in her mind. So accustomed was she to having Kincaid as a sounding board that she felt handicapped without his presence.
But it was more than that, she admitted to herself as she finished her half pint of cider and walked back out to the car park. It wasn’t her lack of authority in the investigation that had her stumbling round so ineffectu-ally, nor was it the absence of her usual intellectual give-and-take with Duncan. It was her doubts about
Hazel that were keeping her from approaching the case in a logical way.
She thought of all the times Hazel had been there for her, a calm center when she’d struggled with crises at work and at home, an unwavering support through the loss of her baby. Hazel might be more complex, and less perfect, than Gemma had realized, but she was still her friend, and Gemma owed her the same support. She would put away her doubts, and start from there.
Looking up, she saw that the long dusk was fading into night, and the last remnants of clouds had been swept away by the wind. Lights had begun to wink on in the comfortable houses lining the village street. Below the hotel, the locomotive belonging to the steam railway that went from Aviemore to Boat of Garten sat on the track like a great black slumbering beast, and beyond the little railway station, the ever-present River Spey flowed silently, cold and deep.
Chiding herself for her fancies, Gemma was nonethe-less glad to shut herself in the close warmth of the car.
When her mobile phone rang, she jumped as if she’d been bitten, and her heart gave an irrational flutter of fear.
But it was Kincaid’s voice she heard when she answered, and a smile of pleasure lit her face.
“Any news, love?” he asked.
Sobering quickly, she said, “No. Hazel’s still at Aviemore Police Station. But I can’t believe they’ll keep her much longer, unless Ross actually means to charge her.”
“What about getting a solicitor?”
She told him about her conversation with Heather Urquhart. “Heather said she’d tell Mr. Glover as soon as he rings in the morning.”
“Can you trust her to do it?”
“Yes,” answered Gemma, rather to her surprise. “I think so.”
“Good. I’ll be getting the seven o’clock train. Can you pick me up at Aviemore at half-past two tomorrow afternoon?”
“What about Tim? Did you see him? Is he coming with you? Holly could stay—”
“Gemma, I did see him,” Kincaid said flatly. “But he’s not coming.”
“Not coming? But—”
“He knows about Hazel and Donald. I didn’t ask him how he found out. He says he won’t help her. He doesn’t want to see her at all.”
There was silence on the line as Gemma tried to come to grips with this latest disaster.
“You’ll have to tell Hazel,” Kincaid said, breaking into her thoughts. “And, Gemma, I’m not at all sure Tim’s telling the truth about where he was over the weekend.”
Her stomach knotted as the implication sunk in. “No. I can’t believe Tim had anything to do with this. Not Tim—”
“He’s got motive. He’s got no witnesses to his movements. He’s obviously distraught. And his car’s muddy. It didn’t rain in Hampshire.”
“It did here,” Gemma said slowly, unwillingly. “But even if Tim drove to Scotland—and that’s a long shot—
how could he have walked into the B&B in the middle of the night and taken John Innes’s gun?”
“They haven’t proven that Brodie was shot with that gun.”
“No,” mused Gemma. “But I can’t believe that John Innes’s small-bore shotgun would mysteriously disappear at the same time Donald was killed with a
That’s stretching coincidence a bit too far. And how would Tim have known who Donald was?”
“Tim left London on Friday. He could have been watching her the entire weekend.”
Gemma thought of the scene between Donald and Hazel she had witnessed by the river on Saturday morning, and of the nest she’d discovered in the woods. She felt cold.
“Gemma, you’ll have to tell your Scottish detective. It will be up to him to follow through.”
“But this is Tim! How can I give Hazel’s husband to the police as a suspect?” She was near shouting.
“How can you do otherwise, when Hazel herself is a suspect? Don’t kill the messenger, love,” he added, sounding as weary and discouraged as she felt. “I’m only telling you what you already know. And if you’re lucky, if your chief inspector is doing his job properly, he might beat you to it.” Kincaid paused a moment.
“Gemma, about Tim . . . Hazel may not thank me for interfering, but after I left the house tonight, I rang Tim’s parents and asked them to go back. Tim’s mother seems a sensible woman. She said they’d take Holly home with them.”
“You told Tim’s mother—”
“As little as I could. That it was a stressful situation, and I thought Holly might be better with her grandparents. Will you tell Hazel? And I’ll ring you from the train in the morning.”
“Wait.” The rush of her anger had drained away, leaving her feeling shaken and hollow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s—it’s been a beastly day.”
“I know.” His voice was gentle. “Get some rest, love.”
“Tell the boys I miss them.”
There was the slightest pause before he answered.
“Right . . . They miss you, too.”
When he’d rung off, she sat for a moment, wondering
if she had imagined his hesitation. Another sliver of worry lodged itself in her heart. Was there something wrong at home that he had failed to tell her?
They had left the lights on, she thought with a flicker of irritation as she stepped inside. Turning, she gasped in surprise. Hazel stood by the bed, her suitcase open, a half-folded nightdress clasped against her chest.
“Hazel! You’re back. I’ve been so worried—”
“He had to let me go. Someone saw me in the railway station this morning, just at the time you reported hearing a gunshot.”
Relief flooded through Gemma. “Thank God.” Then she remembered what she had to tell Hazel, and her heart sank. “Hazel—”
“I’m going home. There’s a late train.” Hazel put the nightdress carefully into her case. “Chief Inspector Ross said I could.”
Gemma pulled out the dressing table chair and sat down. “Hazel, there’s something you have to know,” she said reluctantly, knowing there was no way to cushion the news. “Duncan went to see Tim this evening. Tim knows about you and Donald.”
“Oh, Christ.” Hazel sank down onto the bed as if her knees had given way. “But how—”
“He didn’t say. I’m sorry.”
Hazel gazed into space, her expression desolate. “I had
