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

Louise frowned, then said slowly, “I remember seeing Heather once or twice, but I think she must have been away at university then.”

“What about Heather’s father?” asked Gemma, recalling her conversation with Heather the previous day. “Did you ever meet him?”

“No. I think he worked for one of the big whisky distributors, but I always had the impression that he wasn’t terribly successful.”

Not in a way that had mattered to Heather, thought Gemma, because he’d been unable—or unwilling—to save Carnmore, and that seemed to be the criterion on which Heather had based all judgments.

Gemma had felt an unexpected sense of kinship with the woman when they talked yesterday, but could she trust her own instincts? And could she trust what Heather had told her, including her identification of the woman who had come to see Donald on Saturday night?

It was all jumbled up together: Donald’s relationships, Hazel’s family, the distilleries. Gemma knew there was a pattern, if only she could get enough perspective to see it.

Suddenly she wondered about Martin Innes—how did he fit in?

“Louise, I can see why Pascal would stay on, but what about Martin? When is he going back to Dundee?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Louise looked irritated again.

“I can’t imagine why he would want to stay, after what’s happened. But as we’ve had to cancel the next few days’

bookings, John doesn’t seem inclined to boot him out of the room. I’m surprised at his sudden attack of brotherly affection.”

She would ask Martin, Gemma thought, as soon as she had the chance. But in the meantime, she could get to Aviemore with an hour to spare before Kincaid’s train, if she left now. Standing, she said, “Louise, I’ve got to go.

Could you keep an eye on Hazel for me? See if she needs anything?” The thought of Tim Cavendish nagged at her.

She made up her mind that, no matter how disloyal it felt, as soon as Kincaid arrived they would have a word with Chief Inspector Ross about Tim’s whereabouts over the weekend.

When she reached Aviemore, she parked in the now-familiar car park and, with only a glance at the police station, began to investigate the shops along the main street.

A gift shop, Heather had said, but gift shop was a loose term, and she made two false starts before she struck gold.

Tartan Gifts could not be described as anything other than a gift shop, she thought as she peered in the window at the tartan tea cozies and heather-emblazoned coasters.

And she recognized the young woman behind the cash register, last seen in the shadows of the drive at Innesfree.

There were a few people in the shop, so Gemma went in, pretending to browse while surreptitiously examining her quarry. She had the pale, unfinished look of a woman unaccustomed to going without makeup, her blond hair appeared carelessly combed, and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. This was one instance, Gemma realized, when she would not have to be the bearer of bad news.

When the other customers had made their purchases and gone out, Gemma approached the register and said quietly, “Are you Alison? Alison Grant?”

“What’s it to ye?” The woman gave Gemma a belligerent stare. “Look, if Callum’s sent you, you can tell him —”

“No. I just want a word with you. It’s about Donald Brodie.”

There was a flash of vulnerability in Alison Grant’s face before her expression hardened. “What about him?

And who are you to be asking?”

“My name’s Gemma James.” Gemma had contemplated using her police identification but decided that pretending an official status was unwise as well as unlikely to benefit her. “I was staying at the B&B with Donald this weekend. I was there when you came to see him, and Heather Urquhart told me you and Donald were close—”

“What would she know about it? I canna believe that woman ever had feelings for anybody, the cold bitch. And that still doesna tell me what it has to do with you.” Alison’s accent had grown broader as her voice rose.

In an effort to calm her, Gemma said, “Look, Alison, is there somewhere we could visit? I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

“And I could lose my job,” Alison hissed, a note of hysteria in her voice. “My boss is on her lunch hour; I

canna leave the shop. And if the auld biddy comes back and finds me talking to you, she’ll likely take it out o’ my wages.”

“Okay, okay,” soothed Gemma. “I’ll buy something if she comes in.” She picked up a picture of a Highland sheep that stood near the register and held it ready. “Now can we talk?”

“All right,” Alison said sullenly. “What do ye want to know?”

Gemma hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. “I came up for the weekend with my friend Hazel. She had known Donald for a long time—they were engaged once.

You seemed angry with Donald when you came to see him. Had he told you he was seeing Hazel?”

“Sod all, that’s what he told me, the bastard,” said Alison, but her swearing lacked conviction. “A business weekend at Benvulin, he said, and he’d ring me if he had the chance. And there was me sitting by the phone like some gormless idiot, waiting for him to call.”

“But you found out it wasn’t true—did someone tell you, then?”

“It was Callum, the mad bugger. I didna believe him at first, but he kept at me, and so I thought I’d go along to the bed-and-breakfast and prove him wrong. More fool me,”

Alison added bitterly.

“Who’s Callum?” asked Gemma, her pulse quickening. It was the name Alison had mentioned when she first came in.

“Callum MacGillivray. He and his auntie Janet own the stables just down the road from your bed-and- breakfast. He was jealous of Donald. I’d not put anything past him. I told thon police sergeant last night—”

“The police have been to see you?”

“Aye. Munro, that was his name. I told him he should

be asking wee Callum what he was doing yesterday morning.”

“Let me get this straight. Callum fancies you, so he told you Donald had lied to you about his plans for the weekend, thinking it would make you go off Donald.”

Gemma remembered the shadowy figure she’d seen in the drive on Saturday night. “Is he a tall bloke, fair, wears the kilt?”

“Aye.”

“Did you know that he was watching you, when you came to the B&B? I saw him in the drive, half- hidden in the hedge.”

“No.” Alison looked suddenly frightened. “I’m telling ye, he’s daft. I’ve said I want nothing more to do with him, but he won’t hear of it. He claimed he was sorry about Donald, but I didna believe him.”

“He claimed? Alison . . . was it the police who told you about Donald?” Gemma knew that Ross had managed to keep Donald’s name from the media, although she doubted he could hold out much longer.

“Nae, it was Callum.”

“And did he say how he knew?”

Alison shook her head. “No, and I didna think to ask. I didna really believe it until the policeman came to the flat.”

Gemma had to assume that Heather Urquhart had told the police about Alison, but how had Callum MacGillivray known of Donald’s death? She knew rumor traveled fast, and the fact that Callum was the Inneses’