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

neighbor made it even more likely he’d have heard the news despite Ross’s precautions. But still, it seemed as if the man had motive—and so, she thought, did Alison Grant.

Deciding there was no subtle way to phrase it, Gemma

said, “Alison, did the police ask you if you had an alibi for the time of Donald’s death?”

Alison gave her a look of dislike. “You’ve a lot of bloody cheek. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told them.

I was in my flat, and there’s no one to prove it except my nine-year-old daughter, who was fast asleep in her bed.”

Gemma reached the railway station with a few minutes to spare. She sank onto a bench on the platform and watched as the little steam train to Boat of Garten chugged cheerfully out of the Aviemore station, like the Little Engine That Could. Beyond the tracks, the still-snowcapped peaks of the Cairngorms rose in the distance, and she found it hard to believe that just that morning she had stood in the foothills of those same mountains.

But her mind darted back to her recent interview. She might not have made an ally of Alison Grant, but she had at least gleaned some useful information. She and Duncan could pay a visit to Callum MacGillivray, once they’d finished their business in Aviemore.

Her stomach gave a flutter of nervous anticipation as she thought of seeing Duncan. It had only been a few days, but with everything that had happened, it seemed a lifetime, and she suddenly felt as breathless as a girl awaiting a first date.

Then she heard the distant thrum of the approaching train, and a moment later the diesel locomotive was squealing into the station on a whiff of hot oil and scorched brake linings.

Standing, she watched the passengers spill from the compartment doors. She saw Kincaid step down from the last car, a head taller than his fellows. His unruly chest-nut hair fell across his forehead; he wore his favorite

scuffed, brown leather jacket, and swung a duffel bag from one hand.

His face lit in a grin as he spied her through the crowd, and in a moment he was beside her. Dropping his bag, he gathered her into his arms. Her cheek fit into the familiar hollow of his shoulder.

For a moment, Gemma allowed herself to feel the solidity of his body against hers. She inhaled the mingled scents of his leather jacket and the bay rum lingering from his morning shave.

“Hullo, love,” he said against her hair, his voice gentle.

“I can’t let you out of my sight, can I, without your getting into trouble?”

Chapter Fourteen

One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in events and places.

—robert louis stevenson,

“A Gossip on Romance”

I suppose you could say the place has a sort of rakish charm,” Kincaid commented as he and Gemma walked up Aviemore’s main street. His eyes strayed from the ski shops and cafes to the mountains rising beyond the town, formidable even in late spring. He had been to Scotland several times as a child, visiting Kincaid relatives in Strathclyde, and had made one memorable trip to Oban and the Isle of Skye, but he had never been to this part of the Highlands.

“It does grow on you,” agreed Gemma, but her smile seemed to take an effort. Her freckles, he saw, were no-ticeable against the pale background of her skin, always a sign that she was tired, or under stress.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, slipping an arm round her shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “How’s Hazel?”

“Holding up fairly well, under the circumstances.

Have you talked to Tim again?”

“I’ve been ringing him since I got on the train this morning, and I’ve sent Cullen by the house. He’s not answering the door or the phone. I’ve spoken to his mum; they haven’t heard from him since they picked Holly up last night.”

“What the hell is he playing at?” said Gemma, and he felt her shoulders tense under his arm. “We’ll have to speak to Ross, then, as little as I like it.” She shook her head. “I keep thinking of all the times we’ve spent together, the four of us. Tim’s our friend—”

“All the more reason the matter should be out of our hands,” Kincaid told her, more firmly than he felt. “Let the Met—”

“Do you think he’s all right?” Gemma stopped and turned to face him, impeding the flow of pedestrians along the pavement. “You don’t think— I still have a key to the house— I should have gone back— What if—”

“Gemma, you can’t be in two places at once. I’m sure Tim’s fine.” Kincaid didn’t voice the fears he’d been trying to pass off since the previous night. “But we can suggest to the man here that he have the Met send along a couple of uniforms, a welfare call, if they can’t get CID

there right away. Now, where do we find this dragon of a chief inspector?”

“The police station is just past the car park. We can put your bag up first.” They reached the car park a few yards farther along, and she led him to the sleek-looking red Honda and unlocked the boot. Earlier, she’d taken time to extend the car hire.

Kincaid tossed his bag in, then hesitated before closing the boot. With a glance at Gemma, he unzipped the holdall and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Toby sent you this,” he said, handing it to her. “He worked on it all weekend.”

It was the much-embellished crayon drawing Toby had begun on Friday, depicting Gemma and Hazel on the train. He had since added frisking lambs, red long-horned cows, a blue river, and in the background, purple mountains with snowy caps.

“He wasn’t too far off the mark, was he?” Kincaid said, gesturing at the peaks of the Cairngorms, clearly visible through the open space beyond the car park.

With a sudden glint of tears, Gemma folded the drawing and tucked it carefully in her handbag. “Sorry,” she said, sniffing. “You know how I hate maudlin mums. It’s just that with everything else that’s happened—”

“I know.” Kincaid decided he had better take his chance. “Listen, Gemma. There is something I need to tell you— No, it’s all right, the kids are fine,” he added hastily, seeing the panic flare in her eyes. “It’s just that I’ve had a letter from Kit’s grandmother.”

“Eugenia?”

“None other. She’s sent a copy to Ian as well, saying she’s suing for custody. She’s alleging that Kit’s not being cared for properly.”

Gemma gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am, unfortunately.”

“Well, that should be simple enough to deal with. It’s past time you had a paternity test—”

“Simple, yes, except that Kit refuses to do it. Look, we can’t talk about this just now. But I thought you should know.”

“Why doesn’t Kit want to be tested?”

“I don’t know. He won’t talk to me.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this,” Gemma said, her voice rising. “You were avoiding me over the weekend, weren’t you?” she added. “You didn’t want to tell me.”

“Am I so transparent?” He snapped the boot shut, try-

ing to make light of it. “I didn’t want to spoil your weekend.”

“Spoil my weekend?” She faced him, hands on her hips, her eyes bright with anger. “You can’t keep things