Callum leaned down to stroke the dog, which had come back to his side. “I knew her first, through the shop.
My aunt orders bits and pieces for the trekkers. But when Alison met Donald at a party, she had nae more time for me. A posh bloke, she said, that owned a distillery. It didna take long to worm it out of her.”
“And you didn’t warn Donald off, once you knew?”
Kincaid asked.
Callum colored. “And have him laugh at me, because I couldna keep a girl?”
“There is that,” Kincaid agreed. “But when you told Alison about Donald and Hazel, did you not think it unfair to rat on a mate?”
“He didna need Alison,” Callum said defensively. “I saw him with her—your friend from London,” he added to Gemma. “On the Saturday morning, down by the river.”
Had he been watching, wondered Gemma, when she had seen Donald and Hazel together? And in that case, had he been watching the next morning as well? Carefully, so as not to sound as if she were accusing him, she said, “Callum, do you walk along the river path?”
“Aye. Sometimes.” He answered casually enough, but his hand on the dog’s neck grew still.
“And yesterday?”
“Yesterday I had to go early to Ballindalloch.”
“You didn’t go out along the river?”
“Nae, I’ve told ye,” he said shortly, rising. “And now I’ve the horses to see to, if ye don’t mind.”
Gemma didn’t see how they could push him further.
They had thanked him and turned to go when Gemma stopped. Prompted by something she didn’t quite understand, she fished a card from her bag and turned back to him. “Callum, wait. I came here on holiday, but at home I
She saw the small flash of shock in his eyes, but after a moment he took the card from her with a nod.
Rejoining Kincaid, she waited until they were on the road again before she said, “John Innes would have told him anyway, if they’re friends.”
“If they’re friends,” Kincaid answered thoughtfully,
“he would know where John Innes kept his guns. You said he was at the house on Saturday night; maybe he nipped round to the back and into the scullery while the rest of you were in the dining room.”
Gemma shook her head. “John and Louise didn’t sit down to dinner with us. They were in and out of the kitchen constantly.”
“Early the next morning, then, before anyone was up and about?”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Gemma admitted. “But why would he bother shooting Donald when he’d already sabotaged Donald’s relationship with Alison? And how would he have known he’d have a chance to kill Donald before anyone noticed John’s gun was missing?”
“Maybe they’d made an appointment to fish together.”
“Then where’s Donald’s fishing tackle? It wasn’t found near his body.”
“The same place as the gun?”
Gemma smacked the flat of her hand on the steering wheel. “Bloody hell, I hate this! We’d have found the gun, if we’d had access to the crime scene.”
“That’s hardly fair, love. That gun could be in England by this time, for all we know.”
She shot him a look as she slowed for the turn into the B&B. “If you mean Tim, I still don’t believe— Look, that’s Heather’s car.”
Heather and Pascal were just getting out of Heather’s Audi as Gemma pulled up beside it. The other parking spaces, Gemma saw, were filled by a crime scene van and several police cars, so the police had not yet finished their search. A blue-and-white crime scene tape had been stretched across the entrance to the path at the bottom of the garden, its ends fluttering in the rising breeze. The
temperature had dropped, and Gemma fastened a button on her jacket.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Heather, coming to greet her as she got out of the car. “I was just going to ring you.” Heather wore a black trouser suit that made the contrast between her pale skin and dark hair more striking than ever, but on closer inspection, Gemma noticed that she looked almost blue about the lips, and that the hand she held out to Kincaid was unsteady.
“Heather, are you all right?” asked Gemma.
“We had to— I didn’t know he would look like that,”
Heather said hoarsely. She touched her throat with her long fingers. “I’ve never seen anyone dead before, and Donald . . .”
Having shaken Kincaid’s hand, Pascal turned to Gemma. “We had to identify Donald’s body for the pathologist. It was difficult for Heather, but as there was no other family . . .” He shrugged, and Gemma saw that the day had taken its toll on him as well. His button-bright eyes were shadowed, and his round face had acquired unexpected hollows under the cheekbones.
“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, berating herself for not having realized Heather would be called upon to perform that task. But it was unlikely Ross would have accepted her as a substitute, even had she volunteered. He would have wanted to watch Heather’s and Pascal’s reactions when confronted with Donald’s corpse, because they were potential suspects.
It was a cold-blooded business, policing, thought Gemma, and for the first time, the knowledge that it had to be done did not make it seem more palatable.
“Come in the house, why don’t you,” she added, searching for some means of comfort. “I’m sure John or Louise will make us some tea.” It was the old standby,
certainly, but it fulfilled the human need for activity, and ritual, in the face of shock.
“No, wait.” Heather touched Gemma’s arm when she would have turned away. “I’ve something to tell you.
Giles Glover, the solicitor, was waiting for us when we got back to Benvulin. He’d had a look at Donald’s will. It was dated shortly after Donald’s father died. Donald—
Donald left all his shares to Hazel.”
“What?” Gemma stared at her, not sure she’d heard correctly. “To
“It is true,” Pascal assured her. “They were his, to do with as he wished.”
“He held the majority?” Kincaid asked.
“Yes.” It was Heather who answered, and Gemma sensed the effort it was costing her to keep her voice steady, her face composed. She had given Donald Brodie ten years of utter dedication, and he had not left her a crumb. “It’s a limited company, with the shareholders owning forty-nine percent, so Donald’s was the controlling interest. I’ll have to inform the board, but first, I have to tell Hazel. Where is she?” Heather looked round, as if just realizing Hazel’s absence. “I thought she would be with you.”
“She’s here.” Gemma nodded towards the barn. “She wanted some time on her own while I picked Duncan up at the railway station. Heather, do you want me to tell her?”
Heather hesitated, then shook her head. “No. We’re going to be working together—that is, if Hazel sees fit to keep me. We might as well start as we mean to go on.”
a fanciful and unscientific notion, true, but he had noticed that it only went away after he’d showered.
He’d had Munro stop at a petrol station on the A between Inverness and Aviemore so that he could buy breath mints, which he disliked, and his mood had not improved by the time they reached the Aviemore Police Station.
The postmortem had told him nothing he had not expected: Donald Brodie had been shot in the chest at near point-blank range with a small-gauge shotgun loaded with bird shot; Brodie had no other injuries and had been in good physical health at the time of his death. The pathologist had judged time of death to be consistent within an hour or two of the time of the gunshot reported by Inspector James, which helped Ross not at all.
