“Aye. That’ll be Martin. He can bang out a tune or two.”
This was more than a tune or two, Gemma thought, listening. The notes wandered up and down the scale, segue-ing into snatches of melody that teased her memory.
After giving Kincaid a quick glance, she asked John,
“Is there enough tea for Martin?”
He nodded towards the pot. “I was just about to take him a cup.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
Mug in hand, Gemma wandered into the sitting room.
Martin sat at the old upright piano, his back to her, his hands moving across the keys as if of their own accord.
Bars of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the carpet, illuminating the muted tartan.
“Martin,” she said softly, “I’ve brought you a cuppa.”
He jerked as if stung, twisting round to look at her.
“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” The color drained from his already sallow face, leaving the blemishes on his cheeks an angry red.
“Sorry.” She held up the mug. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just a bit jumpy these days, that’s all.” He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.
“Don’t stop on my account, please. It was lovely. I didn’t know you played.” Crossing the room, Gemma set his mug next to the dog-eared sheet music on the upright’s stand.
“Bloody thing needs a good tuning.” Martin turned back to the keyboard. “My mum gave me lessons. All part of a proper middle-class upbringing,” he added, with a note of derision. His fingers moved over the keys again, picking out a faintly Scottish air.
“But you play by ear, don’t you?” asked Gemma, the
certainty forming as she listened. “That’s not something you learn from lessons.” She looked at him with sudden envy, forgetting his spottiness, his youth, his awkward behavior, seeing only a gift she would have made a pact with the devil to possess. Perching on the edge of the chair nearest him, she said, “Is this your job, back in Dundee?”
Martin snorted. “There’s no money in this. Oh, I pick up a few bob, filling in on a gig, but it’s not going to pay the rent.”
Why was it, she wondered, that people never seemed to appreciate what they had? Martin had shrugged off his talent as if it were no more worthwhile than sweeping floors.
Nor had he answered her question about his job, she realized, and that aroused her curiosity.
“Martin, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised you haven’t gone home. I mean, it’s not as if you knew Donald . . .”
“Nor did you, before this weekend, and you’re still here.” His glance was sharper than she’d expected.
Shrugging, he added, “I thought I’d lend John a bit of support. It’s not as though he’ll get it from any other quarter.”
“You mean Louise?” Gemma studied him. “Is there a particular reason you two don’t get on?”
“Besides the fact that she’s a bitch? She’s always treated me as if I were a bug that needed squashing. What bloody right has she? He’s
“Yes, but it is her house, too.”
Martin flushed at the note of reproof in Gemma’s voice. “You mean I should be grateful for her charity?”
“No, I mean you should have better manners. This is about more than a weekend cookery course, isn’t it?”
Martin gazed down at the keyboard as the silence
stretched. “It’s just that I’ve got no place else to go at the moment,” he admitted at last. “And I don’t like being made to feel a nuisance.”
“No place to go? You mean—”
“I lost my bloody flat, okay? And my job. Actually,” he amended, “it was the other way round.”
“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” said Gemma. “It could happen to anyone.” She thought back to their earlier conversations. “But you must have some other options. I thought you said your mum lived in Dundee. Couldn’t you—”
“My mum’s not speaking to me. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment, but at least she doesn’t seem to have shared her feelings with Louise. There’s no way Louise would have passed up ammunition she could have used against me.”
Gemma frowned. “Wait a minute. What ammunition?”
Martin gave her a sideways glance. “Why should I tell you?”
Gemma considered for a moment, tilting her head, then said, “Because it sounds to me as though you could use a friend, and I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out. And because”—she reached out with her right hand and played a bar of the first thing that came into her head, which happened to be
“Ouch,” Martin said, falling in with the next measure.
“That was a low blow. I think it’s been scientifically proven that one can’t behave badly while listening to Bach.”
Gemma grinned. “Then stop it and tell me what happened.”
He looked up at her, his hands still. “I worked in a music shop, in Dundee. It was all right, but then I got
busted for selling X-tabs to some of the customers. It was stupid, I know,” he added, as if to forestall her. “My boss fired me. When I couldn’t pay my rent, I lost my flat. And I’ve got no way to pay for legal counsel when my trial comes up.”
Refraining from agreeing with his own assessment, Gemma asked, “Does John know?”
“Yeah. He’s been really good about it.”
“You never were interested in cooking, then, were you?”
“No, that’s not true,” Martin said, sounding hurt.
“There’s this bloke I know that might take me on at his restaurant. I thought if I could learn something from John, I’d have a better chance at it.”
“And what about Louise? Does she know?”
“What do you think? You don’t imagine she’d let someone less than perfect take up space in her precious house? What surprises me,” Martin added thoughtfully,
“is that she ever condescended to take on John.”
“John? Why wouldn’t—” Gemma stopped, listening as the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen suddenly rose in volume. She recognized Heather’s clear alto. Hazel and Heather must have come in from the barn.
Then, the sound of car tires on gravel snapped her attention back to the front of the house. Looking out the window, she recognized the car, an unmarked Rover.
Bloody hell. It was Ross, and she didn’t want to talk to him about Tim Cavendish in front of Hazel.
“Martin, sorry,” she said, giving him a fleeting pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got to have a word with the chief inspector,” she added, already half out the door.
“You won’t tell him about me?” Martin called after her.
“I’ll wager he already knows. You should have told him yourself.”
She ran out into the drive as Ross and Sergeant Munro were getting out of the car. “Chief Inspector. I left you a message,” she said a bit breathlessly. Skidding to a halt on the gravel, she lowered her voice and added, “It’s about Tim Cavendish, Hazel’s husband. Have you requested that the Met interview him?”
Ross looked at her with disfavor. “Inspector James, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Have you?” she repeated, past caring if she was rude.
“Because he wasn’t in London over the weekend, and he doesn’t seem able to verify his movements.” She
