His father, befuddled with gin, kept repeating, “Is that Donald Brodie? I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is dead, Tom,” Janet said patiently. “That’s just a film.”
Callum fought against a rising tide of hysteria, unsure whether he was going to laugh or sob. He forced himself to kiss his aunt’s cheek, and to nod a good night to his father, then he escaped into the stable yard with Murphy at his side.
They had eaten unusually late, having waited for the vet to stop by to see one of the horses, and now the gathering dusk was pooling in the yard’s corners and cran-nies. Callum felt the cool darkness brush against his skin like velvet, and the scent of the river came to him for an instant. A curlew piped as it settled down for the night.
He felt his love for the land, and for this place, as an ache lodged in his chest, and for the first time he saw clearly the futility of his desire to share it with Alison.
How could he have been so stupid? It had to be bred in the bone, in the sinews, in the blood, and he could no more force it on someone else than he could take it out of himself.
Chrissy, now, she was different. He had seen it in her eyes from the first, when Alison brought her to the stables. There was something about the way she stood so still, taking everything in, and in the expression of delight that slowly blossomed on her small, round face. She understood the language of the horses, and of the other animals; she listened when he told her the stories of the land, and of the men who had shaped it.
There was so much he could have taught her, but he had lost that opportunity when he had turned Alison against him.
Beside him, Murphy lifted his nose to the wind, sniffing, and the hackles rose along his back. Callum caught the scent a moment later, the faintest trace of cold metal and brine. The mild, clear evening was a treacherous de-
ception—there was snow coming, and before long, if he was not mistaken.
Snow in May was not unheard of in the Highlands, but always dreaded for the damage it did to plants and animals alike. Callum felt a chill worm its way down his spine, which had nothing to do with the weather, and he was suddenly eager for the close warmth of the cottage.
He made a last circuit of the barn, checking on the horses, before going into the cottage and banking up the stove. He fetched a mug and the distinctive dark green bottle from the shelf above the sink, then settled himself in the worn armchair. This was not mellow, honeyed Benvulin, but Lagavulin from Islay, redolent of peat fires, coal tar, and sea winds. This was a night for a whisky that would scour the soul.
Usually, he allowed himself only a dram in the evening—he had no wish to end up like his father. But tonight he poured an inch in the cup, stared at it, then poured another. The bottle felt unexpectedly light. He shook it experimentally, then upended it once more, splashing the last few drops into the mug.
The first swallow bit into his throat, but after a moment he felt the familiar warmth spreading from his belly, eras-ing the cold as it coursed outwards towards his fingers and toes. He drank steadily, seeking the drowsy oblivion that would blot out thought and feeling.
He had almost drained the cup when he realized something was wrong. A strange, cold numbness filled his mouth, then the room tilted sickeningly. This was not the soft blurring of edges that came with drinking good whisky, even too much good whisky. His heart gave a thump of panic, but it felt oddly separate from him. Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed himself
up. The room spun, and then he was on his knees, without quite knowing how he had got there.
Help, he thought fuzzily, he had to get help. But his mobile phone, his one concession to modernity, was still in the pocket of his jacket, and his jacket was hanging on a hook by the door.
A wet, black nose pressed against his face. Murphy, thinking this was some sort of new game, had come to investigate. Callum pulled himself up again, carefully, carefully, using the dog and the chair for support. He managed to lurch halfway across the room before a wave of nausea brought him to his knees. He crawled the last few feet. Clutching at the jacket, he pulled it from its hook.
But when he managed to pull the phone from the pocket, he found the numbers a wavering blur. In desperation, he stabbed at the keypad, following the pattern im-printed in his tactile memory.
It was Chrissy who answered. Sickness filled Callum’s throat, but he managed to choke out a few words. “Chrissy . . .
something wrong . . . whisky. Ill. Get your mum.”
Then darkness overtook him, and he remembered nothing else.
Chapter Seventeen
—robert louis stevenson,
“To My Old Familiars”
Gemma slipped into the double bed in the upstairs bedroom, alone. It was a pleasant room, the bed covered in a white, puffy duvet, the walls a deep, sea blue, the furniture simple farmhouse pine.
Leaving the small bedside lamp switched on, she lay quietly, thinking over the events of the evening, feeling the starched coolness of the sheets against her skin.
After their conversation in the shed, she’d insisted on helping Louise with the washing up. They had almost finished when they heard the sound of a car in the drive, and a moment later John appeared in the scullery door.
“John! Thank God.” Louise had spun round, the last soapy dish in her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” He came into the kitchen, then stopped, as if not quite sure what to do next. His shirttail had come un-
tucked, his thinning hair stood on end, and to Gemma he seemed somehow shrunken, deflated.
“What happened? What have they done to you?” asked Louise, but still she didn’t go to him.
“They’ve done nothing but ask me the same questions until I was fit to go mad, and keep me from my dinner,”
John told her wearily. “Is there soup left?”
“I’ve just put it up.” Louise made a move towards the fridge, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Och, never mind. I canna be bothered. A drink is what I need.”
Gemma dried her hands and faced him. “What about the gun, John?” she asked.
He met her eyes briefly, and nodded. “Aye, there’s no doubt. My grandfather’s initials are worked into the carving on the stock.”
There was an awkward pause, and Gemma wondered if her presence was keeping them from speaking freely, or if the constraint in the atmosphere was due to John’s reluctance to discuss the interview with Louise.
Louise broke the silence. “What about the car?” she asked matter-of-factly, turning back to the sink.
“The chief inspector said they would return it in the morning, when they’ve finished their tests. He had a constable bring me back and drop me off with a ‘cheerio,’ as if we’d been for an ice cream. I’m that fed up with this business.”
“Not as fed up as Donald Brodie,” Gemma said sharply. “We’re inconvenienced; Donald is dead.”
“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, Gemma.” John rubbed his hand across his darkly stubbled chin. “You’re right, and I’ve been a self-absorbed boor. But I’m still going to have that dram. You can consider it my wake for Donald.” With that, John had shambled out of the kitchen, presumably to join Kincaid and Martin in the sitting room.
Louise stared after him, her lips compressed, and had only made the barest response to Gemma’s further attempts at conversation. Gemma could only guess at what was wrong between husband and wife. Did Louise suspect John of having something to do with Donald’s death? Or did she merely suspect John of having an affair,
