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

insisted on flying back to London with Kincaid.

“There’s nothing you can do in London until we know more,” Gemma had told her. “At least here you can help Heather. I’ll come straight back from the airport, and Duncan will phone us as soon as he’s seen Tim.”

Hazel had seemed too shocked to offer much protest.

“Tim can’t have shot Donald,” she had whispered as they were leaving. “There must be some other explanation.

There must be.”

Now, as they passed the turnoff for Culloden Battle-field, Gemma said to Kincaid, “Do you suppose Ross is wrong about the gun, then?”

He looked up from the map he’d been studying and absently ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, it’s possible. But in that case, there’s no logical explanation I can see for John Innes’s gun ending up in the river. And how would Tim have laid hands on a gun? He’s not exactly the sporting type.”

“I’d never have imagined Tim Cavendish spying on Hazel, or lying about what he’d done, or refusing even to

speak to her. What’s one more improbable thing to add to the list?”

“But if Tim shot Donald, who poisoned Callum MacGillivray?” argued Kincaid. “We know Tim was in London yesterday. Are we looking at two different per-petrators, two unrelated crimes?”

Frowning, Gemma slowed for the exit onto the A, the route to the Highlands and Islands Airport east of Inverness. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, echoing Kincaid’s earlier comment. “Could someone have been taking advantage of the suspicion Donald’s murder cast on John?”

“To lay another murder at his door?”

“Or . . .” Gemma drummed her fingers on the wheel.

“Could Callum have attempted suicide? His effort to win over Alison Grant by shopping Donald failed miserably.

He must have been distraught . . .”

“And invisible, if he walked into the Inneses’ and took Pascal’s tablets without anyone noticing.”

“True,” admitted Gemma. “Bugger. That puts us back to square one.” But as she slowed for the airport exit, an idea struck her. She glanced at the map still open on Kincaid’s lap. “What we need is to talk to Callum. I wonder . . . Did I see the hospital, not too far off the Aviemore road?”

Kincaid looked down. “Raighmore Hospital, yes. Just off the A. We must have passed within half a mile of it.

You’re not thinking of trying to see Callum, are you?

Ross would never agree.”

“Who says I have to ask him?”

“Gemma, you can’t just waltz in and demand to interview Callum MacGillivray. Ross will have a coronary.”

Gemma pulled up in the passenger drop-off lane.

Leaning over, she kissed Kincaid on the cheek. “Then he should take better care of himself.”

*

It was easier than she’d expected. And she didn’t exactly lie; she merely told less than the truth. Flashing her identification at the constable guarding Callum’s door, she’d said, “Inspector James, Metropolitan Police, here to see Mr. MacGillivray.” The constable’s eyes had widened and he’d ushered her respectfully in. Gemma felt thankful for the benefits of rank and hoped she’d still have hers if Ross found out what she’d done and reported her to her guv’nor. Now she just had to pray that Ross himself didn’t show up within the next few minutes.

Callum MacGillivray lay in the hospital bed, his long, fair hair spread out on the pillow, his eyes closed, his face waxen. For a moment Gemma was reminded of a Viking warrior laid to rest on a bier, then Callum opened his eyes and blinked fuzzily at her.

“Callum?” Gemma pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. “Do you remember me? It’s Gemma James. I came by to see you yesterday.”

“The copper,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sorry.” He touched a finger to his throat. “They tell me my throat hurts because they put a tube down it, but I don’t really remember it.” An IV drip ran into his arm, and he looked oddly defenseless in his hospital gown.

Gemma grimaced. “That’s probably just as well. How are you feeling now?”

“Still a bit groggy,” he said more strongly.

“Can you remember anything at all about what happened to you?”

“Yeah. I meant to finish a bottle of Islay malt—my own private wake for Donald. But after that, nothing, really. They say it was Alison and Chrissy who found me.” There was a note of wonder in his voice. “Otherwise, I might have died.”

“How did Alison know you were ill?”

“She told the doctors I phoned them, but I dinna remember that, either.”

“Callum, do you know that someone put a drug into your whisky, a form of morphine?”

He met her eyes and nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Have you any idea who would have done such a thing to you?”

He picked at the hem of his sheet. His hands, Gemma saw, were large and callused. “I canna think.

Do the police believe it was the same person who murdered Donald?”

“They’re not sure. But they do know that John and Martin Innes stopped in your cottage yesterday, while you were out.”

“John Innes?” Callum stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. “They canna think John tried to poison me?”

“He doesn’t seem to have a very good explanation for what he was doing in your cottage, or for what he was doing at the time Donald was shot on Sunday morning.”

“Och, it was the fish,” said Callum, shaking his head.

“The man’s a wee fool, not to have said.”

It was Gemma’s turn to look astonished. “Fish? What fish?”

“The salmon.” Callum looked away but added reluctantly, “John and I, we’ve been doing a wee bit of illegal fishing. At night, mostly.”

“You mean you’ve been poaching?”

“That’s not a word I care to use. Shouldn’t a man have the right to catch a fish in his own river, or shoot a deer on the moor?” He gave a little shrug. “But aye, I suppose you could say we were poaching. John needed the cash to keep the B&B afloat, until he could recoup the cost of the refurbishment. And I—I wanted to fix my place up a bit.

I thought Alison . . .” His hands grew still. “It was a pipe dream, I see that now. I dinna know what possessed me.”

“Callum, are you telling me that John was fishing on Sunday morning?”

“No, it was the Saturday night, late. He’d come across to me, and we’d taken a half-dozen good-size salmon from the Spey. On the Sunday morning, he would have been selling them to a customer, one of the hotels. It was Donald who set up the clients for us, although he didna take a cut. He had the connections, you see.”

“I do see,” Gemma said slowly. “John didn’t want to admit where he was because he was doing something illegal, and he didn’t want to compromise you, or Donald.”

“Or the buyer,” Callum added. “But I suspect there was more to it than that—he didna want Louise to find out.”

“And yesterday, when he came into your cottage?”

“He left me my share of the money from Sunday’s sale. He made the sales, and I kept the books. Because he couldn’t.”

“Not without Louise finding out. I wonder how he explained the extra cash.” Gemma frowned, remembering the way Louise had watched her husband. “Louise thought he was having an affair. I’m not surprised, with him sneaking about in the middle of the night.”

She mulled over what he had told her for a moment, and an inkling of the truth began to dawn. “Callum, if