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

Her eyes swam with tears and she began to weep, short, hiccoughing sobs that grew stronger until they wrenched at her chest. Was she crying for Livvy Urquhart and Rab Brodie, or for her grandfather, Will . . . or for Donald . . . and Tim . . . and herself?

The spasms began to ease and she sat back, sniffing.

She would have to tell someone—it was past time Rab Brodie’s death came to light.

The light voice came from behind her, making her heart jolt in surprise. “Hazel? What on earth are you doing?”

Hazel stood and squinted at the small form silhouetted in the doorway. “Louise? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” Louise came forward until Hazel could see her more clearly. “You know, we really haven’t had any time alone together for a chat since you’ve come.”

“Has something happened? Is it Tim? Or John? Have they arrested John?”

“No. I don’t think they will arrest John,” said Louise, and there was a note in her voice Hazel couldn’t identify.

“What are you doing?” she added, coming close enough to peer down into Hazel’s small trench. “You’ve been digging.”

“I—I’m not sure.” Hazel felt suddenly reluctant to say.

“I thought . . . there was someone buried here, a long time ago.”

Louise knelt and poked a finger into the hole.

“Bones?” She looked up, her eyes wide. “You’ve found another body? Well, hasn’t this been a week for revelations?” Standing, she picked up the spade Hazel had abandoned and raked the tip over the soil.

Hazel put out a hand. “Louise, don’t—”

“Possessive about this one, too, are you?” Louise stopped, leaning on the spade.

“What— I don’t understand.” Hazel’s heart began to thud.

“Not everything belongs to you, Hazel. Did you know that? Did it ever occur to you that other people deserve a share? That other people have feelings?”

“Louise, what are you talking about?” Hazel whispered.

“Did you never think, all those years ago, how I might have felt?” she hissed, her voice full of venom. “Louise, the invisible. Louise, the third wheel. I watched you together, and you never noticed. I loved him, and you never saw it. And then you threw him away, as if he were so much rubbish, and left me to patch up his wounds.”

“Louise, it wasn’t like that at all—”

“You discarded him and moved on to the next one, as if you were changing shoes. But I kept on. I loved him, and I waited. I married John, because he was available, and I waited a little longer. I chose the property here, the

closest to Donald I could find. I thought he would see . . .

if I gave him enough time . . . if I could show him what he was missing.

“And then, you came back, picking up where you left off, and he was so blind he didn’t see you would do the same thing again.”

“But, Louise, I didn’t—”

“But you did. I told him that morning, told him that you had packed and gone, without even telling him good- bye. He didn’t believe me.”

“You . . . saw Donald?”

“I was out walking. Someone had left John’s little gun in my potting shed, and the rabbits had been into my garden, so I took the shotgun with me. I wanted to think; I was so happy when I saw you drive away, but I knew I couldn’t show it, not yet. I didn’t know Donald was out, as well, until I saw him coming across the meadow.

“He met me with a smile. He wanted to share it all with me, your joyous reunion, his plans for the future. I had to tell him, then, that you were gone.

“He didn’t believe me, at first.” Louise shook her head, as though his stubbornness still surprised her. “When it began to dawn on him that I was telling the truth, he wanted to go after you. That was too much, after everything you’d done to him. I couldn’t bear it.

“I told him he was a fool. I told him that you would never really care for him, not the way I did.” She fell silent, and Hazel waited, too sick with horror to speak.

When Louise did go on, her eyes seemed to have lost their focus. “He laughed at me. I told him I loved him, and he laughed at me. He thought I was joking, at first.

And then, when he realized I meant it, he looked at me as if I were something nasty, an insect found under a log.

“ ‘I wouldn’t have you if you were the last woman on

earth, Louise,’ he said. ‘You’re a wee cold spider, always watching, always waiting, always looking for your advantage. You should watch yourself—you’ll be lucky I don’t tell your husband what you’re up to. Now, let me go.’ He shook my hand off his arm.”

“What— What did you do then?” Hazel asked hoarsely, in spite of herself.

“I didn’t think,” answered Louise, with an air of wonder. “I just raised the gun and pulled the trigger. He looked so surprised.”

Hazel took an involuntary step back, stifling a sob.

“Louise, why are you telling me this?”

“Because Callum MacGillivray didn’t die, and I have no doubt he’ll be telling Chief Inspector Ross that he saw me that morning.”

“You— You poisoned that poor man?”

Louise didn’t seem to have heard. Her gaze had focused on Hazel again, fully intent. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” she asked, as if the possibility had not occurred to her. “I told you, I only came here to talk . . . but then, it all comes down to you, doesn’t it . . . And I have nothing to lose.” Louise smiled, tightening her grip on the spade, and Hazel’s blood ran cold.

Leaving Tim in the interview room, Kincaid went out into the corridor and rang Gemma from his mobile phone.

“Gemma!” he said with undisguised relief when she answered. “Listen, I’ve just talked to Tim. He was there over the weekend, all right, and he did take the gun from the cabinet. But he says he didn’t shoot Donald Brodie. He left the gun in the potting shed. In which case—”

“Louise took it.”

“You knew?”

“I talked to Callum. He saw her, walking through the meadow with the gun. That’s why she poisoned him.”

“Have you told Ross?”

“I left him a mess—” The phone signal broke up.

“Gemma, you don’t mean to talk to Louise yourself?” he asked, with dawning dread. “You realize that if this woman shot Donald, and poisoned Callum, she’s capable of anything.”

A garble of static came back to him, interspersed with a few intelligible words. “. . . no choice . . . Hazel . . .

gone after her . . .”

“Gemma, where are you?” he said, only realizing he was shouting when a passerby in the corridor looked at him oddly.

“. . . pole in . . .” he thought he heard her say, and then very clearly, “. . . the Braes of Glenlivet.” Then the phone connection went dead.

The rain had turned to snow as Gemma passed through Tomintoul. Fat, white flakes splattered the windscreen like stars, then vanished beneath the wipers. As visibility diminished, she regretted the time she’d taken to drive to Innesfree, but she had hoped against hope that Louise had not followed Hazel to Carnmore.

But when she arrived at the B&B, she found not Louise, but Pascal, fuming. Ross had had him driven to