Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “What’s it to ye?” The woman gave Gemma a belligerent stare. “Look, if Callum’s sent you, you can tell him—”

  “No. I just want a word with you. It’s about Donald Brodie.”

  There was a flash of vulnerability in Alison Grant’s face before her expression hardened. “What about him? And who are you to be asking?”

  “My name’s Gemma James.” Gemma had contemplated using her police identification but decided that pretending an official status was unwise as well as unlikely to benefit her. “I was staying at the B&B with Donald this weekend. I was there when you came to see him, and Heather Urquhart told me you and Donald were close—”

  “What would she know about it? I canna believe that woman ever had feelings for anybody, the cold bitch. And that still doesna tell me what it has to do with you.” Alison’s accent had grown broader as her voice rose.

  In an effort to calm her, Gemma said, “Look, Alison, is there somewhere we could visit? I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “And I could lose my job,” Alison hissed, a note of hysteria in her voice. “My boss is on her lunch hour; I canna leave the shop. And if the auld biddy comes back and finds me talking to you, she’ll likely take it out o’ my wages.”

  “Okay, okay,” soothed Gemma. “I’ll buy something if she comes in.” She picked up a picture of a Highland sheep that stood near the register and held it ready. “Now can we talk?”

  “All right,” Alison said sullenly. “What do ye want to know?”

  Gemma hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. “I came up for the weekend with my friend Hazel. She had known Donald for a long time—they were engaged once. You seemed angry with Donald when you came to see him. Had he told you he was seeing Hazel?”

  “Sod all, that’s what he told me, the bastard,” said Alison, but her swearing lacked conviction. “A business weekend at Benvulin, he said, and he’d ring me if he had the chance. And there was me sitting by the phone like some gormless idiot, waiting for him to call.”

  “But you found out it wasn’t true—did someone tell you, then?”

  “It was Callum, the mad bugger. I didna believe him at first, but he kept at me, and so I thought I’d go along to the bed-and-breakfast and prove him wrong. More fool me,” Alison added bitterly.

  “Who’s Callum?” asked Gemma, her pulse quickening. It was the name Alison had mentioned when she first came in.

  “Callum MacGillivray. He and his auntie Janet own the stables just down the road from your bed-and-breakfast. He was jealous of Donald. I’d not put anything past him. I told thon police sergeant last night—”

  “The police have been to see you?”

  “Aye. Munro, that was his name. I told him he should be asking wee Callum what he was doing yesterday morning.”

  “Let me get this straight. Callum fancies you, so he told you Donald had lied to you about his plans for the weekend, thinking it would make you go off Donald.” Gemma remembered the shadowy figure she’d seen in the drive on Saturday night. “Is he a tall bloke, fair, wears the kilt?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you know that he was watching you, when you came to the B&B? I saw him in the drive, half-hidden in the hedge.”

  “No.” Alison looked suddenly frightened. “I’m telling ye, he’s daft. I’ve said I want nothing more to do with him, but he won’t hear of it. He claimed he was sorry about Donald, but I didna believe him.”

  “He claimed? Alison…was it the police who told you about Donald?” Gemma knew that Ross had managed to keep Donald’s name from the media, although she doubted he could hold out much longer.

  “Nae, it was Callum.”

  “And did he say how he knew?”

  Alison shook her head. “No, and I didna think to ask. I didna really believe it until the policeman came to the flat.”

  Gemma had to assume that Heather Urquhart had told the police about Alison, but how had Callum MacGillivray known of Donald’s death? She knew rumor traveled fast, and the fact that Callum was the Inneses’ neighbor made it even more likely he’d have heard the news despite Ross’s precautions. But still, it seemed as if the man had motive—and so, she thought, did Alison Grant.

  Deciding there was no subtle way to phrase it, Gemma said, “Alison, did the police ask you if you had an alibi for the time of Donald’s death?”

  Alison gave her a look of dislike. “You’ve a lot of bloody cheek. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. I was in my flat, and there’s no one to prove it except my nine-year-old daughter, who was fast asleep in her bed.”

  Gemma reached the railway station with a few minutes to spare. She sank onto a bench on the platform and watched as the little steam train to Boat of Garten chugged cheerfully out of the Aviemore station, like the Little Engine That Could. Beyond the tracks, the still-snowcapped peaks of the Cairngorms rose in the distance, and she found it hard to believe that just that morning she had stood in the foothills of those same mountains.

  But her mind darted back to her recent interview. She might not have made an ally of Alison Grant, but she had at least gleaned some useful information. She and Duncan could pay a visit to Callum MacGillivray, once they’d finished their business in Aviemore.

  Her stomach gave a flutter of nervous anticipation as she thought of seeing Duncan. It had only been a few days, but with everything that had happened, it seemed a lifetime, and she suddenly felt as breathless as a girl awaiting a first date.

  Then she heard the distant thrum of the approaching train, and a moment later the diesel locomotive was squealing into the station on a whiff of hot oil and scorched brake linings.

  Standing, she watched the passengers spill from the compartment doors. She saw Kincaid step down from the last car, a head taller than his fellows. His unruly chestnut hair fell across his forehead; he wore his favorite scuffed, brown leather jacket, and swung a duffel bag from one hand.

  His face lit in a grin as he spied her through the crowd, and in a moment he was beside her. Dropping his bag, he gathered her into his arms. Her cheek fit into the familiar hollow of his shoulder.

  For a moment, Gemma allowed herself to feel the solidity of his body against hers. She inhaled the mingled scents of his leather jacket and the bay rum lingering from his morning shave.

  “Hullo, love,” he said against her hair, his voice gentle. “I can’t let you out of my sight, can I, without your getting into trouble?”

  14

  One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in events and places.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “A Gossip on Romance”

  I SUPPOSE YOU could say the place has a sort of rakish charm,” Kincaid commented as he and Gemma walked up Aviemore’s main street. His eyes strayed from the ski shops and cafés to the mountains rising beyond the town, formidable even in late spring. He had been to Scotland several times as a child, visiting Kincaid relatives in Strathclyde, and had made one memorable trip to Oban and the Isle of Skye, but he had never been to this part of the Highlands.

  “It does grow on you,” agreed Gemma, but her smile seemed to take an effort. Her freckles, he saw, were noticeable against the pale background of her skin, always a sign that she was tired, or under stress.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, slipping an arm round her shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “How’s Hazel?”

  “Holding up fairly well, under the circumstances. Have you talked to Tim again?”

  “I’ve been ringing him since I got on the train this morning, and I’ve sent Cullen by the house. He’s not answering the door or the phone. I’ve spoken to his mum; they haven’t heard from him since they picked Holly up last night.”

  “What the hell is he playing at?” said Gemma, and he felt her shoulders tense under his arm. “We’ll have to speak to Ross, then, as little as I like it.” She shook her head. “I keep thinking of all the times we’ve spent together, the four of us. Tim’s our friend—”

  �
��All the more reason the matter should be out of our hands,” Kincaid told her, more firmly than he felt. “Let the Met—”

  “Do you think he’s all right?” Gemma stopped and turned to face him, impeding the flow of pedestrians along the pavement. “You don’t think—I still have a key to the house—I should have gone back—What if—”

  “Gemma, you can’t be in two places at once. I’m sure Tim’s fine.” Kincaid didn’t voice the fears he’d been trying to pass off since the previous night. “But we can suggest to the man here that he have the Met send along a couple of uniforms, a welfare call, if they can’t get CID there right away. Now, where do we find this dragon of a chief inspector?”

  “The police station is just past the car park. We can put your bag up first.” They reached the car park a few yards farther along, and she led him to the sleek-looking red Honda and unlocked the boot. Earlier, she’d taken time to extend the car hire.

  Kincaid tossed his bag in, then hesitated before closing the boot. With a glance at Gemma, he unzipped the holdall and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Toby sent you this,” he said, handing it to her. “He worked on it all weekend.”

  It was the much-embellished crayon drawing Toby had begun on Friday, depicting Gemma and Hazel on the train. He had since added frisking lambs, red long-horned cows, a blue river, and in the background, purple mountains with snowy caps.

  “He wasn’t too far off the mark, was he?” Kincaid said, gesturing at the peaks of the Cairngorms, clearly visible through the open space beyond the car park.

  With a sudden glint of tears, Gemma folded the drawing and tucked it carefully in her handbag. “Sorry,” she said, sniffing. “You know how I hate maudlin mums. It’s just that with everything else that’s happened—”

  “I know.” Kincaid decided he had better take his chance. “Listen, Gemma. There is something I need to tell you—No, it’s all right, the kids are fine,” he added hastily, seeing the panic flare in her eyes. “It’s just that I’ve had a letter from Kit’s grandmother.”

  “Eugenia?”

  “None other. She’s sent a copy to Ian as well, saying she’s suing for custody. She’s alleging that Kit’s not being cared for properly.”

  Gemma gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am, unfortunately.”

  “Well, that should be simple enough to deal with. It’s past time you had a paternity test—”

  “Simple, yes, except that Kit refuses to do it. Look, we can’t talk about this just now. But I thought you should know.”

  “Why doesn’t Kit want to be tested?”

  “I don’t know. He won’t talk to me.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this,” Gemma said, her voice rising. “You were avoiding me over the weekend, weren’t you?” she added. “You didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Am I so transparent?” He snapped the boot shut, trying to make light of it. “I didn’t want to spoil your weekend.”

  “Spoil my weekend?” She faced him, hands on her hips, her eyes bright with anger. “You can’t keep things from me. Not for my own good. Not for any reason.”

  “Gemma, I only wanted—”

  “No.” Her voice shook. “Not if we’re in this together—a family. You have to promise me.”

  “But—”

  “It’s the crack in the ice, Duncan. Don’t you see? It could happen to us, what’s happened to Hazel and Tim, and that’s how it starts. A little deception, a little something kept back. It could happen to us,” she repeated.

  And he did see. She was right—he should have told her. It was a learned habit, sharing, and one at which he had not had much practice. He had been on his own for too many years, but before that, he should have learned his lesson with Vic. “No, it won’t,” he said, and ignoring the stares of passersby, drew her to him. “We won’t let it.”

  “Inspector James.” The fair-haired sergeant was on duty again. He smiled at her in recognition, then glanced curiously at Kincaid.

  “This is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard,” said Gemma. “We need to see Chief Inspector Ross.”

  “He’s out, I’m afraid. If you’ll just—”

  “But it’s urgent. If you’ll tell him—”

  “He really is out, ma’am,” the sergeant said, apologetically. “He’s in Inverness, at the hospital.”

  Of course, Ross would be attending the postmortem, Gemma realized, and she felt a moment’s thankfulness that it wasn’t she performing that duty. “What about Sergeant Munro?”

  “With the chief inspector.”

  “Can you give the chief inspector a message, then?” She passed the sergeant her card. “Ask him to ring me on my mobile, as soon as he can. I have some information for him.”

  “Is it something I can help you with?” offered the sergeant, his very blue eyes alert and speculative.

  Gemma hesitated before replying. “No. I think I’d better talk to Chief Inspector Ross. But ta just the same.” She flashed him a grateful smile.

  When she and Kincaid reached the street again, he grinned wickedly at her. “The man fancies you.”

  “What—the sergeant? Bollocks!”

  “Plain as day. Unless that’s what they call community policing up here.”

  Gemma gave him her most severe look. She knew he was deliberately trying to charm her, to smooth over the difficulty between them, but she was flattered nonetheless. “It’s too bad my feminine charms didn’t impress Chief Inspector Ross.”

  “Shall we wait for him?” Kincaid asked as he reached the car. “I must say I’m looking forward to meeting the man who could resist you.”

  “No.” As she slid behind the wheel, Gemma debated bringing up Kit again but decided it would be better to wait until they had some uninterrupted time.

  Now she needed to bring Kincaid up-to-date on what she had learned about Alison Grant and her unwelcome suitor. They could pay a call on Callum MacGillivray on the way to the B&B. “No, we can’t afford to put ourselves at Chief Inspector Ross’s convenience. We’ve other fish to fry.”

  In spite of the fact that he wore nothing but a kilt and boots, at close quarters Callum MacGillivray was not as romantic a figure as Gemma had imagined from her glimpse of him on Saturday night.

  At the sound of their car bumping down the track to MacGillivray’s Stables, he had come out of the barn and stood watching them, pitchfork in hand. When they got out and approached him, she found he smelled, quite literally, of horseshit. Nor did he seem particularly pleased to see them.

  “If ye want to make a booking, ye’ll have to talk to my aunt, and she’s away the noo,” he said curtly. But in spite of the less-than-welcoming statement, he peered curiously at Gemma, as if trying to place her.

  Gemma caught a glimpse of Kincaid’s amused expression and knew he would tease her about making another conquest. Making an effort to ignore him, Gemma focused on Callum MacGillivray and found herself staring at his bare chest. Although not a heavily built man, he was well muscled, and his fair skin gleamed with sweat.

  Hurriedly, she raised her eyes to his face and said, “No, it’s you we’ve come to see. You are Callum MacGillivray, right?” Kincaid had agreed that they could not identify themselves as police officers—they were courting Ross’s ire even with their unofficial questions—so they’d decided the simplest approach would be best. “We were friends of Donald Brodie,” she explained after giving their names, fudging the truth only a little. “And since your property is next to the Inneses’, we thought you might have seen something.”

  “What sort of thing?” Callum leaned on his pitchfork, looking wary.

  Kincaid extricated himself from the thorough sniffing administered by Callum’s dog, a sleek black Lab. “Someone doing something out of the ordinary…or someone doing something ordinary at the wrong time.”

  “And why should I tell ye if I had? The police have been here already, nosing about.”

  “I was staying at the Inn
eses’,” countered Gemma. “I saw you on Saturday night, watching Alison Grant. And I’ve talked to Alison—she says it was you who told her Donald would be there.”

  “What if I did? There’s no crime in that.”

  “Alison says you were jealous of her relationship with Donald—”

  “Och, you canna believe everything the woman says,” Callum said with obvious exasperation. “She had no relationship with Donald. I only wanted her to see the truth of it.”

  “That was a bit brutal, don’t you think?” asked Gemma, in a tone of friendly inquiry.

  “I told her time and again. She wouldna listen to me.”

  “Did you think she would thank you for it?”

  “Aye, weel, I suppose I wasna thinking past the moment,” Callum admitted, with less assurance. He picked up a fleece pullover thrown carelessly across a wheelbarrow and pulled it over his head, as if the cold had suddenly struck him. “I didna realize she’d be angry with me.”

  “But you knew she’d be furious with Donald—which she was. Did you not think she might take it further than a shouting match?”

  “Alison? I’ll tell ye what I told thon policeman; Alison wouldna hurt anyone.”

  “She seemed pretty tough to me.” Gemma raised an eyebrow.

  “You havena seen her with her wee daughter, Chrissy. She’s a good mother.” Callum’s defense was earnest, but so ready that Gemma suspected he had been called on to repeat it more than once. And it might be true, she thought, but good mothers could be fierce, especially if their children were at risk. Remembering what Heather Urquhart had said about Alison’s daughter being crippled, she wondered if Donald had somehow threatened the well-being of the child.

  Kincaid, she saw, had gone back to fondling the dog, making himself inconspicuous so as not to disturb the rapport she’d established with Callum. She knew he was listening intently, however, in spite of his relaxed posture.

  “Callum, how was it you knew about Hazel—my friend—coming to see Donald for the weekend?”

  “It was when we were fishing, the three of us. I’d never heard Donald talk that way about a woman before. He took them for granted, the same as he did Alison.”