The redhead reached the river’s edge, then, turning to survey the shoreline, gave a start of surprise as she spied Donald Brodie and his companion. She observed the couple for a moment, as if hesitating, then spun round on her heel and retraced her steps along the path.
Callum watched a little longer, long enough to see Donald’s kiss returned in full measure. Then he slipped the binoculars back into their case and adjusted the gun strap over his shoulder. He had seen enough.
It was past noon by the time Callum had ferried the trekker’s baggage to the B&B in Ballindalloch and finished up his chores round the stables. Then, having made sure his father was dozing harmlessly in front of the telly, he drove the van into Aviemore.
He parked in the pay-and-display next to Aviemore Police Station and commanded Murphy to stay in the car. Ignoring the Labrador’s look of reproach, Callum started down the hill, easing his pace to accommodate
the Saturday shoppers strolling the other way. It was a strolling sort of day, with the sky a clear blue behind the Cairngorms and the steam train from Boat of Garten chugging merrily into the Aviemore station. Callum had no thought for the scenery, however, as he reached Tartan Gifts and pushed open the door.
The shop was busy, with Mrs. Witherspoon helping two well-padded women who were waffling over Bonnie Prince Charlie tea towels, while another couple browsed among the heather-filled paperweights. At the till, Alison was ringing up one customer while another queued impatiently.
Callum waited, fingering the monogrammed book-marks while he avoided Mrs. Witherspoon’s gimlet eye.
It was stifling in the close confines of the shop, the air overheated and heavy with the odor of candles and Alison’s distinctive perfume. He could feel himself sweating, could smell the oily, woolly scent of his own sweater, warmed by his body.
When Alison had finished with the second customer, he stepped with relief up to the register. “Come away outside,” he whispered. “I need a word with ye.”
“Are ye daft?” hissed Alison. “Can ye no see I’m busy?” In a louder voice, she added, “And what can I be doing for you today, Mr. MacGillivray?”
“Let me buy you a coffee,” he persisted.
“That’ll not be necessary, Mr. MacGillivray.” Alison gave him a bright smile, then leaned forward to adjust something on the countertop, whispering, “Just bugger off, Callum. You’ll get me sacked.”
“Make an excuse,” he urged softly. “This is about Donald.”
Callum could see her hesitate, torn between irritation and curiosity. Then she jerked her head towards the door.
“All right. Go on. I’ll meet you outside.”
He did as instructed, and a few moments later, Alison came out of the shop. She hurried down the hill, her heels clicking on the pavement, until she was well out of sight of the shop windows.
“I’ve told the auld cow I had to check on Chrissy,” she said, “so be quick about it.”
“Where is Chrissy?”
“She’s at home. Where did ye think she would be? And why is it any business of yours?”
“I thought you might bring her for her riding lesson.”
Alison shook her head impatiently. “Never mind about that now. Has something happened to Donald? Is he all right?”
“Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?” asked Callum, enjoying an unaccustomed sense of power. “You said he told you he had a business meeting this weekend.”
“So? What of it?”
“It’s an odd sort of business, then. He’s staying at the Inneses’.” Seeing Alison’s blank expression, he asked,
“Did he never introduce you to John and Louise Innes?
They bought the old farmhouse just down the road from the stables. Turned it into a posh bed-and-breakfast.”
“Donald’s staying at a B&B so near his house?”
“And not alone.”
Alison blanched beneath her makeup, her face looking suddenly pinched. “But—”
“She’s verra pretty. Dark hair—”
“How do you know it’s not a business meeting?” Alison protested. “He could—”
“There’s no mistaking what I saw between them.”
Alison glared at him. “I don’t believe you. How did you—Where did—”
“I fish with John Innes. He told me what Donald was about. So I kept an eye out.”
Alison looked away from him, crossing her arms beneath her small breasts as if she were cold. For the first time, Callum realized how tiny she was, her bones fragile as a sparrow’s. And he saw what her makeup and bottle-blond hair usually disguised—her resemblance to Chrissy.
The pleasure he’d felt in his momentary victory evaporated. “I’m sorry, hen. I didna mean to hurt ye.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“Because it’s not right the man should lie to you. You deserve better—you and Chrissy.”
“And you’re going to give us that?” challenged Alison, her belligerence returning.
“I—”
“If you ever have more to offer than stable muck, Callum MacGillivray,” she scoffed at him, “you’re very welcome to let me know. But in the meantime, you can bloody well keep out of my business.”
Louise had thought that a quiet spell with the house empty would settle her nerves, but when the guests had left for Benvulin, she found herself pacing from hall to dining room to lounge, needlessly tweaking the flower arrangements and running the hem of her apron over already dusted furniture.
She’d seen Hazel turn away at the last minute and go back to her room in the barn, and she couldn’t help but speculate as to the cause. It looked as if things between Donald and Hazel were not going well, but the satisfaction this occasioned Louise was overshadowed by her worry over John.
He had disappeared, as soon as the others had gone, on another of his manufactured errands. This time it was to pick up some necessary dinner ingredient from the gro-
cer in Grantown—an ingredient Louise suspected he had deliberately forgotten when doing yesterday’s marketing.
And not only did John make excuses to be away from the house, he also vanished without explanation at odd hours of the night and early morning. He must be seeing someone. There was no other explanation. But who?
The stem of a recalcitrant rose snapped in her fingers.
Swearing, Louise felt the jab of pain behind her eyes that signaled the onset of a stress headache. Her lungs felt compressed, as if she were trying to breathe underwater.
She must get out of the house or she would suffocate.
Crushing the broken rose into her apron pocket, she ran out the scullery door and across the lawn, sinking to her knees in front of the perennial border. She took great gulps of air and focused her gaze on the pink bells of the foxgloves before her until she felt calmer. Plants were something you could depend on, she’d found, unlike people. If anyone had taught her that, it had been Hazel.
Louise glanced at the barn into which Hazel had run with the urgency of one desperate for solitude. What did she know of this woman who had once been her friend?
She thought back to their first year at boarding school, both new girls, both suffering from personal upheavals.
Hazel had been a dark, bright bloom among a field of bland anemic blondness, her soft Scots voice an exotic contrast to the other girls’ flat English vowels.
While Louise suffered from the trauma of her parents’
divorce, Hazel had been entirely displaced, her history and connections severed as cleanly as an amputation.
Hazel had survived by taking on camouflage, becoming more English than the English, her accent fading year by year.
But as Hazel became more popular, she had not abandoned Louise. And as Louise’s mother drifted into far-