Suddenly, the shapes shifted and coalesced, and she knew what she was seeing.
The red was a kilt, the scarlet Brodie tartan, and below it were dark green hose and sturdy brown boots. Above the kilt, an Arran pullover that had once been cream, but now bore a stain of deep red in its center. And the face, auburn-bearded, Donald’s face . . .
“Oh, no. Please,” Gemma whispered, only then aware that she had clamped her hand to her mouth. She felt her knees give way and she sank to the ground, unable to tear her gaze from the sightless eyes staring into the morning sky.
Chapter Seven
So lying, tyne the memories of day And let my loose insatiate being pass Into the blackbird’s song of summer ease Or, with the white moon, rise in spirit from the trees.
—robert louis stevenson,
“A Sonnet on the Ross of Mull”
Breathe. Gemma knelt, eyes closed, fighting the slickness of nausea in the back of her throat. Get it under control, she told herself. This was a crime scene. You didn’t sick it up in the middle of a crime scene. A murder.
Unless . . . It was unusual, but she had seen a chest-shot suicide once before. Forcing open her eyes, she scanned the immediate area. No gun visible. Not suicide, then.
Someone had shot Donald Brodie with a shotgun, and at point-blank range, by the tight circumference of the wound and the singeing of the wool round its edges. Not an accident.
How long had it been since she’d heard the shot? An hour—no, longer—she’d drifted back to sleep for at least a few minutes. Suddenly, the hair rose on the back of
Gemma’s neck. Could Donald’s killer still be close by?
The rustle of the rising morning breeze through the heather seemed unnaturally loud; the call of a curlew overhead made her heart thud painfully in her chest.
No. It had been too long, the risk of discovery too great for the killer to stay. Still, she felt exposed, vulnerable.
She must get help, and quickly. The sooner the police were called in, the greater likelihood of catching the shooter.
A fly buzzed past her ear, then another—the morning was warming, soon the air would be thick with them. Already they were clustering over the chest wound, their black bodies iridescent in the sunlight. Shuddering, Gemma wiped the back of her hand against a tickle on her cheek, felt unexpected moisture. Had she been crying? She saw that her hand was trembling, tucked it firmly under her arm.
The gesture strengthened her resolve. She had left her phone in the room so she’d have to go for help. But first she would have one more look, before the scene was damaged or interfered with. She might see something that would later be missed.
Gemma forced herself to sit back, to examine the body as if it were not someone she knew . . . not Donald. What struck her?
If Donald had been shot at close range in the chest, he must have seen his killer. Had he been afraid? There was no sign of defensive posture, and the gunshot was dead center—he had not even tried to turn away. Had he known his killer, considered him a friend?
Had he realized what was happening to him, in that instant before his heart stopped? Had he thought of Hazel in a last flash of consciousness?
“Oh, dear God,” whispered Gemma. She would have
to tell Hazel. And then she remembered that Hazel was gone, vanished in the wee hours of the morning without a word of explanation.
The fear that had driven Gemma to search the woods flooded back. Where was Hazel? Had something happened to her, as well?
No. Gemma shook her head. Why would someone murder Donald and Hazel? And besides, she had heard only one shot, and Hazel must have taken the car well before that. Hazel was safe, Gemma told herself, and she would find her.
She stood carefully, trying to minimize her impact on the grass and bracken beneath her feet. Examining the ground, she saw some evidence of trampling in front of Donald’s body, but nothing so distinct as a footprint. The soil was rocky, and even if it were damp, it would not take a good impression. There was no obvious point of entry or exit from the crime scene, and no token or arti-cle of clothing had been obligingly dropped. Nor could she see an ejected shell casing, an indication that the shotgun had been single-barreled.
Moving forward a few steps, she sank down on the balls of her feet again. She was close enough now to touch him, and for an instant she was tempted to brush his cheek with her fingertips, or to close his eyes.
Instead, she stood slowly, hands firmly shoved in her jacket pockets. She couldn’t risk contaminating Donald’s body, and she knew that a last human contact would comfort no one but herself.
Chapter Eight
Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted—
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
—robert burns, “Ae Fond Kiss”
Gemma forced herself to walk back through the woods by the exact same route by which she had come, stopping briefly where she had noticed the crushed ferns.
Who had lain there, and when? A forensic examination might soon provide the answers.
She went on, carefully, but as she reached the last few yards of the path, she gave in to the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades and bolted out into the garden just as Hazel’s hired Honda rolled into the drive.
As Gemma started towards the car, Louise came out of the garden shed, her arms filled with freshly pulled carrots.
Louise’s ready smile of greeting faded as she took in Gemma’s expression. “Gemma, what is it? Are you all right?”
“I— Did you—” Gemma stopped, unable to force any
further sound past her vocal cords, for Hazel had emerged from the car and was walking towards her.
“Gemma—” Hazel began as she reached her, “we need to talk—”
“No. I mean—” Gemma swallowed against the earthy, pungent smell of the carrots that suddenly threatened to choke her. She swung her gaze to Louise’s puzzled face, then back to Hazel. “Hazel. It’s Donald. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Louise repeated blankly, as if she hadn’t understood the word.
Hazel’s eyes widened, the expanding pupils swallowing the irises. “Wh—”
“In the meadow. He’s been shot,” Gemma said, very clearly.
Hazel shook her head. “Oh, no. There must be some mistake. That’s not possible—”
“There’s no mistake. I—I found him. Hazel, I’m so sorry.”
“No.” Hazel shook her head more vehemently. “You’re wrong. He can’t be—”
“I’m sure, Hazel,” Gemma said firmly. “Come on.
We’ll go inside—”
But Hazel jerked away from her outstretched hand.
“No. I don’t believe it. Donald can’t be dead. Where is he? What meadow?”
“We need to go into the house, love,” coaxed Gemma, but her involuntary glance at the path had betrayed her.
She reached for Hazel again, but too late. Hazel was away, flying across the garden towards the path in the woods.
“Hazel, no!” shouted Gemma, but as she started to run, Louise called out to her.
“Gemma, should I ring for an ambulance—”
“No, the police. And hurry,” Gemma answered, but the reply cost her precious seconds.