“But why? Who is she?”
“She’s a friend of mine. Her name is Alison Grant.
She’s been going out with Donald, and I thought she should know he wasna telling her the truth about this weekend. He told her he had a business meeting.”
“But why would you—” Louise stopped, seeing the obvious. “You’re interested in her, this Alison? But she’s—” A slag, she had started to say, and caught herself just in time. “Callum, how did you know it wasn’t just a business meeting?”
“It was himself who told me.” Callum’s accent grew heavier under stress, she noticed, as did John’s.
“Himself? You mean Donald?”
“Aye. All about the woman of his dreams.”
“And look where it bloody got him,” Louise burst out, choking back a sob. She gulped at her tea, feeling the whisky bite at the back of her throat, and managed to say,
“He never had any sense where Hazel was concerned.”
“But, Louise, you canna be sure it had anything to do with her. You don’t know why the police took her in?”
She shook her head. “He’s cold, that detective. A cal-culating bastard. He—he frightened me.”
“You’ve no reason to be frightened.” Callum reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Whatever happened, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“But this could ruin our business, don’t you see? And John—” Now that she had come to it, the words stuck in her throat. She forced herself to go on. “Callum, you didn’t see John this morning, did you? He went to buy eggs, but he was gone for a long time.”
“John?” Callum stared at her. “But you canna think—”
“It’s not what I think—it’s what the police will think,”
she said urgently. “Do you know where he was this morning?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Callum said, a bit
too heartily, “No, Louise, I didna see him. I’m sure he will have some explanation—have you asked the man himself?”
“There was no chance, and now he’s got everyone in the kitchen, cooking for them.” She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.
“Aye, that’s his way,” said Callum, with a note of disapproval at her tone. That was a typical man, thought Louise—couldn’t bear to hear another man criticized.
“Hadn’t you better be getting back?” he added. “They’ll aye be wondering where you’ve gone.”
Louise stood, stung by what seemed to her a dismissal.
“Yes. All right.”
“I’m sorry, Louise,” said Callum, standing as well. “I didna mean to be crabbit with ye. It’s just that I’ll have to tell Alison, ye see. She goes to her mam’s in Carrbridge on a Sunday afternoon, but she’ll be back soon, and I’m fair dreading it.”
“It’s okay,” she told him, mollified. “And you’re right, of course you’re right. I’d better go.”
It was only as she turned to the door that she saw a shotgun standing beside it, as if it had been set down carelessly after a walk. Beside the gun sat a pair of heavy boots, streaked with what Louise could have sworn was drying silt from the river.
Gemma caught Chief Inspector Ross as he was getting into his car. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at him, ignoring the rain streaking her face.
“What do you mean by taking Hazel away?”
Ross turned to her, his hand still on the open car door.
“She’s helping us with our inquiries, Inspector. That should certainly be obvious to you,” he said, with exag-gerated patience.
“But you can’t believe she had something to do with Donald’s death!”
“She had motive—they were heard arguing. She had means—access to Mr. Innes’s shotgun. And she had opportunity, as far as I’m concerned, unless she can prove her unlikely account of her movements this morning.”
“But there must be more than that—”
“You also know that I can’t discuss details of the investigation with you, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind”—Ross grimaced and brushed at the water beading on his shoulders—“it’s a wee bit wet.”
He got into the car and his sergeant pulled away, leaving Gemma standing in the drive. She stared after him, momentarily paralyzed by fury. Pulling herself together, she sprinted across to the hired Honda, found it locked, and swore aloud. Hazel must have taken the keys with her—she’d had no opportunity to return to their room.
Nor could Gemma search the room in any case; all the bedrooms in the B&B were off limits until the forensics team had finished with them.
Gemma pushed a sodden strand of hair from her face and tried to think calmly. First, she had to find out where they had taken Hazel. If she could just manage to get a word with her, tell her not to say anything without counsel. Not that she thought Ross would give her access, but she might be able to pull rank on someone with less authority.
Going in search of Constable Mackenzie, she found the officer in the scullery, packing up her test kits. “Do you know where the chief inspector will be conducting his interviews?” she asked from the doorway, trying to sound casual.
“They’re setting up an incident room at Aviemore Police Station, so I should think all inquiries would proceed
from there.” Mackenzie hesitated a moment, then added awkwardly, “I’m sorry about your friend, ma’am.”
Gemma forced a smile, touched by the young woman’s consideration. “Thanks. But don’t worry. I’m sure it will be sorted soon.”
As the technicians were still taking prints and collecting trace evidence in the scullery, Gemma went round the house again and in through the front door. She found the group assembled in the sitting room, picking with varying degrees of enthusiasm at plates of bacon, eggs, and toast.
John turned from the salvers he’d trundled in on a cart.
“No one wanted to eat in the dining room,” he explained.
“Here, I’ll get ye a plate.”
Shaking her head, Gemma said, “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.” Her stomach felt tied in knots, and a sense of urgency gnawed at her. “What I wanted was to know if I could borrow a car. Hazel has the keys to our hired car, and I need to get to the police station in Aviemore.”
“You’ve just missed Louise, I’m afraid. Otherwise she could have given you a lift.”
“Louise is gone?” Gemma asked, startled.
“She ran out to the farm shop for a few things for tea.
We’ll miss lunch, I think, with breakfast so late, so I thought we’d do a proper afternoon tea.”
What the hell difference did it make, Gemma wanted to shout—lunch, high tea, low tea—with Donald dead and Hazel taken off to the nick?
Biting her lip, she said as evenly as she could, “Is there anyone else who could give me a lift, or loan me a car for a bit?”
“Sorry,” said Martin Gilmore, looking up from his empty plate. “I left my old banger in Dundee. John collected me at the station.”
Gemma looked at Heather, who was pushing un-touched eggs round her plate with a fork. “I’ve got to get to the distillery,” Heather responded, a tremor in her voice. “And I’ll need Pascal’s help.”
“Then I shall ride with you,” said Pascal, “and Gemma can drive my car.” Like Martin’s, Pascal’s appetite seemed undiminished by the tragedy, nor had he lost his manners. He stood, fishing a key from his trouser pocket.
“It’s the black one, a bit of a beast.”
Gemma had noticed the car, a new model BMW, polished to perfection. Under other circumstances she would have hesitated to drive such a car, but she accepted the keys with alacrity. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and wished that scraping Pascal’s paint were the worst of her worries.