Retracing the drive she’d made less than two days before with Hazel, it looked to Gemma as if she’d entered a different world. The mountains that had floated hazily in the distance now seemed to brood, their peaks wreathed in cloud, and the river that had sparkled silver in the sunlight now flowed sullenly against its banks.
And if she had thought Aviemore less than charming on a golden evening, the drizzling rain rendered it less salubrious still. There were a few fine Victorian houses along the main street, but they were overshadowed by the souvenir and coffee shops, and the mock chalets hawking ski wear.
Gemma found the police station without difficulty, a new building of honey-colored stone next to the car park.
The sergeant on duty was a good-looking man with sil-very blond hair, a lilting Highland accent, and a helpful manner, but Gemma soon discovered that the public-friendly policing went only so far. Not even the produc-
tion of her identification convinced him to let her talk to Hazel, and after an hour’s wait in the anteroom, she went out into the street again, seething with frustration.
Ducking into a restaurant across the street from the station, she took a table by the window. When she’d ordered coffee and a sandwich to mollify her suddenly protesting stomach, she took out her mobile and rang Kincaid. To her relief it was he who answered, rather than Kit or Toby. She didn’t think she could bear to talk to the children at the moment.
She poured out what had happened since she’d spoken to him earlier that morning, her voice rising until she caught a few other patrons staring at her. Shifting her body towards the window, she forced herself to whisper.
“He must have something else, some sort of evidence, but he won’t tell me what it is, and he won’t let me see Hazel—”
“Gemma, calm down,” Kincaid said soothingly in her ear. “I’ll admit your chief inspector hasn’t been very accommodating, but you really couldn’t expect him to share forensic information with you. Whatever he’s got, I’m sure there’s an explanation. It will just take—”
“But Ross could bully Hazel into something. I’m telling you, you haven’t met him. She needs some sort of representation. Is Tim coming?” Of course, Tim would have to be told about Hazel and Donald, but she only hoped he would support her, considering the seriousness of her situation.
There was a moment’s silence at Kincaid’s end, then he said quietly, “I didn’t speak to Tim. He’d gone away for the weekend, and there was no way to contact him.”
“Gone away?” Gemma repeated, wondering if she’d misheard. “What do you mean, gone away? What about Holly?”
“His parents came to stay at the house. I spoke to his mother. Apparently, Tim had a last-minute invitation to go walking with some friends. He won’t be home until this evening.”
Gemma watched the rain falling in the street, glistening on the hoods and umbrellas of the few resolute shoppers hurrying by. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, flatly. “Tim’s so conscientious; he always makes sure he can be reached in case of an emergency.” Her imagination raced. What if Tim had somehow learned about Donald, decided to do something stupid—no, she couldn’t voice that fear, even to herself. “You’ve got to find him, Duncan. Talk to him—”
“I’ll go back tonight. If he hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll put Cullen to work on it. In the meantime, Gemma, you’re not doing Hazel any good by staying in Aviemore.
Go back to the B&B, talk to the others, see what you can learn. And Hazel has family there—a cousin, didn’t you say? Maybe there’s a family solicitor who would act on Hazel’s behalf.”
“Yes, but—” Gemma stopped, unable to come up with an argument. She knew Kincaid was right, but she felt suddenly deflated and near to tears. Her determination to storm Ross on his own patch had kept her going, in spite of her fear and her shock, and she was afraid to let it go.
“All right,” she said quietly, making an effort to keep her voice steady. “Ring me tonight, then.”
“I will. Don’t worry, love,” he added, with an easy affection that came near to undoing her. “And, Gemma, I’m catching the early train tomorrow. I should be in Aviemore by midafternoon.”
“Up ye go, then,” said Alison patiently as she climbed the stairs in Chrissy’s wake. She knew better than to offer to
help her daughter in her slow progress, or to pass her by, even though her hands were smarting from the weight of the supermarket carrier bags.
It was their usual Sunday routine. A trip to the supermarket for the week’s shopping, and before that, a visit to her mum in Carrbridge, complete with a tea of bread-and-butter sandwiches and store-bought cakes. Chrissy loved her grandmother and never seemed to tire of the fare, but today her usual sunny chatter had been subdued.
Alison knew it was last night’s row with Donald that had upset her, and she was furious with herself for having taken Chrissy to the bed-and-breakfast. She hadn’t meant it to turn into a shouting match; hadn’t meant even to ring the bell. She’d only wanted to see the place, to see if Donald was there, to see if what Callum had told her was true.
But then she had caught a glimpse of Donald in the lamplit sitting room, pouring his precious whisky for the pretty, dark-haired woman, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick sheep.
She remembered Chrissy tugging at her hand as she strode towards the door, but she was past reason then, burning to tell the bastard what she thought of him. All her dreams had gone up in smoke in that moment, and it was knowing herself for a fool that made it harder to bear.
Now it was all clear, all the little slights and excuses.
He had been ashamed of her, and she had been too stupid to see it. He’d never meant to move her into the house at Benvulin, never intended anything more than for her to warm his bed and pass the time until something better came along.
And then last night she had burned her bridges by telling him off. She’d no hope of salvaging anything now, not even a parting guilt-induced gift.
Chrissy reached the top of the stairs and unlocked the door with her own key. The flat was cold and smelled faintly of the cabbage that seemed to constitute the daily diet of their downstairs neighbor. From now on, thought Alison, this would be their life; tea with her mum, shopping at the supermarket with an anxious eye on every penny, a week’s work under the cold, fishy eye of Mrs.
Witherspoon—and then it would start all over again.
Then, as Alison watched Chrissy putting away the cornflakes in the cupboard and carefully placing apples in a bowl, her little face intent, she felt ashamed. She had Chrissy, that was what mattered, and somehow they would get on.
“We could watch a video tonight,” she suggested brightly. “Something special. And hot cocoa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”
Chrissy turned and looked at her, her gaze unexpectedly solemn. “It’s all right, Mummy. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to make up for Donald.”
“But . . . I thought . . . I thought you’d be disappointed. The pony . . .”
Chrissy shrugged her thin shoulders and slid a carton of milk into the fridge. “I never really believed it. It was like a story in a book. It’s okay, really it is.”
“But, baby . . .” Alison brushed at the sudden tears threatening to smear her mascara.
“Can we watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmarron?”
Chrissy asked, closing the subject.
“Again?” asked Alison, choking back a half laugh, half sob. When Chrissy glared at her she added, “Okay, okay. I know I promis—”
The knock on the door made her jump. “What the hell . . . ,” she muttered, crossing the room and yanking the door wide.