Gemma drove on, finding that it seemed logical to go on to Benvulin, but she knew that what drew her most was the chance to return to the place where she had felt closest to Donald Brodie.
Graced by the late-afternoon sun, Benvulin looked much as it had the day before, except for the two police cars
parked in the drive alongside Heather’s Audi. Deciding to try her luck first in the office, Gemma went up the steps and entered the small stone building next to the old mill.
This was not included in the visitors tour, Gemma quickly surmised. It was a real, working office, crammed with file cabinets, computer desks, and the piles of paperwork that any business generated. There was no one in the first room on the right, but from the size of the desk and the memorabilia on the walls, she assumed the office was Donald’s. A large, carved sideboard held an array of Benvulin whiskies and a tray filled with crystal tumblers.
For an instant, Gemma imagined Donald sitting in the leather-backed chair, half turned towards the window so that he could survey the domain he had so loved. She blinked, shook her head to dispel the vision. Donald Brodie was gone.
She went on, and in the next room along the corridor she found Heather Urquhart. The woman sat hunched over her desk, her face covered by her long, slender fingers. At the sound of Gemma’s footfall, she looked up, startled, and snapped, “What are you doing here?”
Heather looked so miserable that instead of making a retort, Gemma sat down and said gently, “You must be having a dreadful time of it. What are the police doing here?”
“Searching the bloody house. For what, I don’t know.”
Sarcastically, Heather added, “A note inviting Donald to a secret assignation in the meadow, signed with the murderer’s name?”
Gemma had to smile. “They should be so lucky.”
“Well, then, what are they looking for?”
“Details,” Gemma said slowly. “Details of a life. All the bits and pieces that make up the whole, and they hope
that when they put it all together, they’ll see a pattern that will point them in the right direction.”
“They’ve taken away the computers. You’d think they’d realize we still had a business to run.”
Gemma hesitated, then said, “I can’t speak for Chief Inspector Ross, but it’s not usually the aim of the police to make life difficult for those trying to deal with a tragic death. They just want to solve the case—and so do you. The consequences of not succeeding are terrible for everyone concerned with the victim. Trust me on this.”
“So you’re saying we should cooperate?”
“Yes, and cooperate fully, rather than grudgingly.
That’s when the little, innocuous things come out that can glue the entire case together.”
“But I can’t abide that man,” Heather protested, her earlier hostility towards Gemma apparently forgotten.
“He makes me feel guilty even though I haven’t done anything. Do you know I actually started thinking about the time I stole a bag of marbles from the novelty shop when I was six?”
“I hope you didn’t confess,” Gemma said, grinning.
“But I know what you mean. He’s rather terrifying.”
Heather’s answering smile was fleeting. “You went to Aviemore—what about Hazel? Did you see her?”
“Ross is still detaining her, and no, I wasn’t able to see her, I’m afraid. She should have a solicitor. Is there someone you could call?”
“There’s Giles Glover, the firm’s legal adviser. But I’ve rung him already. He’s out of town for the weekend, won’t be back until tomorrow morning. About Hazel—I hope—you don’t think Ross took her in because of something I said?” Heather twisted her hair into a careless knot.
“What did you tell him?” asked Gemma, making an effort to keep her voice even, friendly.
“Only that Donald and Hazel had had a relationship, but years ago. I didn’t say—you’d think he’d have taken in that Alison woman. I mean, she was the one screaming at him like a fishwife last night—”
“Her name is Alison? I had the impression you knew her,” Gemma added, with some satisfaction.
“Alison Grant.” Heather made a grimace of distaste.
“She lives in Aviemore, works at the gift shop there. It was nothing serious between her and Donald, at least on his part.”
“So do you think someone told her Donald had another . . . um . . . romantic agenda for the weekend?”
“Someone must have, but I’ve no idea who.” With a return of her former prickliness, Heather added, “It wasn’t me.”
“No, no, I didn’t think it was. Where’s Pascal?”
Gemma asked, hoping to diffuse the tension. “I thought he was coming with you.”
“He did. He’s in the stillroom with Peter McNulty, the stillman. Peter showed up here this afternoon already half pissed, and is now proceeding to drink his way through an eighteen-year-old bottle of Benvulin. It seemed the least I could offer,” Heather said bitterly. “He was devoted to Donald. Everyone was devoted to Donald.”
“Including you.”
Heather’s eyes filled, and she swiped angrily at the tears. “Yes. Including me. God, what a bloody mess.”
“What will happen to the distillery? Will you stay on?”
“It will depend on the disposition of Donald’s shares. And on the board of directors. I’ve rung them with the news.”
“And the house?”
“It belongs to the distillery, not Donald personally.
Donald’s father mortgaged it when the distillery had a cash shortage back in the eighties. Donald’s mother has no claim. She remarried shortly after she and Bruce divorced, and lives in California now. I’ve rung her as well.”
“What was he like, Donald’s father?” asked Gemma.
“Bruce Brodie was . . . difficult. He bullied Donald, as hard as that is to imagine.” Heather’s smile was fleeting.
“When he was killed—that was not long after I came to work here—I’d almost say Donald was . . . relieved.”
Gemma sat up a bit, her interest quickening. “He was killed?”
“Did Hazel never tell you? It was a climbing accident, on Cairngorm. Almost ten years ago, now. Donald’s sister, Lizzie, died, too.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Gemma. “How did it happen?”
“An early snowstorm. It was four days before Mountain Rescue found their bodies. The weather forecast had been a bit dicey, but Bruce ignored it. He was always reckless. And Lizzie . . . Lizzie would have followed her father to the end of the earth. I suppose you could say she did.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, wishing she had more comfort to offer. “It must have been very hard for you, especially if you and Donald were close.”
“Do you mean if we were lovers?” said Heather, hostility back in full force. “At least you had a little more tact than Chief Inspector Ross. Why does everyone find it so hard to believe that men and women can be friends?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, it was stupid of me.” Even as she cursed herself for her clumsiness, Gemma noticed that Heather had not answered the question directly.
Heather stood abruptly and went to the window, where she stood with her back to Gemma, looking out.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Gemma got up and examined the photos on the wall behind Heather’s desk. There were many of Heather, or Heather and Donald, in the distillery with various members of the staff.
Another picture caught Gemma’s eye, Heather and Donald in evening dress at a banquet. It must have been an affair honoring whisky, as bottles marched down the center of the table. Heather looked happy in a way Gemma had not seen before.