Among the business shots, Gemma spied a framed photo of a slightly younger Heather with an older couple Gemma took to be her mum and dad. And then she noticed an unframed snap, stuck into the corner of a corkboard, half covered by papers. She peered at it, trying to make out the details. It was a distillery, but not Benvulin.
The buildings were spare and white-harled, and looked bleak against a snowy ground and barren moors.
There were two girls, off to one side, in the shadow.
One was surely Heather, the long, dark hair distinctive even then, and the other, half-hidden by the corkboard’s edge—was it Hazel?
“It’s Carnmore.” Heather had turned round and was watching her. “My family’s distillery.”
“Your family? But I thought Hazel’s father—”
“My father was the younger brother. It should have come to him, but he wasn’t in a financial position to take on the business when Uncle Robert decided to sell,” explained Heather, her tone once again bitter.
“Did you and Hazel spend much time together?” asked Gemma, still studying the photo.
“We were inseparable. I never imagined things would turn out the way they did.” Heather moved to the cork-
board and touched the snapshot with a fingertip. “Losing Carnmore was bad enough, but I thought Hazel would write, that she’d come back for the summers. I never dreamed she would just disappear.”
Was this the source of Heather’s ambition? wondered Gemma. A longing for a childhood idyll, rather than a passion for the whisky itself? “It might have been hard for her to come back,” suggested Gemma. “To be reminded of what she’d lost.”
“I know that now. But I didn’t at twelve. Look . . .”
Heather turned to face her. “What I said this morning, about what’s happened being Hazel’s fault. I don’t really believe that. But why—after all this time—would someone choose this particular weekend to shoot Donald?”
When Kit learned that Kincaid had arranged for Wesley to come and stay from Monday afternoon, he had gone ominously quiet.
First, Kincaid tried determined cheerfulness, but as the afternoon wore on and Kit’s attitude did not improve, he called the boy into the study, a cozy room that held not only Kincaid’s desk but also a squashy sofa and the television.
“Kit, what’s the problem, here? I thought you got on with Wes—”
“It’s nothing to do with him.” Kit stood before the desk, hands shoved in his pockets, spots of color high on his cheekbones. “I just don’t see why we need anyone—”
“I thought we’d already had this argument. I don’t know how long I’ll be away, and I’m not leaving you and Toby alone without an adult in the house. That’s just not an option.” Leaving Kit alone really would give Kit’s grandmother ammunition to accuse him of improper
care, Kincaid thought with a shudder, but he wasn’t going to remind Kit of that. He tried to curb his exasperation.
“Now, why don’t we take the dogs for a run before—”
“Then let me go with you. Toby can stay here with Wesley.”
“Kit—”
“I can help you. I could do all sorts of things for you.”
Kincaid had a sudden flash of understanding. “Kit, if you’re worried about Gemma and Hazel, I’m sure they’ll be fine. There’s no—”
“How can you say that? A man’s dead. Someone they knew. That means Gemma could— Hazel could—”
To Kincaid’s horror, he saw that Kit was fighting back tears. Thinking of how close they had come to losing Gemma just a few months earlier when she had miscarried and subsequently hemorrhaged, he said with more certainty than he felt, “Kit, I promise you Gemma and Hazel will be all right. That’s why I’m going to Scotland, to make sure of it. And I need you to help Wesley keep things running smoothly here.”
Kit shook his head and bolted from the room, but not before Kincaid had seen the accusation in his eyes.
They both knew what Kit had not said—that safety was illusory, and that promises could be broken. For Kincaid had failed his son once before, when he had let Kit’s mother die.
“Sod it,” muttered Kincaid, sitting once more in the traffic on the Euston Road. Sod Hazel Cavendish for having got them into this mess. Sod Tim Cavendish for having done a bloody runner over the weekend.
But his anger couldn’t quite mask his worry. He kept replaying his confrontation with Kit, and remembering Gemma’s fear that Hazel might be in danger, too. The
only way he could assure Hazel’s safety was by learning why Donald Brodie had been killed, and in the meantime, he was just as happy to have Hazel safely in the Aviemore nick.
Neither Tim nor Carolyn Cavendish had rung him back over the course of the afternoon, and when he had called the Cavendishes’ number, he’d got the answer phone.
After the third try, he’d made the boys their tea and climbed back in the car, this time without any of the morning’s pleasure at the prospect of the drive.
His uneasiness was confirmed when he turned into Thornhill Gardens. Tim Cavendish’s mud-bespattered car was parked in its usual spot in front of the house. Kincaid got out and rang the bell. When there was no answer, he walked round the corner to the garage flat and went in through the garden gate.
Tim sat in one of the white iron patio chairs, a beer in his hand, while Holly dug in the sand pit at the bottom of the garden. Under other circumstances, a scene of perfect normalcy, but on this evening it jarred on Kincaid like a note out of place. Something here was very wrong.
“Tim!” he called out. Tim looked up but didn’t speak while Holly dropped her trowel and came running to him, clinging to his leg like a limpet.
“Duncan!”
“Hullo, poppet.” Kincaid swung her up to his hip and hugged her, finding unexpected comfort in the damp-child smell of her.
“Where’s Toby? Is Toby with you?”
“No, sweetheart, not this time,” he said as he carried her across the garden. Someone, he noticed, had carefully plaited her unruly dark hair, but strands had sprung loose to float about her face. “I’ve come to see your dad,” he added as he reached the patio and set her down.
“Duncan,” said Tim at last, looking up at him.
Tim Cavendish had shaved the beard he’d worn when Kincaid had first known him, and it struck Kincaid now that his face looked naked without it, defenseless.
“Holly, go finish your barn while I talk to Duncan.”
Tim’s tone brooked no argument, and Holly trudged obe-diently off towards the sand pit, dragging her feet to express her displeasure.
Kincaid shifted a chair round to face Tim and sat down. “Tim—”
“Have a beer?” Tim gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. There was no slur to his words, Kincaid thought with relief—at least he wasn’t drunk.
“No, thanks. Tim, your mother must have told you I came by—”
“She’s been playing farm,” interrupted Tim, watching his daughter. “My mother bought her a set of barnyard animals. Spoil her rotten, my parents.”
“Tim. I told your mother there was a shooting at the B&B in Scotland. A man named Donald Brodie was killed. What I didn’t know this morning was that Hazel’s been taken in for questioning.”
“Hazel? They think Hazel shot him?” Tim looked squarely at him for the first time. Kincaid saw the dark circles under his eyes, the lines cutting grooves about his mouth. The man was clearly exhausted. “My wife is capable of many things,” Tim added, his tone meditative,
“but I think even she would draw the line at that.”
He knew, Kincaid realized. Tim knew about Hazel and Donald. “Tim—”