“You don’t have to spell it out for me, you know. I’m not stupid—or at least not anymore. So why do the police think my wife shot her . . . lover?”
Denials ran through Kincaid’s head—there was no
proof, after all, that Hazel had done more than renew her friendship with Brodie—but he knew at heart that anything he said would be cold comfort to Tim Cavendish. “I don’t know. The officer in charge of the case wouldn’t speak to Gemma. I’ll take the train up in the morning, see what I can find out.”
“Bully for you. Duncan to the rescue.” Tim took another swig of his beer, then held up the bottle and squinted at it in the fading light.
“Come with me. Holly can stay with Wesley and the boys. We’ll get this sorted out—”
“No. You can’t fix this,” Tim said fiercely. “I can’t fix this, and I’m not traipsing up to the bloody Highlands to make an even bigger fool of myself. Hazel made her own bed—excuse the metaphor—let her lie in it.”
“Tim, you can’t mean that,” Kincaid argued reasonably. “She’s still your wife, and Holly’s mother. Do you realize the seriousness of the situation? If she’s accused of murder—”
“She’ll have to get a lawyer, then, won’t she?” said Tim, tapping his empty bottle against the flagstone.
“Tim, you can’t make these kinds of judgments when you don’t have all the facts. You’ve too much at stake—”
“Facts? What’s between Hazel and me isn’t a police case, Duncan. What I know for a fact is that my wife lied to me, and that she went to Scotland to meet a man who had been her lover. If it were Gemma, wouldn’t you put two and two together?”
“Not without talking to her,” Kincaid protested, but he couldn’t help but wonder how he would feel in Tim’s shoes. “Surely, you can—”
“No!” The bottle in Tim’s hand shattered against the patio.
Holly, Kincaid saw, had stopped digging and was sit-
ting very still, her face turned away from them. Deep shadow had stolen over the garden, and the lightless house seemed desolate without Hazel’s presence.
“Okay, Tim,” Kincaid said quietly. “Just take it easy.
You’re scaring Holly. Let her come to us—”
“She’s my daughter,” Tim responded, but kept his voice down. “She stays here with me. Now why don’t you just sod off, Duncan, and play knight somewhere else?”
“All right, I’ll go. But first tell me one thing: Where were you this weekend?”
“Why should I?”
“The police will get round to asking you, you know.
Why not tell me, if you’ve nothing to hide?”
Tim gazed out across the garden for a moment, then shrugged. “I went walking. My mum told you.”
“With your friends?”
Kincaid saw Tim hesitate before he said, “No. That fell through. I went on my own.”
Had there ever been any friends? wondered Kincaid.
“Where did you go?”
“Hampshire. I needed to think.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“A few sheep,” answered Tim.
“You must have gone in a pub, a petrol station—”
“Daddy.” Holly had given up her digging and edged her way back to the patio. She watched her father from a foot away, her brow creased with worry.
“Baa.” Tim reached out and gathered her to him, burying his face in her dark hair. “Can you say ‘baa,’ sweetheart?”
Holly pulled away. “Daddy, when’s Mummy coming home? I want Mummy.”
“We’ll manage just fine on our own.” Tim stood and
lifted her up. “I’m going to make you macaroni cheese.
How would you like that?”
Kincaid didn’t see how he could continue questioning Tim without upsetting Holly further. “Tim, ring me if you change your mind,” he said reluctantly, and went out the way he had come in.
Walking round to the front of the house, he stood for a moment, looking back at the darkened windows. He didn’t like leaving the child alone with Tim, but he had no authority to do otherwise. The little girl was obviously sensing her dad’s anger, and missing her mother. Tim Cavendish was a therapist, he told himself, a man who understood the fragility of children, but he feared Tim’s judgment was compromised by his emotions.
Could he contact Tim’s parents, ask them to come back? Tim would protest, he felt sure, but perhaps they’d have more leverage with him.
Had Tim really gone to Hampshire? Kincaid ran a finger over the rain-speckled boot of Tim’s dark blue Peu-geot. The south of England had been dry the entire weekend.
Ross had always been one for expending the least effort necessary to get results, and so he had left Hazel Cavendish alone in an interview room for the afternoon. Oh, he’d sent in sandwiches and coffee—no one could accuse him of ill treatment—but he’d been happy enough to let her stew in solitude while he organized the gathering of information. In his opinion, there was nothing like a few hours in an empty room to induce a confessional state of mind.
In the meantime, he had set in motion a house-to-house inquiry along the Inneses’ road, although the scattered nature of the properties made the results less than promising. He’d assigned an officer to enter all the data
collected into HOLMES, and a family liaison officer to trace Donald Brodie’s living relatives. As well as the team working at Innesfree, he had a team searching Brodie’s house and business, and another team had been delegated to canvas the railway station and nearby shops in Aviemore, in an effort to substantiate Hazel Cavendish’s early-morning movements.
And he had spoken to the press, who had followed him from the crime scene to Aviemore Police Station like vultures after a carcass. Although he knew rumors as to the victim’s identity were flying, he had asked the media to keep such speculations to themselves until any next of kin had been notified.
Only then had he felt ready to interview Hazel Cavendish. He summoned Munro, who appeared looking even more lugubrious than he had earlier in the day. Eey-ore the donkey, thought Ross, that’s who Munro reminded him of—although Munro’s nature was surprisingly optimistic considering his countenance.
“Two things, sir,” said Munro as they clattered down the stairs. “We found Alison Grant’s address here in Aviemore, traced her phone and electricity services. A constable went round, but there was no one at home.
He’ll try again in a bit.”
“Why don’t you go, Sergeant?” suggested Ross. “I’d rather trust your judgment on this one. What else?”
“John Innes’s gun, sir. It’s not licensed. His other two shotguns are, but not the little Purdy.”
Ross was not surprised. “Damn family guns,” he muttered. “Just because there’s no record of purchase, people can’t be bothered. Well, I’ll throw the book at him on this one.” They had reached the interview room. He stopped and automatically straightened his tie. “Now, let’s see how our wee birdie’s getting on.”
Hazel Cavendish stood up abruptly at their entrance, sloshing coffee over the table, then looked round wildly for something to mop it up.
“Sergeant, see if you can grab a kitchen roll,” said Ross. When Munro had gone, he studied the woman before him. Time and isolation had taken their toll, he noticed. The flesh seemed to have molded itself more tightly to the bones of her face, leaving the planes and hollows more pronounced. And he saw that her hands were trembling, although she clasped them together to hide it. The remains of her sandwich lay in the open plastic box, shredded to bits. Ross couldn’t tell that she had actually eaten any of it.
He shook his head disapprovingly. “Ye need to eat, lassie, keep up your strength.”
“What I need,” she countered, facing him across the table, “is to go home and see my daughter.”