“Something like that,” she’d admitted. “There’s another thing—Hazel wants to stay for Donald’s funeral, and I won’t leave her here on her own.”
“I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I remind you that it’s inadvisable, and that if the Northern Constabulary complains to your chief, you’re going to have a hard time talking your way out of this.”
“Um, no. I’ll call Notting Hill first thing in the morning; tell them I’ve been delayed. I can afford to take a few personal days.”
Kincaid had given a barely audible sigh. “Right, then.
If you’re staying, I’m coming up. We might as well put our heads on the block together. And, Gemma,” he’d added before ringing off, “do be careful.”
Turning now, she saw Hazel gazing into space, her teacup tilting absently, her face already pinched with strain. “Sitting round brooding is the last thing you need to be doing,” Gemma said decisively. “Can we get to Carnmore and back before lunch?”
“Oh, yes, I should think so.” Hazel’s expression seemed to brighten a bit at the prospect.
Gemma was already pulling on her clothes. “Good.
While you get ready I’ll leave word where we’ll be.”
As John, having assured Gemma that she and Hazel could stay a few more days, insisted on giving them toast and more tea, it was close to an hour before they got away. The morning was still fine, however, and when Gemma cracked open the car windows, the air had a rain-washed, flinty sharpness and smelled faintly of peat smoke.
Following Hazel’s instructions, she drove through Nethy Bridge, as she had the previous day, but this time she turned right before she reached Grantown, taking the way that led up into the hills, away from the gentle valley of the Spey. “It wouldn’t be so far if you could travel as the crow flies,” Hazel said. “But then, it’s seldom possible to do things directly in Scotland.”
The road snaked as it rose, and within a few miles the landscape had changed entirely. To Gemma, the moors seemed wild and desolate, alien as the moon—and yet she found them unexpectedly, searingly beautiful. The scene touched something in her that was both new and ancient, awakening a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. For the first time, she wondered how Hazel could have borne leaving.
Beside her, Hazel sat silently, picking at the hem of her pullover. They hadn’t discussed Donald or Tim since the
night before, but Gemma knew there were things she must ask.
“Hazel, do you mind telling me what happened between you and Donald on Saturday night, after you left the dining room? Did he tell you about the woman who came to see him?”
“Alison. He said her name was Alison. We had a row over her. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d asked me to come here, to risk my marriage, when all the while he was keeping someone on a string.” She shook her head.
“What a hypocrite I am, as if I hadn’t been holding on to Tim as a sort of insurance.”
“But you—the place in the woods—I thought that you and Donald—”
Hazel flushed. “So you saw that, too. The police found a thread from my sweater—that’s why Ross took me in.
Oh, Donald talked me round. He was always good at that.” She gave Gemma a look of appeal. “That was the first time, you know, since all those years ago.”
“But if you—then why did you leave yesterday morning—”
“I couldn’t face seeing Donald again. I’d made up my mind that it couldn’t go on, that I had to go back to London and sort things out with Tim. But Donald could be so per-suasive . . . I was afraid he would talk me out of it. So I ran away. I should have known it was too early for the train.”
When she’d negotiated a particularly hair-raising pass, Gemma said, “Hazel, about Tim— Did you see him this weekend?”
“See Tim?” Hazel gave her a startled look. “How could I have seen Tim? He was in London.”
“The thing is . . . Tim may not have been in London.
He had his parents come and stay with Holly over the weekend. He said he went walking in Hampshire, but
when Duncan asked him about it, he was rather . . .
vague. There were some things that made Duncan think he might have come to Scotland.”
“Tim?” This time Hazel gaped at her. “You think Tim was here?” The implication sank in. “You think Tim killed Donald? You can’t mean that!”
“No, of course not,” Gemma reassured her. “But I’d feel better if I was sure Tim went off for a weekend on his own in Hampshire. Hazel, how do you suppose he learned about Donald?”
“I don’t know. There was nothing— I didn’t—” Hazel clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid? There was an old photo. I left it under my office blotter, along with Donald’s card. But even if Tim saw those, why would he have thought anything of it? I mean . . .” She looked away, as if embarrassed. “I tore up Donald’s notes, and there was nothing else . . .”
“Did Tim know about your past relationship with Donald?”
“Well, yes,” Hazel admitted. “I’d told him a little when we first met. You know how you do, recounting life stories. That was why he never liked me to talk about Scotland, or the past.”
“So Tim’s always been jealous?” Gemma asked, her unease growing.
“I suppose you could say that,” Hazel agreed reluctantly. “Although I never really thought of it that way. It wasn’t like he thought every man I met was trying to have it off with me.”
“Just Donald,” Gemma said flatly. “But he didn’t say anything when you told him you’d planned to come back to the Highlands for the weekend?” When Hazel shook her head, Gemma added, “Did he seem as usual before you left?”
“I suppose so. A little edgy, maybe,” Hazel admitted.
“But I know Tim would never hurt anyone. No matter what I did.” Hazel’s voice held just a touch too much conviction.
The road had dipped, risen again, and now ran through a cleft of rock that looked as if it had just been scooped out by a giant hand. Then, to Gemma’s surprise, a valley opened before them. At its bottom flowed a river, willow lined, pasture flanked, a scene of pastoral perfection set amid the blasted moor.
“Where are we?” Gemma asked, glad to change the subject.
“It’s the River Avon. Some of the best fishing in the Highlands. Donald and I used to come here. He always liked to picnic,” Hazel added, her voice expressionless.
“How typical of the man—he could seat twenty in his dining room, but his ideal meal was outside on a blanket.
It was the whole Victorian legacy, the gentry sporting in the fresh air.”
“Was that so bad?”
“Donald’s family were farmers originally, like mine. It was just that they gave themselves airs.” Hazel fell silent, picking at her pullover again, and Gemma sensed constraint between them.
“Hazel, about Tim— It’s just that when something like this happens, you have to consider all the possibilities.”
“You may, but I don’t, and that’s one I refuse to think about. It’s just not possible.”
“Hazel—”
“Look, we’re coming into Tomintoul,” Hazel said, and Gemma realized there was no point arguing with her.
Glancing about her, she had an impression of a village built all of a piece, set round an airy square, a little island of civilization in the wide expanse of moorland.
“It’s the highest village in Scotland,” Hazel continued.
“Built by the duke of Gordon after the Battle of Culloden, when this was still a major military thoroughfare for the Hanoverian armies.” She pointed ahead, towards the end of the village. “You turn left at the junction.”
“Carnmore is farther still?” Gemma heard the hint of dismay in her voice, and saw Hazel’s fleeting smile.