“I don’t know,” said Hazel. “But I always suspected Donald knew more than he told me.”
*
They drove back to the bed-and-breakfast in silence, Gemma growing more anxious as the morning progressed and her mobile phone did not ring. They stopped only once, for a quick lunch at a tearoom on one of the local estates.
“Changing times,” commented Hazel, gazing out at the garden center and wildlife trails visible from the café windows. “This was a grand place when I was a child, but these days they do what they have to in order to survive.”
“Could your father have stayed at Carnmore, if he’d been willing to compromise, perhaps by selling an interest to one of the big distillers?” Gemma asked thoughtfully as she nibbled at her sandwich.
“I don’t know. I think it would have proved inevitable at some point.”
“And inevitable for the Brodies, as well?”
“Benvulin has had a charmed life—the Brodies have a history of overextending, of making poor financial decisions, but somehow they’ve always managed to hang on by the skin of their teeth. I suppose it was a combination of stubbornness and the ability to turn a blind eye to reality, neither of which my father had. I’ll hate to see Benvulin lose its character.” Hazel’s eyes filled with the tears she had not shed at Carnmore.
When they returned to Innesfree, Hazel went straight to their room, saying she intended to rest. Gemma sought out Louise, whom she found in the back garden with a hand trowel, trying furiously to repair the damage done to the lawn by the police vehicles.
No, Louise confirmed, no one had rung the B&B with a message for her. The police forensics team was still working in the house itself, and search teams were still combing the river meadow.
According to Louise, Heather and Pascal were at the distillery, and John had taken Martin to Grantown on some undisclosed errand. “I can’t do anything in the house,” Louise had complained, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. “And I’ve had to cancel all our bookings for the next week. A death in the family, I told them. How could I explain what’s happened? And there’s no way of knowing how much longer this will go on.” She sat back on her heels, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, God. I must sound horribly selfish.
It’s just that—I know how trivial it is compared to Donald’s death, but it’s been hard to get this place going, and we’ve just begun to get on our feet the last few months.
We were fully booked for the first time, and now—” Her gesture took in the police cars parked in the drive.
“I understand,” Gemma told her. “Life goes on, and most people feel guilty because they can’t suddenly stop being concerned with it. But it’s perfectly normal.”
“Thanks.” Louise reached up and squeezed Gemma’s hand. “You’ve been a great help. Without your calming influence, I think we’d all have gone round the bend. We might yet,” she added, attempting a smile. “You are bringing your friend back for dinner, aren’t you?”
“Duncan?” Gemma had told John and Louise that morning that Kincaid was coming up from London, to
“lend a bit of moral support,” but she hadn’t reminded them of his rank. “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“John has something special planned. That’s his way of coping with things, poor love, and I’m afraid we’ve not been very cooperative. Heather’s going home tonight, and Pascal intends to stay at Benvulin. He feels someone should be there until the lawyers get things sorted out, and Heather just didn’t feel up to it.”
“That’s kind of him. But then I take it his interest is more than personal?”
“Well, we have wondered,” said Louise. “I mean, Heather and Pascal have become quite friendly recently.
But I can’t imagine she’d have got involved with anything that would have harmed Benvulin. She and Donald were so close . . .”
“Was there ever a romantic attachment between them?”
“Not that I know of. But, of course, Heather had worked for Donald a long time before John and I came here.”
Dropping down beside Louise, Gemma idly smoothed the turf with her fingers. “But then, you knew Donald before, when he and Hazel were together. Tell me, did Hazel and Heather have any contact in those days?”
Louise frowned, then said slowly, “I remember seeing Heather once or twice, but I think she must have been away at university then.”
“What about Heather’s father?” asked Gemma, recalling her conversation with Heather the previous day. “Did you ever meet him?”
“No. I think he worked for one of the big whisky distributors, but I always had the impression that he wasn’t terribly successful.”
Not in a way that had mattered to Heather, thought Gemma, because he’d been unable—or unwilling—to save Carnmore, and that seemed to be the criterion on which Heather had based all judgments.
Gemma had felt an unexpected sense of kinship with the woman when they talked yesterday, but could she trust her own instincts? And could she trust what Heather had told her, including her identification of the woman who had come to see Donald on Saturday night?
It was all jumbled up together: Donald’s relationships, Hazel’s family, the distilleries. Gemma knew there was a pattern, if only she could get enough perspective to see it.
Suddenly she wondered about Martin Innes—how did he fit in?
“Louise, I can see why Pascal would stay on, but what about Martin? When is he going back to Dundee?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” Louise looked irritated again.
“I can’t imagine why he would want to stay, after what’s happened. But as we’ve had to cancel the next few days’
bookings, John doesn’t seem inclined to boot him out of the room. I’m surprised at his sudden attack of brotherly affection.”
She would ask Martin, Gemma thought, as soon as she had the chance. But in the meantime, she could get to Aviemore with an hour to spare before Kincaid’s train, if she left now. Standing, she said, “Louise, I’ve got to go.
Could you keep an eye on Hazel for me? See if she needs anything?” The thought of Tim Cavendish nagged at her.
She made up her mind that, no matter how disloyal it felt, as soon as Kincaid arrived they would have a word with Chief Inspector Ross about Tim’s whereabouts over the weekend.
When she reached Aviemore, she parked in the now-familiar car park and, with only a glance at the police station, began to investigate the shops along the main street.
A gift shop, Heather had said, but gift shop was a loose term, and she made two false starts before she struck gold.
Tartan Gifts could not be described as anything other than a gift shop, she thought as she peered in the window at the tartan tea cozies and heather-emblazoned coasters.
And she recognized the young woman behind the cash register, last seen in the shadows of the drive at Innesfree.
There were a few people in the shop, so Gemma went in, pretending to browse while surreptitiously examining her quarry. She had the pale, unfinished look of a woman unaccustomed to going without makeup, her blond hair appeared carelessly combed, and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. This was one instance, Gemma realized, when she would not have to be the bearer of bad news.