When she looked inside the shed’s open door, she saw Louise sitting on a campstool, smoking a cigarette. On the potting bench burned a small spirit lamp. “Do you mind if I come in?” Gemma asked.
“Suit yourself. I had to get out for a bit.” Louise had thrown a cardigan on over her kitchen apron but still hugged herself as if she were cold.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Gemma said as she took the other stool.
“I don’t, usually. These are John’s. It’s a little game we play. I pretend I don’t know he smokes them, and then occasionally I nick one or two, but he can’t say anything to me without admitting that he bought them in the first place.”
Gemma smiled. “That sounds like one of those things that keep marriage interesting.”
“I suppose you could look at it like that.” Louise took a last drag on the cigarette, ground it out under her foot, then set the fag end carefully on the bench. “But you and Duncan aren’t married, are you? Why not?”
“Oh, um, it’s complicated,” said Gemma, taken by surprise. “I was married before, and so was he, and neither of us was very successful at it. Maybe we’re afraid to jinx what we’ve got.”
“And the son who played truant today, he doesn’t belong to both of you?”
“He’s Duncan’s son from his first marriage. Toby, the four-year-old, is my son from my first marriage.” She
couldn’t help thinking of the child they had lost, the little boy who would have been due any day now, if he had lived.
“It sounds complicated,” said Louise, bringing Gemma back to the present. “Blending a family like that.”
“Sometimes. But no more complicated than most families, I think.” Gemma saw an opportunity. “Louise, speaking of families, why do you dislike Martin so much? He is John’s brother, after all.”
“Half brother,” Louise corrected, “and he presumes on it. He always has some sad story, although I don’t know the whole of it this time. John’s always taken care of himself—why should he feel obliged to bail Martin out of trouble time and again?” she added bitterly.
“I suppose John feels responsible because Martin’s so much younger,” Gemma suggested, privately wondering if it had something to do with the fact that John and Louise had no children of their own. “Louise, are you sure you don’t have any idea where John was yesterday morning? Could it have had something to do with Martin?”
Louise frowned. “I don’t see how. I saw John leave on his own, and Martin was here.”
“You’d have seen Martin go out?”
“Well,” Louise hesitated. “I think so. But I was working in the garden, and I was in and out of the shed, so I can’t be absolutely certain. And I can’t imagine what Martin and John would have been doing together at that time of the morning.”
“Fishing?” Gemma said, remembering her conversation with Callum MacGillivray.
Louise looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about? John doesn’t have time to fish.”
“But Callum MacGillivray told me that he and John and Donald fished together.”
“You’ve talked to Callum?” asked Louise, sounding surprised.
“Earlier this afternoon, after I picked Duncan up at the station. I saw Alison Grant, the woman who came to see Donald on Saturday night, and she said it was Callum who told her Hazel would be here.”
“And what did Callum tell you?”
“He wanted to convince Alison that Donald wasn’t serious about her.” Gemma thought back to her conversation with Hazel in the dining room and saw an angle she hadn’t considered. “Louise, do you know if John knew Alison Grant?”
The shadows from the spirit lamp flickered across Louise’s face, making it difficult for Gemma to read her expression. “If he did,” Louise said carefully, “he never told me.”
Callum had sat through dinner with his aunt and his father in the farmhouse kitchen, picking at his food. From the worktop, Aunt Janet’s old black-and-white television had re-layed the local news, and they had all watched, transfixed by the fuzzy images. The police had released Donald’s name, and the television producers had managed to unearth a tape showing Donald opening the previous year’s local Highland Games. This they had juxtaposed with footage of Benvulin, of the crowd milling about the gate at Innesfree, and of the white mortuary van turning out of Innesfree’s drive.
It had made Callum’s throat tighten with renewed grief, and he thought with horror of Alison and Chrissy watching from their sitting room.
His father, befuddled with gin, kept repeating, “Is that Donald Brodie? I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is dead, Tom,” Janet said patiently. “That’s just a film.”
Callum fought against a rising tide of hysteria, unsure whether he was going to laugh or sob. He forced himself to kiss his aunt’s cheek, and to nod a good night to his father, then he escaped into the stable yard with Murphy at his side.
They had eaten unusually late, having waited for the vet to stop by to see one of the horses, and now the gathering dusk was pooling in the yard’s corners and cran-nies. Callum felt the cool darkness brush against his skin like velvet, and the scent of the river came to him for an instant. A curlew piped as it settled down for the night.
He felt his love for the land, and for this place, as an ache lodged in his chest, and for the first time he saw clearly the futility of his desire to share it with Alison.
How could he have been so stupid? It had to be bred in the bone, in the sinews, in the blood, and he could no more force it on someone else than he could take it out of himself.
Chrissy, now, she was different. He had seen it in her eyes from the first, when Alison brought her to the stables. There was something about the way she stood so still, taking everything in, and in the expression of delight that slowly blossomed on her small, round face. She understood the language of the horses, and of the other animals; she listened when he told her the stories of the land, and of the men who had shaped it.
There was so much he could have taught her, but he had lost that opportunity when he had turned Alison against him.
Beside him, Murphy lifted his nose to the wind, sniffing, and the hackles rose along his back. Callum caught the scent a moment later, the faintest trace of cold metal and brine. The mild, clear evening was a treacherous de-
ception—there was snow coming, and before long, if he was not mistaken.
Snow in May was not unheard of in the Highlands, but always dreaded for the damage it did to plants and animals alike. Callum felt a chill worm its way down his spine, which had nothing to do with the weather, and he was suddenly eager for the close warmth of the cottage.
He made a last circuit of the barn, checking on the horses, before going into the cottage and banking up the stove. He fetched a mug and the distinctive dark green bottle from the shelf above the sink, then settled himself in the worn armchair. This was not mellow, honeyed Benvulin, but Lagavulin from Islay, redolent of peat fires, coal tar, and sea winds. This was a night for a whisky that would scour the soul.
Usually, he allowed himself only a dram in the evening—he had no wish to end up like his father. But tonight he poured an inch in the cup, stared at it, then poured another. The bottle felt unexpectedly light. He shook it experimentally, then upended it once more, splashing the last few drops into the mug.
The first swallow bit into his throat, but after a moment he felt the familiar warmth spreading from his belly, eras-ing the cold as it coursed outwards towards his fingers and toes. He drank steadily, seeking the drowsy oblivion that would blot out thought and feeling.