He had almost drained the cup when he realized something was wrong. A strange, cold numbness filled his mouth, then the room tilted sickeningly. This was not the soft blurring of edges that came with drinking good whisky, even too much good whisky. His heart gave a thump of panic, but it felt oddly separate from him. Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed himself
up. The room spun, and then he was on his knees, without quite knowing how he had got there.
Help, he thought fuzzily, he had to get help. But his mobile phone, his one concession to modernity, was still in the pocket of his jacket, and his jacket was hanging on a hook by the door.
A wet, black nose pressed against his face. Murphy, thinking this was some sort of new game, had come to investigate. Callum pulled himself up again, carefully, carefully, using the dog and the chair for support. He managed to lurch halfway across the room before a wave of nausea brought him to his knees. He crawled the last few feet. Clutching at the jacket, he pulled it from its hook.
But when he managed to pull the phone from the pocket, he found the numbers a wavering blur. In desperation, he stabbed at the keypad, following the pattern im-printed in his tactile memory.
It was Chrissy who answered. Sickness filled Callum’s throat, but he managed to choke out a few words. “Chrissy . . .
something wrong . . . whisky. Ill. Get your mum.”
Then darkness overtook him, and he remembered nothing else.
Chapter Seventeen
So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp, The momentary pictures gleam and fade And perish, and the night resurges—these Shall I remember, and then all forget.
—robert louis stevenson,
“To My Old Familiars”
Gemma slipped into the double bed in the upstairs bedroom, alone. It was a pleasant room, the bed covered in a white, puffy duvet, the walls a deep, sea blue, the furniture simple farmhouse pine.
Leaving the small bedside lamp switched on, she lay quietly, thinking over the events of the evening, feeling the starched coolness of the sheets against her skin.
After their conversation in the shed, she’d insisted on helping Louise with the washing up. They had almost finished when they heard the sound of a car in the drive, and a moment later John appeared in the scullery door.
“John! Thank God.” Louise had spun round, the last soapy dish in her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” He came into the kitchen, then stopped, as if not quite sure what to do next. His shirttail had come un-
tucked, his thinning hair stood on end, and to Gemma he seemed somehow shrunken, deflated.
“What happened? What have they done to you?” asked Louise, but still she didn’t go to him.
“They’ve done nothing but ask me the same questions until I was fit to go mad, and keep me from my dinner,”
John told her wearily. “Is there soup left?”
“I’ve just put it up.” Louise made a move towards the fridge, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Och, never mind. I canna be bothered. A drink is what I need.”
Gemma dried her hands and faced him. “What about the gun, John?” she asked.
He met her eyes briefly, and nodded. “Aye, there’s no doubt. My grandfather’s initials are worked into the carving on the stock.”
There was an awkward pause, and Gemma wondered if her presence was keeping them from speaking freely, or if the constraint in the atmosphere was due to John’s reluctance to discuss the interview with Louise.
Louise broke the silence. “What about the car?” she asked matter-of-factly, turning back to the sink.
“The chief inspector said they would return it in the morning, when they’ve finished their tests. He had a constable bring me back and drop me off with a ‘cheerio,’ as if we’d been for an ice cream. I’m that fed up with this business.”
“Not as fed up as Donald Brodie,” Gemma said sharply. “We’re inconvenienced; Donald is dead.”
“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, Gemma.” John rubbed his hand across his darkly stubbled chin. “You’re right, and I’ve been a self-absorbed boor. But I’m still going to have that dram. You can consider it my wake for Donald.” With that, John had shambled out of the kitchen, presumably to join Kincaid and Martin in the sitting room.
Louise stared after him, her lips compressed, and had only made the barest response to Gemma’s further attempts at conversation. Gemma could only guess at what was wrong between husband and wife. Did Louise suspect John of having something to do with Donald’s death? Or did she merely suspect John of having an affair, perhaps with Alison Grant? But why had Louise seemed surprised when Gemma had mentioned John fishing with Callum and Donald? She couldn’t imagine why John would have neglected to tell his wife such an innocent thing, nor could she see why Callum would have invented it.
When Louise announced, a few minutes later, that she was going up to bed, Gemma bid her good night and wandered into the sitting room. A half-empty bottle of Benvulin stood on the low table between the men, who were sprawled in the tartan chairs in varying degrees of inebriation. John’s glass held a generous measure, and Martin’s face was already flushed from overconsump-tion, but Kincaid, although a bit more bright-eyed than usual, seemed little the worse for wear.
“I’m not giving up until I get Ian on the phone,” Kincaid told Gemma when she perched on the arm of his chair. “His secretary’s promised he’ll be back in his office within the hour. If you want to turn in, I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“No, stay, have a drink.” John, apparently having recovered enough to play the host, started to get up, but Gemma shook her head. Guessing that Kincaid meant to take advantage of the whisky-induced male bonding, she’d retired gracefully from the field.
But now, as she lay in bed, she realized how much she had missed Duncan, and how much she’d been looking forward to time alone with him.
A wave of homesickness swept over her. Earlier in the
evening, she’d called to talk to Wes and Toby, and Toby, after the momentary excitement of getting a phone call, had begun to cry. As much as he loved Wesley, he missed her and Duncan and Kit, and she was sure he had absorbed Wesley’s anxiety over Kit’s absence that afternoon. She’d done her best to reassure him, but now the sound of his small, tearful voice came back to haunt her.
Then there was Kit—was he all right at Nathan’s? And what could have prompted him to run away? He was ordinarily a thoughtful and considerate boy; he must have been dreadfully upset to do something he knew would make them frantic with worry. She wished she could talk to him, but she’d agreed with Kincaid to wait until they had spoken to Ian.
At some point in her catalog of concerns she must have drifted off to sleep, her worries over her own family mutating into a dream of Holly, calling for her mother, and of Tim, reaching out for the child with bloody hands.
She woke with a gasp to a darkened room, and the feel of Duncan sliding into bed beside her. He smelled faintly of whisky, and his bare skin was cold. “What—what time is it?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.
“Shhh. It’s late. I was trying not to wake you.” He wrapped his arms round her.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Awareness came flooding back as the nightmare images melted away. “What about Ian? Did you talk to him?”
“I did.” There was an edge of anger in Kincaid’s voice.
He rolled onto his back and stuffed a pillow under his head. “I was going to wait till morning to tell you, as I don’t think it will improve your sleep.”
Ian had never been an ideal parent, even before Vic’s death, and Gemma had learned not to place too much