Blue Lightning (9 page)
Perez remained in the hall after Ben Catchpole had walked away; he was thinking about Angela. Her mischief, her games, her meddling with the emotions of the men in the field centre, all these could explain the outburst of violence that had led to her death.
What am I saying? That she asked for it?
The idea shocked him. He’d always been dismayed when colleagues suggested that victims, especially women, had contributed to the crimes against them. But he was curious about Angela Moore and he wanted to understand her better. He tried to picture the woman he’d met at island functions. He’d never had the sense that she was flirting with him. Although she’d been lively and confident, he’d never been attracted to her, and he found it difficult to explain Ben Catchpole’s infatuation or to see how she caused such chaos in the lives of the men in the lighthouse.
Perhaps I wasn’t her type. Too old. Too boring.
Despite himself he felt a sting of envy.
After a couple of calls he tracked down the home number of Bryn Pritchard, the officer who’d notified Angela’s father about her death.
‘He’s the community plod,’ the station sergeant in Newtown had said. ‘Been there for years. No ambition. But he knows the place like the back of his hand.’
The phone was answered by a woman. She put her hand over the receiver, but still Perez could hear her shouting. ‘Bryn, it’s for you. Work. Sounds like a foreigner.’ A voice like a foghorn.
Bryn would have stayed chatting all day. At one point his wife must have brought him a drink, because Perez could hear him slurping in the occasional gap when Perez could insert a question.
‘They’re not local, not really. They moved to the village when Angela was eleven or twelve. There never was a mother. At least, I suppose there must have been once, but we never saw her. Gossip had it that she ran off because the prof was such a difficult bastard to live with, but that could have been speculation. There was a lot of speculation because nobody could find out what had really gone on. They didn’t mix. Angela didn’t go to school, for instance. The prof taught her at home. Not that unusual here with English families, home schooling. We tend to attract the hippy dippy crowd.’ He paused for breath, a gulp of tea.
‘The prof?’
‘That’s what he was. A professor. Or had been before he retired and moved out to live with us. Professor of biological sciences at Bristol University.’
‘He must have been quite old then, to be bringing up a daughter of that age.’ Perez tried to imagine what that would have been like for the girl. Cooped up in a house with an elderly academic. No friends of her own age.
Bryn had his own opinions about that. ‘Archie Moore was about fifty-five when they moved here. It wasn’t right. I don’t know what the education welfare were thinking about allowing it. How could he provide for the needs of a teenage girl? Because that’s what she was when she left home. But they said she was receiving balanced schooling. She took all her exams a year early, passed with some of the highest marks in the country. But education isn’t only about exams, is it? He pushed her and pushed her. Not just in her school work, but music too. He sent her to Newtown for piano lessons and if you walked past in the evening you’d hear her practising. She didn’t have any sort of social life, not even with the other home-school kids. I don’t know where he bought her clothes for her but she dressed like a middle-aged woman. Who knows what sort of monster he was creating?’
Perez didn’t answer and Bryn continued: ‘No wonder she went a bit wild in the end.’
‘Wild in what way?’
‘It was the last summer, before she went off to college. She hung around with some of the bad lads in the village. The girls never seemed to take to her. There was nothing criminal, not that she was ever done for, at least. But drinking. Probably drugs. One night Archie reported her missing; she turned up a couple of days later with a hangover, looking as if she hadn’t slept for a week.’
‘Where had she been?’
‘She would never say. But with a man. There were rumours that she went off early to college so she could get an abortion.’
Perez didn’t ask how Bryn could know that. He too lived in a community where personal information leached into the public domain.
‘Did she come back to visit her father?’ Perez asked. ‘In the university holidays? After she graduated?’
‘No.’ There was a moment of silence. ‘That was the last time anyone here saw her, when she went off to uni on the coach from Newtown. I always thought that was very hard. I don’t like the man, but he’d done what he thought was best for her. Given her an education. She’d never have had all those chances without him. He didn’t even get invited to her wedding.’
‘Do you have any thoughts about why she might have stayed away?’
Another silence. ‘You’re thinking abuse?’ Bryn said. ‘Is that the way your mind’s working?’
‘I did wonder.’
‘So did I,’ Bryn said, ‘at the time. But no, I don’t think that was the reason she didn’t come home. She didn’t suffer the sort of abuse you’re thinking about anyway. She had nothing to bring her back. There was no more to it than that. The old man’s turned into a bitter old soak. He props up the bar of the Lamb from teatime to closing, talking to everyone who’ll listen about his famous, ungrateful daughter. She had no real friends here. She probably just put the place out of her mind.’
‘How did he take the news of her death?’
‘I went to see him as soon as I heard. It was about lunchtime, so at least he was almost sober. He lives in the same house where he’d brought up the girl. An ugly sort of bungalow on the edge of the village. It must have been built in the fifties – you’d never get planning permission for it now. Lily Llewellyn goes in every now and again to clean, but you’d never think it. Such a mess. He can’t throw anything away. Piles of newspapers all over the living room. And he still seems to be carrying out experiments. The kitchen bench is covered with jars and test tubes, with stuff growing inside. There’s a microscope. No telly. They never had a telly.’
Perez thought if Sandy Wilson were doing this interview he’d be hurrying Bryn along, urging him to come to the point. But Perez was grateful for the detail. He could see the house in his head, was with Bryn when he stepped into the room, cleared a seat so he could sit down, felt the stickiness underfoot.
‘I just told him straight,’ Bryn said. ‘“Angela’s dead. It seems as if she was murdered.” He sat there looking at me. He was a big man in his day and he’s still tall, though he’s lost a lot of weight. Then he started crying. “I thought one day she’d understand what I’d done for her,” he said. “I thought she’d be grateful. Now she won’t have the chance.” He’d always been a hard man. No compromise with him. Angela was his project, after he gave up the university. It made me a bit queasy watching the tears. But I had the feeling he was crying for himself and not for her.’
‘Didn’t he want any details?’ Perez would have expected a scientist to need to know the facts of his daughter’s death. He had brought his child up to be rational. Even in old age, wouldn’t he need the facts to hang on to?
Bryn hesitated for a moment. ‘He just said he wasn’t surprised. “She wasn’t the sort to live a quiet and easy life. She was her father’s daughter, after all.”’
Perez switched off his mobile. Was this what he’d expected? An eccentric upbringing for Angela. Loveless, driven. It was hardly surprising that she hadn’t turned into a woman who made friends easily. She’d had no practice as a child. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for a girl growing up in a small community, looking different, sounding different. No mother. No television. If there were other kids around, she’d be the subject of their jokes and their gossip, an easy target, a scapegoat. Hardly surprising that she’d developed other ways of getting attention and affection. But he wasn’t sure the conversation with Bryn Pritchard brought him any closer to explaining her violent death.
Through the window he saw a couple of mothers waiting in the schoolyard for the nursery children to come out. Angela’s mother would surely have been younger than Archie Moore. Where was she now? Had she followed her daughter’s career at a distance, seen the news reports of Angela’s death? Perez hit the number for the police station in Lerwick and got through to Sandy Wilson.
‘Are you all set for coming into the Isle tomorrow? Make sure you’re at Grutness early. I’ve asked the boys to take the
Shepherd
out ahead of time to bring you back. There’s a rare bird on the island and I don’t want the place swamped with birdwatchers.’ He’d hoped to outwit the reporters too, though if the wind continued to drop they’d have no problems chartering planes. ‘There’s something I want you to do this afternoon. I need you to trace the deceased woman’s mother. They’ve had no contact as far as we know since Angela was eleven. The father was a professor at Bristol University so you could start there.’
Sandy yawned. Perez knew this was the sort of task he hated. The folks on the other end of the phone could never understand his accent and anyone with a higher education intimidated him. He’d grown up a bit in the last couple of years but he still had a low boredom threshold.
Perez felt the need to explain why he couldn’t track down Angela’s mother himself. ‘I’m going back to see Maurice. I’ll ask if he knows where the woman might be, but you’ve got access to records I won’t have.’
‘Is it so important to track down the mother? I mean, she could hardly have committed the murder, could she? Not if she wasn’t there. You said yourself it had to be someone staying at the field centre.’
‘Surely she has a right to know her daughter’s dead!’
But in terms of the investigation, Perez thought Sandy was probably right. This was a waste of time, a distraction activity. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he had no idea who had killed Angela Moore. But Maurice had lived with Angela for five years. He’d put up with her affairs, and continued to adore her. He must understand her better than anyone and with Poppy away from the North Light at Springfield with Fran and Mary, Perez at last had the chance to talk to him on his own.
Perez bumped into Maurice Parry in the field centre kitchen. The man showed no surprise at seeing him there. He looked grey and gaunt.
‘I was looking for Jane,’ Maurice said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen her. Perhaps she’s in her room. Dinner’s all ready but I can’t find her. There’s nobody here to ask. They all must be out.’ He seemed put out that Jane wasn’t available for him. He looked around like a petulant child, demanding attention or reassurance. Perez found it hard to remember the competent, affable man who had run the centre.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No,’ Maurice said. ‘Not really. I was hoping she might help me pack for Poppy. I’m sending Poppy out on the boat tomorrow and I thought I should get her stuff together. She went out with your fiancée and she hasn’t come back yet.’ Again there was a faint tone of complaint as if he blamed Perez for his daughter’s absence.
‘You’re not planning to go south yourself?’
‘No,’ Maurice said. ‘I’m not sure where I’d go. This is the only home I have now.’ He looked around the room. ‘I suppose there are friends who’d put me up, but I’d be terrible company.’
‘Can I help?’ Perez was a decent packer, better than Fran at least. And it would give him the chance to talk to Angela’s husband in an informal way.
But Maurice seemed unable to make a decision. ‘Perhaps I should leave it to Poppy. It doesn’t really matter if something gets left behind and she should be back soon to do it herself.’ He looked vaguely at Perez. ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea?’
‘Yes,’ Perez said. ‘Tea would be great.’ He expected Maurice to take him through to the flat, but the man turned round and switched on the kettle there. Perhaps he saw the big lighthouse kitchen as neutral territory. Perez thought Maurice might have questions about the investigation; instead this was the sort of polite conversation you’d have with an acquaintance, about the weather forecast and the prospect of a quiet spell at last. The tears and depression that had formed his first response to the murder had given way to a mindless focus on small details. Another way, Perez supposed, of coming to terms with Angela’s death.
‘I was wondering if you could help me fill in some gaps in Angela’s background.’ Perez interrupted Maurice’s description of the high-pressure system that was due to settle over German Bight.
There was a moment of shocked silence. Maurice dropped teabags into mugs.
‘I don’t know much about her life before she took up with me,’ he said at last. ‘She didn’t get on with her family.’
‘She must have told you something about them.’
‘Her father was a scientist. An academic. He had strange ideas about education and taught her at home instead of letting her go to the local school.’
‘Do you know why her parents separated?’
‘Angela never discussed it,’ Maurice said. ‘She resented her mother leaving, said she grew up feeling abandoned.’
‘How did she get on with her father?’ Perez asked. He cupped his hands round the mug of tea.
Maurice shrugged. ‘They were very close when she was young, but later Angela found him controlling. I had the impression he was a bit of a bully or at least that he tried to live his life through her. When she left home to go to university they lost contact.’
‘That was her decision? Not to see him again? It seems extreme, especially if they got on together when she was young.’
‘I didn’t mind,’ Maurice said. ‘It was Angela I cared about. I hadn’t married her family.’
‘What about her mother? Did Angela keep in touch with her?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Maurice opened a tin of Jane’s ginger biscuits and handed one to Perez. ‘She never talked about her and I didn’t ask.’
Walking back towards Springfield, Perez realized that the wind had dropped almost to nothing and suddenly it seemed very cold. Maurice had been right about the high pressure. The sky was clear and that night there would be a frost. What weird weather they were having this year! Storms followed by this sudden chill. The light was fading quickly. Soon it would be the shortest day, followed by the madness of Up Helly Aa, Lerwick’s fire festival. Another Shetland winter. He’d first met Fran in midwinter and liked to think of her in the snow, flushed with the effort of pulling Cassie on a sledge up the bank to the Ravenswick house.
On impulse he turned away from the road by the Feelie Dyke and walked west towards the Pund. If Angela took her lovers there perhaps it might hold other secrets, a diary perhaps, information about her parents, scraps of her life that she hadn’t wanted Maurice to see. Perez imagined how
he’d
feel if he’d given up on his mother and father, deciding he wanted to have no more to do with them. There were times when he’d thought that would make his life less complicated, but he knew he could never turn his back on them. Guilt was part of his make-up, part of what his first wife had called his emotional incontinence. There was a connection he had no way of breaking. He felt miserable if he left his mother’s phone calls unanswered even for a day.
The Pund was even more dilapidated than he remembered. Once it had been solid and weatherproof, lined with wood. There was still a loft bed reached by a ladder, but the place smelled damp. He pushed the door open. By now it was too dark to see much inside and he didn’t have a torch. In the last of the daylight coming through the open door he saw there was a candle stuck in a grubby saucer on a makeshift table made of a packing case. The place looked like a child’s den. Next to the saucer sat a box of matches. He lit the candle. In the first flare of the match being struck, he picked up details – there was a fire laid in the grate: white twisted pieces of driftwood and a few lumps of coal; a rack of wine stood in one corner, two glasses and a biscuit tin on a shelf. The candle caught and the light became more even. He stood in the centre of the room and looked around.
Again he had the impression that this was a Wendy house, a space for playing. The floor had been swept. There was a jam jar containing dried flowers on the windowsill. But he didn’t think the island children had been in here. This had been Angela’s room, the place where she escaped from field centre life, where perhaps she had lived out her fantasies with her young lovers. It threw a new perspective on the woman. Here, he saw, she had been domestic, even romantic.
Perez walked around the walls, carrying the candle with him, looking for a hiding place for her treasures. The Angela who was a media star and warden of Fair Isle field centre would have nothing to do with sentiment or nostalgia, but the woman who had created this space might have kept mementos from her past. Perez hoped for a letter from her mother. It still seemed inconceivable to him that the mother had abandoned her daughter entirely. But there was nothing. He tapped on the panels, thinking he might find a space between the stone wall and the panelling, was excited when he came across a polished wooden box hidden behind the wine rack. But when he opened the lid, there was only a pair of silver earrings and a plain silver bangle. Presents perhaps from one of the lovers.
He began to climb the ladder into the loft, struggling to keep his balance with the candle held in one hand. He’d brought Sarah, his wife, here before they were married. It had been summer, a mild day with the scent of cut grass and meadow flowers coming through the open door. He’d thought he would never love anyone else in his life. They’d covered the old straw mattress with sheepskins and lain there for most of the afternoon, stroking each other, kissing and whispering. They hadn’t made love there. Sarah was religious in an old-fashioned, matter-of-fact way and had asked that they might wait. He’d thought himself magnificently restrained in agreeing, but in fact the delay had only added to the excitement, to his view of her as the perfect woman. When sex had been allowed it had been something of an anticlimax. He hadn’t been able to admit that at the time, even to himself. Certainly not to her.
There were still sheepskins on the bed. White ones and black ones, piled in profusion, more of them certainly than had been there when he’d spent the lazy afternoons here with Sarah. Perez saw them while he was still standing on the ladder. He reached in to set down the candle, so he could use both hands to climb into the loft. At the same time he saw the woman’s body lying, as if in abandon, on the rugs, and the blood that had turned the sheep’s wool pink, as if it had been dyed. He saw the small white feathers that covered the skin like flakes of snow.
Perez stood for a moment, so shocked by the scene in front of him that it was as if his hands were frozen to the ladder rungs. A draught caught the candle flame, made it flicker and then burn more brightly, and he saw the patterns of blood spatter on the wooden walls of the loft: at some point the killer had pierced an artery. This was quite a different murder. The first had been planned and calmly executed. This was wilder. If it had been committed by the same person, the killer was beginning to panic or to lose control.
Sitting at the makeshift table in the ground floor of the Pund, Perez made phone calls. His voice was abrupt and urgent. The colleagues on the end of the line hardly recognized it. The Perez they knew was relaxed and softly spoken. He didn’t bark out orders or shout down their objections.
The first call was to Sandy. ‘Is Vicki Hewitt in from Aberdeen yet?’
‘Aye, she’s ready for the boat in the morning.’
‘I need you to charter a plane and get into Fair Isle now. Bring Vicki with you.’
‘You’ll not get a plane tonight.’ Sandy would have liked the drama of the emergency flight; Perez could tell that. He just didn’t see how it was possible. ‘It’s almost dark.’
‘There’s no wind to speak of and there’ll be a moon. We’ll light the airstrip. They’d do it for an ambulance flight.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘There’s been another murder. I need the crime scene assessed by an expert before it gets contaminated. This doesn’t look to me like the same sort of killing. This victim’s been stabbed, but it’s not such a clean job. More wounds. More of a struggle, I’d say, though the scene’s been posed like the first time.’ Perez paused for breath. ‘And I want suspects properly interviewed. I can’t do that on my own. I need you both here tonight. Within an hour if possible.’
Perez switched off his phone before Sandy could argue. He sat in candlelight. The candle was tall and fat. Occasionally a pool of melted wax threatened to douse the wick so he tilted it to pour out the liquid, but it would provide light for him until the plane came in. Then they’d have a generator and powerful torches, the equipment and the manpower needed to prevent another murder.
He phoned Springfield next, hoping his father would answer. He would need a team of men to light fires along the airstrip to guide in the charter plane and his father would organize that. Just now he didn’t want to speak to Fran. She’d be full of questions and he wasn’t sure what he would say to her.
You see, you get violence everywhere. Coming back to Fair Isle wouldn’t protect us from that.
Mary answered. ‘Jimmy, we started tea without you. When will you be coming home?’ Ordinary words that seemed almost blasphemous when he thought of the scene in the loft above his head. Before he could answer her she shouted: ‘Fran, Jimmy’s on the phone for you.’
‘Hi, sweetie.’ Her usual greeting.
He struggled to find words and her response to the silence was immediate. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s been another murder.’ It came out as a confession, as if it were his fault.
And of course it is
, he thought.
If I were better at my job I’d have prevented it.
‘Who?’ she demanded. And before he could reply: ‘It’s Poppy, isn’t it? I let her walk back to the North Light on her own. She wouldn’t let me go with her.’
‘No!’ The last thing he wanted was for her to feel guilty. He could do that well enough for the both of them. ‘No, it’s Jane Latimer, the field centre cook.’
Another pause. No hysteria. ‘I liked her,’ Fran said at last. ‘I wanted to know her better. I thought we might be friends. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. Stay in Springfield. Tell Mother to lock the door. Now I need to speak to my father.’
Perez explained to James what had happened and what he needed. ‘You’ll have to meet the folk from the plane and bring them up to the Pund. There’ll be a lot of heavy gear, so sort out a vehicle to bring them as close as you can. Borrow the centre’s Land Rover if you need to, but don’t tell Maurice why you need it. I’ll have to wait here. I can’t leave the scene unprotected.’
‘Would you like to meet them yourself? I could stay at the Pund for you, once I’ve sorted the team on the airstrip.’
For a moment Perez was tempted, but he’d broken enough rules already in the Angela Moore murder. If he’d been in a position to follow procedures perhaps the killer would already be caught.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I have to stay here. But thanks.’ It was the first time his father had wanted to participate in his work.
Perez’s next call was to Rhona Laing, the Fiscal. She was still in her office. ‘You’ve just caught me, Jimmy. I was on my way out. Dinner at the Busta House Hotel with a group of lawyers.’ Her voice was posh Edinburgh, the tone as ever faintly accusatory.
‘I’ve arranged for an emergency flight into Fair Isle this evening. I thought you might want to be on it. There’s been another murder.’
‘That sounds expensive, Jimmy. Have you cleared it with Inverness?’ Thinking of the politics before even asking the identity of the victim.
‘I thought I’d leave it until the plane was on its way. Then they couldn’t object.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘My, my, Jimmy. You’re learning. I’m a great teacher, am I not?’
Still he sat. It was quite dark outside now. He would have liked to go back to the loft, to look again at Jane Latimer, lying on her bed of sheepskins. Although the image was printed in his brain, perhaps there was a detail he’d missed. Something that would point immediately to the killer. The thought tantalized him. He was a patient man but it was driving him slightly crazy to be sitting here, in the strange cold light, inactive, nothing to do but wait. If he were to climb the ladder he might contaminate the scene again with his fingerprints, the fibres of his jersey, his breath. This time things would be properly done.
He got up and stood at the door of the Pund and looked out across the hill. He couldn’t see the airstrip from here. Earlier he’d thought he’d heard vehicles along the road past Setter, heading north. He imagined the island men working, building fires, lighting hurricane lamps, all under his father’s supervision. The volunteer fire crew would be there; someone was always on duty when a plane came in and that would be even more important in these special circumstances. Dave Wheeler would be in charge of them. This was what Fair Islanders did best, pulling together in times of emergency.
The sky was quite clear and there was a half-moon, a scattering of stars. He realized how cold he felt and he stamped his feet to bring back the life to them.
But not as cold as Jane Latimer
, he thought. And he pictured her again, like the Snow Queen, resplendent on her sleigh, resting on the sheepskins, covered with a dusting of feathers that looked like crystals of ice.
There was a red glow behind the dark line of the hill. The fires were lit and ready. Then he heard the plane’s engine to the north and saw its lights approaching. He looked at his watch. It had been an hour and a half since he’d phoned Sandy.
Not bad,
he thought, with something approaching admiration. Sandy’s drinking friends were in positions of power throughout Shetland. He must have called in some favours to get an aircraft out this quickly. The plane came lower. Perez could see the light in the cockpit and the silhouette of the pilot. Then it dipped out of view on to the airstrip and the engine stopped.
Perez went back into the croft house and tried to warm his hands by holding them close to the candle flame. It would take some time to unload the gear and bring it here to the Pund. But he felt as if the cavalry had arrived. He was no longer working alone.
Sandy arrived first, much sooner than Perez had expected, in Tammy Jamieson’s van. Tammy was obviously keen to hang around – this was the most exciting thing to happen in Fair Isle since the Queen had visited in his parents’ time – but Perez sent him away. Sandy was flushed with the success of getting the plane out to Perez’s deadline: ‘What a nightmare,’ he said. ‘Some reporters must have got wind of the fact that there was a flight coming into Fair Isle. They were waiting for us at Tingwall. I thought they were going to stand on the runway in front of the plane.’ Tingwall was the small airport close to Lerwick from where the inter-island planes operated.
‘Had they heard there was another murder?’
‘No,’ Sandy said. ‘All the questions were about Angela Moore.’ He paused. ‘There was a film crew there from BBC Scotland. I might have my picture on the television tonight.’ Perez thought Sandy wouldn’t mind about that. He’d quite like the idea of being a celebrity, of his Whalsay relatives pointing him out on the evening news.
‘Where’s the Fiscal?’ Perez knew the Fiscal would have flown in with them despite her dinner date. She was a control freak and she wouldn’t resist the chance to take charge on the ground.
‘She’s coming up with Vicki Hewitt and the gear.’ Sandy was interrupted by the roar of the plane taking off again. It climbed steeply above their heads before banking and flying north again. ‘Your mate’s van stinks of fish and she didn’t fancy it. She wanted to know where she’ll be staying tonight.’
‘There’ll be plenty of room at the North Light,’ Perez said. ‘She’ll have to feed herself though. They all will. The cook’s dead.’ For the first time he began to consider the implications of the second murder. Surely now the field centre residents would insist on leaving on the morning boat. How would he keep a hold on the investigation if half his suspects disappeared to the south on the Aberdeen flight the next day? He thought Poppy should go. She was hardly more than a child and she needed her mother. She would be at home and under supervision. He’d talk to her this evening. The rest he’d invite to stay. He could hardly hold them here against their will, but he would make them understand that their leaving might compromise the case. It would look better if they remained where they were until the investigation was over.
The Land Rover headlights shone on the heather above them and they heard it straining over the rough grass. His father was driving. He got out first and helped the women from the vehicle, handing them down with a gesture that Perez found strangely gallant. The Fiscal was wearing a warm waterproof and walking boots, but she still managed to look elegant. ‘Two women dead. What’s going on here, Jimmy? I’m assuming the same killer?’
‘Either that, or a copycat.’ He explained about the feathers.
‘Who knew about the feathers?’
‘All of them. The assistant warden found the first body and word was out before I could stop him talking.’
‘Any sign of sexual assault?’ Rhona asked. ‘That must have been your first thought.’
‘No, in both cases the women were dressed and their clothing hadn’t been disturbed.’
James was helping Sandy and Vicki carry the generator from the Land Rover. Although she was tiny, the CSI always insisted on pulling her weight. She’d strung crime scene tape from metal poles to mark a path into the Pund and now she and Sandy joined Perez and the Fiscal, leaving James to set up the lights. Vicki had made him wear a scene suit and bootees and Perez was aware of him, working in the shadow just inside the door of the ruined croft.
‘Do you want a hand to set that up?’ Sandy shouted over to James.
‘No, no, I can manage fine.’ The response sharp, as if Sandy were suggesting the task was too much for him. A couple of minutes later the Pund was lit from inside by a bright, white light.
‘I have to get to the lighthouse,’ Perez said to Rhona Laing. ‘Each of the residents is a suspect and I haven’t had the chance to talk to them yet. Do you want to come with me? We can leave Sandy here with Vicki and you can look at the scene in the morning when she’s finished.’
Usually the last thing he would have wanted was to conduct interviews with the Fiscal sitting in. She made him nervous. But now he thought he could do with a different perspective. She was an educated incomer like most of the field centre residents.
James drove them north to the lighthouse. ‘I’ve left my car there. I’ll pick it up and go straight back to Springfield. What’ll I tell Fran?’
‘That I probably won’t get back tonight and she’s not to worry.’
Dougie had spent a lot of the day at Golden Water. The swan was still there. He’d already started writing his account of its discovery for
British Birds
and as the light had improved he’d taken more and clearer photographs. Of course there were other things at the back of his mind – anxieties about murder and the police investigation – but he’d always been able to focus completely when he was birdwatching. It was his usual means of escape.
Now the light was fading and he made his way back to the lighthouse. On the way he stopped three times to answer his mobile phone. There’d already been half a dozen missed calls when he’d been watching the swan. The north end of the island had very patchy reception. All the calls were from birdwatchers on the Shetland mainland, checking that the bird was still there, making plans for coming into the Isle to see it the following morning.
‘I’ve been watching it all day,’ he said. Jaunty, exaggerating too, of course: he hadn’t spent all day at Golden Water. ‘Mind-blowing views . . . Yeah, if you like, I can meet you at the plane and walk up with you.’ He sensed a new respect in their attitude. He’d always be remembered as the guy who found the UK’s first trumpeter swan. The storm and the wait in Lerwick would only add to the mythology.
It was quite dark when he got to the centre. He dumped his gear in the dormitory, then went to the common room and helped himself to a can of pop, putting the money in the honesty box, because nobody was running the bar. The place had a deserted feel and he realized that was because there was no sound coming from the kitchen. Jane usually had the radio on. Not music but talk and the discussion seeped through as a background hum into the common room. The quiet unnerved him and though he still felt awkward when he remembered the truth game, he was relieved when Hugh and Ben wandered through. Something about the empty lighthouse spooked him.
‘We met up on the road north,’ Hugh said. He caught Ben’s eye. Dougie wondered why Hugh had felt the need to explain the meeting. Was there something conspiratorial in the way they looked at each other?
Again he felt like the fat boy in the playground, never invited to join a gang. He wondered what they’d been chatting about, suspected that there might have been jokes at his expense. Ben reported catching a few migrants on the trap round and they discussed the possibility of another rarity on the following day.
‘I’ve done all the crofts at the south this afternoon,’ Hugh said. He stretched as if the exertion had exhausted him. ‘Nothing special but it’s looking good for tomorrow. Especially if there’s a bit of drizzle at dawn.’
It was the sort of conversation they would have had with Angela.
‘How did you get on with Perez?’ It seemed odd to Dougie that everyone was carrying on as if she hadn’t been murdered, as if there wasn’t a detective camped out in the hall conducting interviews.
‘He made me show him the swan,’ Hugh said. Dougie thought Hugh seemed almost jubilant. ‘Really, I’m not sure how bright he is. Now the weather’s cleared, surely they’ll send someone in from the mainland to take over the case.’
‘I think he’s bright enough.’ Ben was drinking beer too. ‘He pretends he’s slow, but he seems to have a pretty good idea what’s been going on here. I wouldn’t underestimate him.’
The Fowlers arrived then, showered and changed for dinner as always, as if this was some smart hotel. They always looked scrubbed clean. Everyone sat waiting for the bell to go for the meal. There was an odd tension. There was no more talk about Perez and the questions he’d asked them. They just sat, looking at each other. Only Hugh seemed relaxed, lounging in his chair, reading an old Shetland bird report.
‘Jane’s a bit late tonight.’ John Fowler looked at his watch. ‘Not like her. It smells good though.’ Then they lapsed into silence again. Sitting beside her husband, Sarah had twisted her handkerchief into a ball, and was passing it from one hand to the other, incapable, it seemed, of sitting still. The constant movement frayed Dougie’s nerves.
If she doesn’t stop soon, I’ll scream.
A couple of minutes later they heard a noise in the kitchen, the door from the staff quarters being opened, and there was a moment of relief. Dougie only realized then how dependent they’d all become on Jane. It was the routine of the field centre – trap rounds and mealtimes, the log being taken each evening – that had prevented them falling into panic after Angela’s murder. Without Jane in the kitchen, the reassuring ritual was falling apart. Now she was here, all would be well again.
But instead of Jane, bustling in to lay the table and apologizing for the delay, they saw Maurice and Poppy.
‘We thought we’d eat with you tonight,’ Maurice said. ‘It’s Poppy’s last night. Where’s Jane?’
Before they could answer they heard the plane going over. It seemed very low, even more noticeable because it had been several days since they’d last heard the engine noise.
‘Perhaps she’s been arrested.’ It was Hugh, making a joke of it. Dougie thought any more jokes like that and one of them would slap him. ‘That’s the plane coming in to take her away.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Maurice’s voice was more assertive than Dougie had ever heard it. Perhaps the man couldn’t bear the thought of life on the island without Jane to make things run smoothly for him. ‘She’s probably down at Springfield with Mary and Fran. She needs some time off, for goodness’ sake. Dinner’s all ready. I think we can help ourselves.’
It occurred to Dougie that none of them had expressed any concern over Jane’s safety. She was one of those efficient women who could always look after themselves. And nobody speculated about the arrival of the plane. They assumed it would be police business. They’d watched dramas on the television. Now, it seemed getting fed was the most important thing in their lives. It was at least something to focus on, just as he gave all his attention to birdwatching when he was troubled.
So they all went into the kitchen and the Fowlers took control, setting Poppy to lay the table and asking Ben to put out the plates. John Fowler found rice keeping warm in the oven, almost as if Jane had expected to be delayed. Sarah carried the big pot of chicken casserole to the serving hatch and began to dish it out, acting just as Jane would have done, even wearing Jane’s apron.
They were so quiet when they ate that they heard a vehicle coming into the lighthouse yard.
Again there was a collective sense of relief. ‘Jane must have got a lift back,’ Poppy said, the words unnecessary, because it was what they were all thinking. She’d put on the black eyeliner and the gel in her hair so she looked almost back to her normal self. They heard the outside door of the lighthouse open and then the door into the dining room. Dougie thought they were all preparing things to say:
You see, we managed without you. Did you have dinner at Springfield? I bet it wasn’t as good as this.
Words so Jane wouldn’t know how thrown they’d been by her absence.
But it wasn’t Jane who came into the room. A strange woman stood there, looking at them. She had the groomed hair and subtle make-up of a television news presenter. Jimmy Perez stood behind her. The woman moved aside and obviously expected Perez to speak.
‘This is Rhona Laing,’ he said. ‘The Procurator Fiscal. She’s supervising the police investigation here. The Scottish legal system is different from the English and she’ll be involved through to the prosecution.’
‘Have you seen Jane?’ Maurice spoke for them all. At the moment Jane’s whereabouts seemed to concern him more than the appearance of a lawyer from Lerwick. Who would make the coffee? ‘She seems to have disappeared. We thought she might be at Springfield with you.’
Dougie saw a look pass between Perez and the Fiscal.
‘Jane Latimer is dead,’ the woman said briskly. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
They all stared at her.
‘What happened?’ Hugh’s smile had disappeared. Dougie thought his face looked quite different without it.
‘We’re here to ask questions, not to answer them,’ Rhona Laing said. ‘Her death is suspicious. That’s all you need to know for the present.’
Dougie thought her approach was very different from Perez’s. But probably easier to deal with, he thought. More straightforward. He found Perez’s silences, his quiet understanding, terrifying. This woman would bluster and bully but she wouldn’t have the detective’s ability to read minds.
‘When did you last see her?’ Rhona demanded. She stood at the head of the table and looked at them all. She didn’t have to ask them to introduce themselves. Perez must have described them to her. It seemed to Dougie that she was enjoying herself. Perhaps she spent most of the time in an office, and the flight through the dark to the island, this confrontation with possible suspects, was a great adventure to her.
‘She was here for lunch,’ John Fowler said. ‘She served it and cleared it up. I haven’t seen her since then.’
‘Did anyone see her after lunch?’
Nobody answered. ‘This is a small island,’ Rhona said. ‘There are few places to hide. It seems she walked away from the field centre at some point in the afternoon. It didn’t look as if she drove. Surely somebody saw her. Who was outside?’ She sounded like a teacher trying to elicit a response from a particularly unresponsive class.
Still there was no reply. Dougie’s phone began to ring. The call was from one of the Bristol birders, a member of the rarities committee.
‘Switch that off!’ Rhona snapped at him without looking round. She pulled up a chair and sat at the table. It was Perez’s turn.
‘We have to decide how to proceed from here,’ Perez said. ‘The boat will go tomorrow. We’ve agreed that Poppy should be on it. Her mother will be meeting her in Grutness to take her home and we’ll know where she is if we need to talk to her again. Was anyone else planning to leave?’
‘I’m contracted to be here until the middle of November,’ Ben said. ‘Someone should carry on ringing throughout the migration season. I’d like to prepare the annual report as Angela’s not here to do it.’
‘I want to stay,’ Dougie said. He still resented not being allowed to take the call from the birding celebrity. The wind was light south-easterly. Who knew what other vagrants might turn up? American birds were all very well, but they weren’t as exciting as the rarities from the east. Anyone with enough money could go to the US to see trumpeter swan. Birds from Siberia weren’t so easy to track down on their breeding grounds. ‘And there’ll be loads of birdwatchers turning up tomorrow.’
‘We should decide how we’re going to manage that.’ Perez looked at Rhona.
‘You can’t stop them coming!’ Dougie said. ‘They’ll come anyway. If you stop the flights they’ll charter boats.’
‘We can’t allow them to get in the way of the investigation,’ Rhona said.
‘They won’t! I’ll bring them up to Golden Water and then back to the airstrip. They don’t need to stay overnight.’
Rhona looked at Perez: ‘Would that work?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ He paused. ‘The press might be more troublesome.’
‘Don’t worry about the press,’ she said. ‘I’ll cope with them. It’ll be best to get them all in together and give them the same story.’
She’d enjoy dealing with the media, Dougie thought.
‘There must be somewhere we can hold a press conference. The community hall, perhaps?’
Perez nodded.
‘I was hoping we could go out on the boat,’ Sarah Fowler said. Still her hands moved in her lap. ‘We’re booked to stay for another week, but I’m scared now. Two murders. Two women. I want to go home.’
‘I can’t keep you here,’ Perez said. ‘But it would make life easier for me if you stuck to your original plan. We’ll need to talk to everyone again in the light of this afternoon’s discovery. Another police officer came in on the plane this afternoon. He’ll be staying here at the lighthouse. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe.’
‘Of course you’ll be safe,’ Rhona said. ‘I’ll be staying here too.’ As if she would be far more effective than Perez’s colleague at preventing another outrage.
The Fowlers looked at each other. Dougie thought it would take more courage to stand up to the Fiscal and insist on going than to decide to stick it out. Sarah put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Please, I don’t think I can stand it here any longer.’
Fowler frowned. Dougie thought he was torn between meeting his wife’s request and doing what he’d see as his duty. ‘Just a few more days,’ he said. ‘If the inspector thinks it’ll help.’
Sarah looked at her husband and saw that she was defeated ‘OK. We’ll stay.’
‘Who’ll do the cooking?’ Dougie asked.
For the first time that evening Perez smiled. ‘I’ll ask someone from the island to help out. We’ll make sure that you’re fed.’ He turned to Hugh. ‘What about you? Do you need to get home?’
The trademark grin had already returned. ‘I want to stay until this is all over. Until the killer’s caught. Of course.’
