Shetland 05: Dead Water (15 page)

‘But he’d have confided in you,’ Perez said gently. ‘He’d have told you what his story was about.’

Maria looked at him as if she suspected Perez of betraying Jerry too.

‘It might help us find out who killed him,’ Perez said. ‘We have to know what brought him here, what he was planning to write about.’

She looked at him, seemed at last to be wavering, to be ready to tip over the edge and answer. Then there were footsteps on the stairs. Peter, chilled now and ready to come into the warm, appeared at the door.

‘Jimmy!’ he said, his voice so jolly that he must have been practising the tone all the way from the garden. ‘Still here then? I was just going to make some coffee. You’ll join us?’

Perez looked at Maria, hoping that she still might be persuaded to talk to him, but it seemed that whatever spell he’d put on her had been broken. She stood up. ‘I’ll take a bath,’ she said. ‘Leave you boys to it.’ But at the door she paused. ‘He was going to tell us,’ she said. ‘He was going to tell us his secret the night he died. We were waiting up for him.’ She left the room before Perez could talk to her further.

‘Do you know what that was about?’ he asked Peter.

The man shrugged. ‘I know nothing about any secret,’ he said. ‘You should take it with a pinch of salt. Jerry and Maria both enjoyed a drama.’

Perez declined the coffee and walked back to his house. He collected his car and set off for the Bonhoga.

Chapter Eighteen

Perez arrived at the gallery before the lunchtime rush. Once the Bonhoga had been a water mill and it was still a grand three-storeyed building. On the ground floor there was a shop and reception, and upstairs in the roof the exhibition space. Perez couldn’t go up there. Whenever he’d come to the Bonhoga with Fran she’d drag him up to look at the paintings and drawings, and the memory was too raw. She’d exhibited there herself on a number of occasions. So he went straight downstairs to the coffee shop, where one wall was made up of huge windows looking over the burn.

Brian was a large man, hardly fitting into the narrow kitchen. If he was pulling a baking tray from the oven he had to twist his body sideways to reach inside. He’d been thinner when Perez had first met him. Then Brian had been cooking at the Sullom work camp, an English university dropout with a drug habit to fund, and Perez had charged him with possession of heroin. Now he was clean, but he was still in the islands, still cooking. Perez hoped he was settled and happy. It was hard to tell. Brian rarely smiled and carried around him an air of gloom. A habit as entrenched as the heroin.

The cafe was separated from the kitchen by a counter. Brian was standing there, wrapped in a huge black apron, cutting slices of cake for two German tourists. Otherwise the place was empty. He nodded to Perez, but didn’t speak until he’d carried the cake and coffee to his customers.

‘What can I get for you, Jimmy?’

‘Coffee,’ Perez said. ‘Black.’ He paused. ‘I’m here about Jerry Markham, the guy whose body was found in Aith last week. He was in here the morning that he died.’

Brian was pouring coffee and turned slowly to face Perez. ‘I didn’t even know the man.’

‘I’m not accusing you of killing him.’ Perez remembered that Brian had always had a streak of paranoia, was always frightened that he was being set up. ‘But he was with a woman. Middle-aged. We’re trying to trace her.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘You would recognize Markham? You’d know him when he worked on the
Shetland Times
?’

‘Yes, I recognized him.’

‘And the woman? Did you know her?’

Brian shook his head. ‘I’d never seen her in here before.’

‘Was she local?’

‘I didn’t hear her speak. They shut up when I took their drinks over.’

Perez thought about this. ‘Did you have the impression that they were friendly?’

Brian seemed to have got the message that he wasn’t a suspect and became more forthcoming. ‘They weren’t having a stand-up row, but I had the feeling there was an argument. No warmth. You know. One of them might leave at any time.’

‘And the woman?’ Perez said again. ‘What
can
you tell me about her?’

‘She was middle-aged. Smart. It looked as if it could be a work meeting. She was dressed for work, you know. Skirt and jacket. But that’s not so unusual. People do arrange to meet here to discuss business. It’s central. I thought she might have something to do with the gas. There are lots of strange faces around now.’ Brian seemed to enjoy seeing himself on the side of law and order.

‘Would you know Rhona Laing, if you saw her?’

‘Who?’

‘The Procurator Fiscal. She comes here for coffee, I’m told.’

Brian shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jimmy. There are lots of people who come in for coffee. I don’t know them all.’

Perez pulled a newspaper cutting from his pocket. A piece from the
Shetland Times
. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. To show Cassie when she was old enough and had questions about her mother’s death. It was the report on Fran’s murder, and Rhona Laing had made a statement. There was a photo to go with it. ‘This is her,’ he said. ‘Was this the woman who was with Jerry Markham the day he died?’

Brian put the paper on the counter and smoothed it. Perez hoped he wouldn’t comment on the content of the story. He didn’t need this man’s sympathy, didn’t think he could bear it. He would have to walk away or he might lash out. Pick up his coffee mug and hurl it against the wall. But Brian was focused on the task in hand. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the slightly grainy picture. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She looks familiar, but if she comes in anyway . . . Sorry, Jimmy. I can’t be sure.’

‘That’s great,’ Perez said. ‘Really. You don’t know how many people pretend or stretch the truth because they’re so eager to help. Better to be straight.’

For almost the first time since he’d known the man Brian smiled. Perez pulled a couple of coins from his pocket to pay for the coffee, but Brian waved them away.

In the car Perez was tempted to reread the
Shetland Times
article about Fran. He knew it almost off by heart, but still he was tempted. Instead he put it back in his pocket. He took out his phone and looked at it for a long time before calling the neighbour who’d offered to look after Cassie for him.

‘Sure,’ she said when he asked if Cassie might go to her house to play after school.

‘It might be late. I’m planning a trip to Fetlar and I haven’t checked ferry times.’

‘Look, it’ll be fine.’ A pause. ‘She wanted to come before, you know, but she said you might be lonely. Why doesn’t she come for a sleepover? Then you’ll not have to rush back.’

He drove north very fast, thinking all the time about Cassie and what his neighbour, Maggie, had said. What a self-centred oaf he’d been! It wasn’t Cassie’s place to care for him. He thought he needed to lighten up when she was around, bring more laughter into the house. Put on more of a show.

Having made the decision to travel to Fetlar, he hated the idea that he might just miss a ferry. As he drove into Toft the Yell boat was in, and his was the last car on board. It seemed like a sign. In Yell he had time for a bacon sandwich in the Wind Dog cafe before the ferry to Fetlar arrived. He wondered what he was doing here. What was it all about, this hunger? This sudden need for action? He decided it was some sort of escape. He’d spent too long in that small house in Ravenswick. And he needed information to give to Willow Reeves. The desperation was the result of pride, or something like it. All he had yet was the fact that Markham had turned down his mother’s loan. That seemed a big deal to Perez, but what did it mean? That Markham had suddenly become a more responsible man? Or that he’d discovered another form of income? And there was the secret that Markham had promised to share with his mother on the night of his death. Was that relevant or just one of Maria’s fancies, a way of feeling closer to her dead son?

It was a couple of years since he’d been to Fetlar. The trip had been part of his courtship of Fran. She’d had a friend from the south to stay, and Perez had taken them both to see the breeding red-necked phalaropes on the loch there. Then it had been sunny and there’d been a promise of better times, a burning realization that this woman was special.
Why was I so cautious? She’d have married me sooner.
And he remembered what Evie had said about John Henderson. About him being a gentleman and not rushing her.

There was no sign from the road to show where Francis Watt had his boat-building business. Perez found it in a big shed beside a low white croft-house. The shed had windows at one end to let in the natural light and the view of a sweep of white sand, curving so that the bay formed the best part of a circle. It was a beautiful spot and he could see why Evie would be attracted to stay on the islands after growing up here. Perez had left his car on the road and walked up the track, buffeted by the wind and enjoying the exercise. In a small field beyond the house someone was working, bent double, planting tatties, but too far away to hear when Perez shouted, so he’d knocked at the door of the house and, when there was no reply, he’d wandered across the yard to the shed.

He heard the sound before he reached it. Metal on metal, regular and explosive. Through the open door Perez saw a yoal, almost finished, its keel held in a clamp, the curved sides regular and perfectly symmetrical. A work of art. A sculpture. The floor was scattered with wood shavings and sawdust and the smell of wood filled the place. At the far end of the shed stood a pile of planks, stacked so that the air could move through them. A middle-aged man, dressed in a fisherman’s smock, was hammering grooved copper nails into the overlapping planks, the fit so tight that they’d be watertight. He was bending into the hull and it looked like awkward, back-breaking work. Perez waited until the man straightened. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He felt that Francis Watt was like an artist who needed to concentrate on his craft.

Watt squinted against the light. ‘How can I help?’

‘Jimmy Perez. I’m here about Jerry Markham.’

‘Ah, Jimmy.’ The voice serious. The man was remembering that Jimmy had been bereaved, and for the second time that day Perez hoped there would be no mention of Fran.

‘Sorry about the noise,’ Francis said. ‘The clinking. Jessie hates it. She says she can hear the vibration even inside the house.’

‘Worth it,’ Perez said, ‘to make a boat like that.’

Watt nodded to acknowledge the compliment and smiled. ‘Come away into the kitchen. I’m ready for tea, and Jessie will be in soon too.’

The kitchen was cluttered and comfortable. A Rayburn with a basket of peat beside it, a scrubbed table under the window and a battered sofa against one wall. Francis cleared a pile of plans and drawings from the sofa so that his visitor could sit down.

‘I’ve read your column in the
Shetland Times
,’ Perez said. ‘You have very strong views.’

‘I think we’ve become too used to an easy life,’ Francis said. ‘It’s made us greedy. Uncaring.’ He gave a quick grin. ‘I’m not popular for saying those things.’

He put a kettle on the range and took a cake tin from a shelf. Inside home-made date slices. No shop-bought biscuits here.

‘Do you have strong views about tidal power?’

‘It’s one of the few things my daughter Evie and I argue about,’ he said. ‘It’s fine to make Shetland self-sufficient in energy, but I have no interest in exporting it. I abhor that big new wind farm, hate driving past it on my way to Lerwick. There are too many people with vested interests here who hope to make their fortunes. There hasn’t been a development in Shetland that hasn’t had corruption at the heart of it. My Evie’s honest as the day is long, but I’m worried that the taint of greed will stick to her too.’

‘Jerry Markham was planning a story about the new energies,’ Perez said. ‘He’d arranged to go to a meeting of the Hvidahus action group the evening he died.’

Francis looked up, startled. ‘I know nothing about that. I support the aims of the action group, but I don’t get too involved. After all, Power of Water is Evie’s big project, so I have divided loyalties.’

‘Do you have other children?’ Perez wondered where that question had come from. Sandy would see it as a waste of time. But not the new inspector. Perez thought she would work in the same way as him. She’d want to dig under the surface of a family too.

‘A son,’ Francis said. ‘Magnus. He’s away at university in Stirling. Computer science.’ The man smiled. ‘He’ll not come back to the islands to stay. Evie’s my last hope of keeping the family traditions alive.’

‘Will she take on the boat-building?’ Perez asked.

‘Aye, she might at that, and bring John Henderson with her, once he’s had enough of the oil work. That’s what I’m hoping. Evie grew up with it and she has a feeling for working with wood.’

The door opened and a woman came in. Perez had seen her working in the field, planting potatoes. She was small and slender, round-faced, smiling. In twenty years Evie would look like her. She took off her boots at the door and went to the sink to wash her hands. Under her jacket she wore a smock just like her husband’s, on top of faded cord trousers.

‘This is Jimmy Perez,’ Francis said. ‘He’s come to ask us questions about Jerry Markham.’

‘Evie said you’d spoken to her.’ The woman was polite, but prickly. ‘You can’t expect her to have anything to do with his death. All that happened years ago. She was hardly more than a child. Our fault maybe, for sheltering her too much. She’s getting married on Saturday. You mustn’t spoil this week for her.’

‘Had you seen Markham since he was home this time?’

‘No,’ Watt said. ‘We don’t leave the isle much. It’s a busy time of year and we have all that we need here.’

‘When was the last time that you left Fetlar?’

The couple looked at each other, trying to work it out, to give an accurate answer. ‘Maybe six weeks ago,’ Francis said. ‘Evie had a problem with the boiler in her house. John was on shift at Sullom and couldn’t help. We went and stayed over, made a night of it.’

Perez thought it would be easy enough to check with the boys on the boat. They’d know if anyone on this small island had taken the ferry out.