White Nights (18 page)

Roddy Sinclair was just where Bella had said he’d be. The graveyard was a bleak sort of place and Taylor thought he wouldn’t want to end his days here, right next to the sea, drowned with salt spray during the gales and picked over by seabirds. Most of the headstones were very old and misshapen, looking, Taylor thought, like a mouthful of crooked teeth. Roddy had moved away from the graves and was standing by the low drystone wall, looking out over the water. He wore a bright yellow sweatshirt with a design on the back which could have come from an album cover. Taylor recognized him immediately; the floppy fair hair and the grin. What must it be like to have people know you wherever you went?

On the beach to the north a young man was playing with a child, holding both her hands and swinging her around. It was a long way off but they could hear her laughter. Perez muttered under his breath that the man was Martin Williamson, the chef at the Herring House, and for a moment Taylor’s attention was distracted. Another suspect. Another life to explore. Roddy didn’t seem to hear anything of the conversation. He was lost in his memories. He only turned to look at them when Taylor spoke.

‘Sorry to disturb you.’ Taylor thought it was best to be conciliatory. He’d first seen Roddy Sinclair on a television chat show. He’d been flicking through the channels, looking for football, and had been about to move on when something about the conversation held his attention. The boy had a confiding way of speaking which made the audience feel he was giving away secrets. A couple of months later he’d been on the TV again. The documentary. Taylor would have liked to be a celebrity. He found the idea of such attention, the small courtesies and luxuries, immensely appealing. And despite himself he was attracted by famous people, a little over-awed by them.

‘This is DCI Taylor,’ Perez said. ‘He’s in charge of the investigation into the man who was killed at the jetty. We shouldn’t take up too much of your time.’

‘No problem.’ The young man smiled. He looked to Taylor like a boy, much younger than his actual age. A schoolboy, too young to drink, too young to drive. Perhaps that was part of his appeal for the people who bought his music. ‘I come here sometimes to talk to my dad. Daft, huh?’

‘Were you very close?’

‘We were. I was an only child. Maybe that had something to do with it. And then he was ill for quite a long time. He couldn’t get out to work so much, so he was in the house more than my mother was. He read to me a lot. We played music together.’

‘What work did he do?’

‘He was an engineer. He worked for one of the oil companies. He’d travelled a bit before he came back to Shetland. Mostly in the Middle East. They think maybe that was where he got the skin cancer. He was
very fair-skinned. By the time he was diagnosed it had spread. For a while he seemed well, just as he always was, and it was like one great long holiday. Then he got very weak and thin. But we still managed to play together almost to the end.’

Taylor wished he could think of his own father in those terms, with fondness and the memory of shared activities. He looked again at the couple on the beach. It was low tide and the sand was flat and smooth. The man had fixed together a red box kite and was getting it into the air. They watched as he passed the string to the girl, then stood behind her, helping her to control it.

‘Martin’s a fantastic father,’ Roddy said. ‘I hope I can do as well when the time comes.’

Taylor had a sudden image of a leggy actress from a soap. Hadn’t there been a story that Roddy was dating her, of a proposal even? There’d been a picture in a tabloid paper that he’d picked up in Aberdeen Airport while he was waiting for the fog to clear. Both obviously drunk, stumbling out of a nightclub. It was hard to imagine them in Shetland, playing happy families on a windswept beach.

Perhaps Roddy had followed his line of thinking. ‘Not that I’m planning on settling down any time soon. My dad died when he was young. If I’m taken early I want to have had a great life before I go.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad my father’s buried here. Biddista always seemed more like home to me than the house in Lerwick.’

‘You spent a lot of time here even before you came to live with Bella?’ Perez asked the question in that hesitant way he had, as if he didn’t want to intrude,
but he was so interested that he’d overcome his scruples. Taylor felt a mild irritation at the interruption. He was leading this interview.

‘Yeah. I was never an easy sort of kid. Hyperactive. I never slept much. It can’t have been great for my mother, with Dad to look after. So I came here to stay with Bella most weekends and holidays. I loved it. There was always something going on. People staying. Artists. Musicians. Maybe that’s when I got addicted to partying. And I was the centre of attention, constantly entertained. I remember there was one guy who was a brilliant magician. He did this fantastic magic show just for me – the whole lot, rabbits from a hat, card tricks. Later I realized it was more for Bella’s benefit than mine – they all wanted to please her – but at the time it was wicked. There was the freedom here that I never really had in town. Bella was pretty relaxed about bedtimes and mealtimes and I was just allowed to roam.’

‘Real life would have been hard after that,’ Perez said.

‘Yeah. I think I’ve been spending the rest of my life trying to recapture the magic.’ Roddy gave a self-deprecating grin. ‘Nothing ever quite lives up to it.’

‘Did Bella have a serious relationship with any of the visitors?’

‘Definitely not serious. I guess she might have slept with them, but I never really knew about that.’

‘Do you manage to see much of your mother?’ Perez asked.

‘We get on OK these days. I was very hard on her when I was younger. Just grief maybe. I couldn’t understand how she could take up with another man.
Things are still a bit tricky between me and her husband, but we manage to be polite to each other for her sake.’

‘The Englishman who died,’ Taylor said. ‘We think he was the person who was trying to sabotage your aunt’s exhibition. Do you have any idea why he would want to do that?’

‘Why would anyone?’

‘Your aunt doesn’t have enemies?’

‘Lots of spurned lovers,’ Roddy said. ‘Bella’s always attracted men. Like I said, when I was growing up, Biddista was full of visitors who imagined themselves besotted with her. From spotty students to earnest elderly intellectuals. It was all very amusing for a child. There’s nothing a kid likes more than grown-ups making prats of themselves. And even now she still pulls people in. She’s flattered by the attention. Sometimes I think she’s quite lonely, but she’ll never settle down.’

‘Has there been a recent admirer?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. But I haven’t been home for a while. I might not know.’

‘She didn’t mention anyone?’

‘That she was being stalked by an Englishman with no hair and a penchant for weeping in public? No, inspector. And if that was the case she wouldn’t need to kill him to get rid of him. She’s an assertive woman. She can get her own way without resorting to violence.’

On the beach the wind must have changed suddenly, because the kite twisted and dived into the sand. The little girl dropped the string and ran towards it, arms outstretched, mimicking the zig-zag movement
as it had crashed to the earth. Kenny Thomson brought his boat back towards the shore.

Roddy continued. ‘If that scene at the party was a stunt to hurt Bella, it was all rather pointless, wasn’t it? The Englishman didn’t succeed in wrecking the show. All my aunt’s London friends were there. They’ll still write reviews. The paintings will go back to the galleries. It was just a gesture. An anticlimax.’ He smiled again. ‘Inspector Perez accused me of being behind the flyers to cancel the party, but if I’d wanted to sabotage the exhibition, I’d have made a far better job of it.’

‘Your aunt says you’re planning to leave Shetland.’

‘I was going to get the ferry tonight, but I don’t think I’ll make it now. I can’t see me getting my act together. I’ve started packing, but suddenly it all seemed too much hassle and I came out here. Maybe I will. I prefer the boat. Otherwise I’ll take a plane first thing in the morning. That would give me another evening. A chance to say goodbye properly to folks here.’

‘Is there something urgent to take you south?’

‘There’s always work of course, but I think it’s more that there’s nothing to keep me here.’

Taylor thought the boy sounded like an old man, disillusioned and world-weary. Roddy leaned against the wall and looked at the two men, waiting for more questions to come. Taylor couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

‘If there’s nothing more,’ Roddy said, ‘I’ll go, get on with the packing.’ Without waiting for a reply, he ran through a gap in the wall and down the grassy slope to the beach. They watched him jog along the tideline
until he’d joined the Williamsons. He lifted the little girl on to his shoulders and they walked together towards the houses.

Taylor turned back to find Perez standing by one of the graves.

‘This is it. This is where his father is buried.’

The headstone looked less weathered than the rest. The words were still fresh and easy to read.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALEXANDER IAN SINCLAIR
.
HE DIED TOO YOUNG
.

Taylor thought the same could be said of the Englishman lying on the table in the mortuary. But it seemed there was no one yet to grieve for him.

Perez wasn’t sure what to make of the conversation with Roddy Sinclair. He thought in a way it had been like talking to a criminal, one of those old offenders who’ve been questioned so often by the police that they know how to play the game. Roddy spent his life fending off awkward questions from the media. He knew what impression he wanted to give and he stuck to his story. Fran had said she’d met the musician a few times but didn’t feel she really knew him. Perhaps he’d been taken in by the hype too, had lost a sense of his own identity. Perez wished Taylor hadn’t been there at the graveyard. He’d had a sense that there were things the boy had wanted to say, but Taylor’s abrasive style had put him off.

‘I’m going to talk to Edith Thomson,’ Perez said. They were walking down the road now, back towards the jetty and their cars. ‘She’s Kenny’s wife. She wasn’t at the Herring House party, but she was at home that evening. She might have seen something. And she’s known Bella for years.’

‘Isn’t she the one that works in the old folks’ home?’

‘The care centre,’ Perez said. ‘I thought I’d catch her there. Would you like to be in on that?’

‘It’d make more sense if we separated,’ Taylor said.
‘I’ll stay around here, get more of a feel for the place. I might catch up with Martin Williamson.’

Perez sensed panic in the man’s refusal. He thought Taylor would dislike contact with the elderly and infirm. He would prefer not to be reminded of his own mortality. Perez was relieved to have the opportunity to talk to Edith alone. He’d met her a couple of times with Kenny and he’d thought her a proud and dignified woman. She might not respond well to Taylor’s approach either.

The care centre was purpose-built, a low modern box with long windows giving a view down the voe to the sea. A minibus specially adapted with a lift for wheelchairs was parked outside, along with the staff cars. Perez walked inside and was engulfed by a sudden blast of heat and the institutional scent of disinfectant and floor polish. In the background a surprisingly appetizing smell of cooking food. It was only eleven-thirty but tables in the dining room had been set for lunch and a woman in a nylon overall was pouring water into brightly coloured plastic beakers. She looked up briefly and smiled at him. On the other side of the front door, he saw the lounge with the long windows. People sat around the walls in high-backed chairs. Some seemed to be dozing. Three men at a table were playing cards. He thought he recognized Willy Jamieson, who had once lived in Peter Wilding’s house in Biddista, and gave him a wave, but the old man stared back blankly.

‘Can I help you?’

Edith Thomson had come up behind him. She wore black trousers and a blue cotton blouse and seemed to him very neat and professional. He saw
that she didn’t know him. The voice was polite but rather distant. He held out his hand.

‘Jimmy Perez. It’s about the murder in Biddista.’

‘Of course. Jimmy.’ Now she could place him she relaxed a little. This wasn’t a work-related visit. He wasn’t a relative or a social worker. ‘Is it definitely murder then?’

‘We’re treating the death as suspicious.’

‘Poor Kenny,’ she said. ‘He was so upset when he found the body. And then he got it into his head that it might be Lawrence.’

She, it seemed, didn’t share her husband’s distress. Perez could tell she would answer his questions briskly and efficiently, but he’d never found the direct approach very helpful. People gave away more if they were allowed space to lead the conversation. It was possible then to get a glimpse of their preoccupations and the subjects they hoped to avoid.

‘This must be an interesting place to work,’ he said. ‘These people have so many stories.’

‘We’re trying to record them. Keep the tapes in the museum. Life here is changing so quickly.’

‘Isn’t that Willy in there? I knew him to say hi to at one time, when he lived in Biddista and worked on the roads, but he seemed not to recognize me.’

‘On his bad days he doesn’t recognize anyone,’ she said. ‘He’s full of stories too, but sometimes they’re just a muddle. We can’t make head or tail of them and he gets so frustrated. He has Alzheimer’s. It developed very quickly. Such a shame. He was always a lively man and even when he first moved into sheltered housing he could manage most things for himself.’

‘Could I talk to him later?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘He’d be glad of the company.’

‘I just need to ask you a few questions first.’

‘Of course. Come through to my office. Coffee?’

The office was as neat and efficient as she was. A beech desk with a PC, clear and uncluttered, a tall filing cabinet. On the wall a planner marked with coloured stars. He wondered how she and Kenny got on together. Did he resent her career, the full days away from the croft? She probably earned more than her husband did. Did she try to organize him as she did her staff? There was a filter-coffee machine on a small table in a corner, a Pyrex jug half full keeping hot. She poured him a mug.