Текст книги "White Nights"

Автор книги: Ann Cleeves

Соавторы: Ann Cleeves
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Chapter Twenty-three

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.

‘Tell me about the night the man died,’ he said.

‘I don’t know exactly when that was. Was it just before Kenny found him?’

‘We assume it was the night of the Herring House party. If not that evening it would have been early the next morning.’

‘I have nothing to tell you. I can’t help you. I didn’t go to the party.’ She sat behind her desk, her hands in her lap; not obstructive, interested, but lacking the excitement that most people seemed to feel when they were involved in a murder inquiry.

‘But you have a good view down to the shore from your house. Perhaps you saw someone leaving the party?’

‘I was in the garden,’ she said. ‘Each year I think I’ll get away with growing a great crop of vegetables, then there’s a west wind and the salt ruins them all. But still I’m optimistic and I weed and water. You can’t see the Herring House from there. Later I had some work to catch up with. I have an office in the spare bedroom. If I did all my paperwork while I was here, I’d never have time to spend with our clients. It’s at the back of the house. You can’t see much but the hill from there.’

‘Kenny thought he saw someone running up the track towards the Manse.’

‘Then I’m sure he did. He’s not one for making things up. And he was on the hill. He’d have a good view from there.’

‘Why do you think Lawrence left home so suddenly?’

The sudden change of tack caught her off guard. She frowned slightly. ‘Kenny said the dead man couldn’t be Lawrence.’

‘I know. I’m interested. It seems so dramatic. To leave like that without any warning and never get back in touch.’

‘He was a great one for the drama,’ she said. ‘The grand gesture. Then after a while, I suppose it would be hard to come back. He’d feel so foolish.’

‘Do you have any idea why he went?’

‘Kenny thought it was all about Bella,’ she said, frowning. ‘I suppose that could have been it. But he was never the most stable sort of man. Did you ever meet him?’

Perez shook his head. ‘I don’t think I did. Were Lawrence and Bella having a relationship?’

‘I’m not sure. She was always an attractive woman. A bit wilful, but men seemed not to mind that. Maybe Lawrence had hopes and Bella strung him along. She loved having admirers.’ Edith paused, looked up at Perez with a grin. ‘I think she still does.’

Perez considered. ‘Does Bella have an admirer at the moment?’

Edith shrugged. ‘How would I know? She’s too grand for us now.’

‘You’d have heard though.’ Perez was quite certain about that. Even if Bella didn’t mix socially with the Biddista folk now, she’d be the subject of talk. And if Edith was too proud to gossip, she’d hear the news, from the staff in the care centre, the clients she worked with, from the relatives.

‘There was some gossip about her and that writer. Peter Wilding. He followed her up here, they say. Rented Willy’s old house just to be close to her.’ She looked at him again to gauge his reaction. ‘It seems a creepy kind of thing to do to me. I wouldn’t want a stranger tracking me down.’

‘Do they say what she thought of that?’

‘She liked the fact that he went to all the bother,’ she said. She sat for a moment in silence, thinking. ‘I’m not sure Bella could ever do a real relationship. It would get in the way of the one thing that’s most important to her.’

‘What’s that?’

She gave a brief mischievous smile. ‘Bella Sinclair. Her work. Her reputation.’

‘Where does Roddy fit into that?’

‘He makes her feel good about herself. And he does her reputation no harm at all either.’

‘Do you not like him then?’

‘Is this relevant to your inquiry?’

‘Probably not. But I’m interested in your opinion.’

‘Everything’s come too easy to him,’ she said. ‘Looks, talent, money. I don’t think that’s good for a young boy. He flaunted all he had in front of our kids. But maybe I’m just jealous. Kenny and me, we had to work for everything we have.’

‘Kenny told me Roddy went out with your daughter a couple of times.’

‘Roddy always has to have a woman in tow. Just like Lawrence in that respect. Someone prettier came along and he dropped her. That made me angry.’

‘He lost his father when he was still a child. And his mother too, in a way.’ He’s lonely, Perez thought. He’s portrayed as a golden boy, but he has no real friends.

She considered for a moment. ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know Alec very well. He’d already left Biddista when I married Kenny. But you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on Roddy.’

‘He spent a lot of time in Biddista when his father was ill. He’d have been around the same age as your children. You say he showed off to them. Did they know each other well when they were younger? Even before he took up with your daughter?’

‘Sometimes he came on to the croft to play. I didn’t like my two going to the Manse. I didn’t want them picking up his wild ways and quite often Bella had unsuitable people to stay. Sometimes Willy took all three of them out in his boat.’ She paused. ‘The children all liked Willy. He was a sort of Pied Piper. When he was home they all hung around with him. Like I said, he was full of stories. He never had kids of his own and he enjoyed having them around. He taught most of the children in Biddista to handle a boat. He took Kenny out when he was a lad. And Lawrence was in a boat almost before he could walk.’

Beyond the office door there was the sound of movement, plates banging, the jangle of cutlery.

‘Lunchtime,’ she said. ‘The high spot of the day. Some of our people only come here for the food. Will you eat with us, Jimmy? Have a bowl of soup at least.’

So Perez found himself sat at a table with Willy, a woman with Down’s syndrome called Greta, and Edith. Willy had the look of someone whose clothes had been chosen for him. Despite the heat of the centre he wore a thick jersey over a plaid shirt. He’d shaved that morning but not very well. His hair still had some black in it and was thick and curly.

‘Where are you living now, Willy?’ Perez asked.

Willy looked up at him, his spoon poised, his mouth slightly open.

‘I’m a Biddista man.’

‘But that’s not where you live now,’ Edith said gently. ‘Now you’re staying in the sheltered housing at Middleton.’ She turned to Jimmy. ‘A carer comes in twice a day.’

Willy blinked and raised the spoon to his mouth.

‘Tell me about the old days in Biddista,’ Perez said. ‘You kept a boat there, didn’t you?’

‘The Mary Therese,’ Willy said eagerly, his eyes losing their blank, clouded look. ‘A fine boat. Bigger than anyone else’s in Biddista. Some days I had so much fish I could hardly lift out the box.’

‘Who did you take fishing with you?’

‘They all wanted to come fishing with me. All the lads. Kenny and Lawrence Thomson. Alec Sinclair. The lasses too. Bella Sinclair and Aggie Watt. Though Aggie was a timid little thing, and they were awful cruel the way they teased her. Bella was as strong on the boat as a boy. Nothing frightened her.’ He stared into the distance and Perez thought he was imagining midsummer evenings out on the water. The children laughing and fighting, the family he’d never had.

‘You stayed friendly with them, did you, Willy? As they got older?’

Willy seemed not to hear. He tore a chunk of bread from the roll on his plate and dipped it into the broth.

‘There was Roddy Sinclair too,’ he said. ‘He liked the fishing when he came to stay at the Manse.’

‘That was later,’ Edith said. ‘Roddy was younger than Kenny and Lawrence. They wouldn’t have gone fishing with you together.’

Willy tried to think about that. The soup dripped from his bread on to the front of his jersey. Edith leaned across and wiped it carefully with a paper napkin. Willy shook his head as if trying to clear the pictures in his mind.

‘Did you ever have any English friends, Willy?’ Perez asked.

Willy suddenly gave a wide grin. ‘I liked going out with the Englishmen. They brought a hamper full of food and tins of beer. Sometimes, later, we’d build a fire on the beach to cook the fish and they always had a bottle of whisky. You remember that, Edith, don’t you? The summer when Lawrence and me took the Englishmen fishing?’

‘I remember that Lawrence always liked a drink,’ she said.

Willy grinned again.

‘What were the Englishmen’s names?’ Perez asked.

‘It was a fine time,’ Willy said. ‘A fine time.’ He returned to his meal, suddenly eating with great gusto, and Perez thought he was tasting the fresh fish caught just that day and cooked over the driftwood beach fire.

Perez turned to Edith. He didn’t want to pull Willy back to the present, to the indignity of slopped food and endless games of cards. ‘Do you know who he’s talking about? Were there any regular English visitors to Biddista?’

She shook her head. ‘Willy used to hire out his boat for fishing to the tourists, but I don’t remember anyone regular. Perhaps it was before my time.’

Willy jerked out of his reverie. ‘The Englishman came asking me questions, just the other day,’ he said. ‘But I told him nothing.’

‘Which Englishman would that be?’ Perez asked Edith.

‘There’s a writer called Wilding who comes after the traditional stories,’ she said. ‘Something to do with a book he’s writing. That must be who he means.’

Perez would have liked to spend the afternoon there, sitting in the sun flooding in through the windows, listening to Willy talking about fishing and the Biddista children, but he knew he couldn’t justify it. How would he account for his time to Taylor? Edith got up from the table and walked with him to the door.

‘Come back,’ she said. ‘Any time.’

In the car, his mobile phone suddenly got a signal again. It bleeped and showed a couple of missed calls, both from Sandy. Perez rang him, could hear the buzz of the incident room in the background. Sandy seemed to have his mouth full of food and it was a moment before Perez could make out what he was saying.

‘I’ve tracked down the lad who gave the Englishman a lift. Stuart Leask. He works on the desk at the NorthLink terminal and he’ll be there all afternoon.’

Chapter Twenty-four

Fran was working on a still-life, some pieces of driftwood and a scrap of fishing net she’d found on the beach. It was more as practice than for a picture to sell. She’d become obsessed by the need to improve her drawing. Even at art school, she thought, she hadn’t paid it enough attention.

The phone call came just as she’d taken a break from work and put on the kettle for tea. She thought it would be Perez. He was her lover, the man who had been there at the back of her thoughts for months. But when she heard the English voice at the end of the line, there was a thrill of guilty excitement. She’d looked Wilding up on the internet. He had his own website, which listed the reviews. Perhaps he wasn’t bestseller popular, but he was recognized as an interesting and original author. One of his short stories was in production for a feature film. There was in his celebrity the same glamour that surrounded Roddy and Bella.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice was easy, slightly amused.

‘I’m working.’

‘So I won’t be able to persuade you to meet me for lunch then?’

The invitation reminded her of the spontaneous arrangements that had been part of her city life. A call from a friend. A meeting in a wine bar or over coffee. There’d be gossip and laughter then she’d run back to the office to finish the day’s work. Things weren’t quite so easy here. Perhaps in Lerwick it might be possible, though the choices of venue were limited. Here in Ravenswick, miles from anywhere, it was all much more complicated. Socializing took place in friends’ houses. There was nothing new.

‘I’ve got a hire car,’ he said. ‘I can pick you up. Half an hour.’

‘I’ll have to be back at three to collect my little girl from school.’ As soon as the words were spoken she realized they’d be taken as acceptance of the invitation.

‘No problem. See you soon.’ And the line was dead. It was as easy as that. She felt a pleasurable guilt, as if she’d already been unfaithful.

She went back to work, but couldn’t concentrate. Where would he take her? Of course they would bump into someone she knew. A friend of Perez’s. Or a friend of Duncan’s. She started forming the excuses and explanations in her mind. He wants to commission a piece of art. Of course I had to talk to him. It was just a business lunch. Should she phone Perez now and tell him what was happening? But then that would give the meeting more importance than it warranted. And how should she dress?

He arrived before she was quite ready and she felt flustered. She had to invite him into the house to wait and was aware how small it was, saw the dead houseplant on the windowsill, Cassie’s toys all over the floor, through his eyes. He remained standing while she ran into the bedroom to get her bag. She’d compromised on clothes – jeans with a silk top she’d bought on her last trip south. She’d meant to put on make-up but he’d arrived before it was done and she couldn’t cope with the thought of him watching her.

Down in the valley it was lunchtime in Ravenswick School. She could just make out the figures of the children running in the yard.

She wanted to mention Cassie. My daughter will be one of those. Maybe you can pick her out. She’s wearing a red cardigan. But before she could form the words he’d handed her into the car and they were on their way. She was glad she had no near neighbours to watch.

Away from Ravenswick she began to let go of the guilt. Why shouldn’t she have some time just for herself? In the run-up to the exhibition she’d done nothing but work.

He’d taken the road south after leaving Ravenswick, away from Lerwick and any of the restaurants he might have chosen.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Wait and see.’ He turned towards her. ‘You’re looking lovely,’ he said. ‘Really.’

In her old life she’d have been able to bat away a compliment like that with a flippant, witty one-liner. Now she felt herself blushing.

He signalled west off the Sumburgh road and they were driving on a narrow track which she didn’t think she’d ever been down. There was a cattle grid, then a damp patch with flag irises and a long, narrow loch with a square stone house perched at the end. A grand house for Shetland. Two storeys. Then the land seemed to drop away, so the house almost formed a bridge between the loch and the sea. Fran felt a moment of apprehension. Where was he taking her? What had she been thinking of, getting into a stranger’s car?

‘Where are we going?’ she asked again, keeping her voice even. ‘I didn’t know there was anywhere to eat down here.’

‘Just be patient,’ he said. ‘You’ll see soon enough.’

Perhaps this was a new hotel, she thought, though she surely would have heard about its opening and there’d been no sign on the main road. Besides, when they got closer she could see it was empty, almost derelict. There were slates missing on the roof and the windowframes were rotten, the paint entirely peeled away. Frayed threadbare curtains hung at the windows.

She thought he was waiting for more questions. He wanted her to ask about the house, what they were doing there. She said nothing.

The track came to an end by the entrance to the small garden. Tall double gates, rusting, stood slightly open. Beyond, the vegetation was surprisingly lush and overgrown, an oasis which had somehow survived the battering of the westerlies. There were more irises, a patch of rhododendron.

Fran wondered if he’d taken the road by mistake. She sat, expecting him to turn the car round, but he was opening his door.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrived.’ Now his excitement was unsophisticated. He was like a child desperate to show off a new achievement.

She followed him. What else could she do? He put his weight behind the gate to make the gap wide enough for her to squeeze through. The long grass behind it stopped it opening further. A path led to another smaller gate at the top of a shallow cliff and steps cut into the rock. The beach below was tiny, a perfect half-moon of sand. Beyond was a flat grassy island.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What do you think?’

She was wondering where they were going to eat. Why had he brought her here? Had she mistaken the nature of his invitation?

Perhaps he could guess what was going through her mind.

‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch it from the car. I thought we could have it on the beach. That is all right?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

‘I only found this place a couple of days ago and I wanted someone else to see it. It’s so perfect.’

‘A secret garden,’ she said, reassured by his excitement. He wasn’t a stranger. He was a famous writer. His photo was on his website along with the jackets of his books.

‘Yes! Yes!’ He was beaming. ‘But you probably know it already. You’re a local after all.’

Oh no, she thought. I’ll never be a local.

‘I’ve not been here before,’ she said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’ She could tell he wanted her to be as excited as he was and realized she sounded like a polite child who’d been taken out for an unwanted treat. But the lunch date was turning out to be so different from what she’d been expecting that she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She’d imagined a lunch in a crowded restaurant, conversation about art and books. Not a picnic on the beach.

The food was in a cold-bag. Wilding carried it from the car with a woven rug, which he draped over his shoulder. It made him look as if he was in fancy dress and only added to Fran’s sense of unreality.

‘I cheated,’ he said. ‘I asked Martin Williamson from the Herring House to put something together for me. I hope that’s OK.’

He set off down the steps in the cliff without waiting for an answer.

On the beach, sheltered from the breeze, it felt very warm. Warmer than Fran could ever remember feeling in Shetland. The sand was white and fine. Seals were hauled up on rocks at the end of the island. Wilding spread out the rug. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him unpack the picnic. He took out a bottle of wine, still chilled so the glass was misty, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket with a flourish, and opened it. There were real glasses. But Fran thought the heat and the light had made her feel slightly drunk already.

‘How did you find this place?’

‘I was house-hunting.’

‘The house is for sale?’

‘Not exactly.’ He gave a sudden wide grin. ‘Not any more.’

‘You’ve bought it?’ It seemed to her an astonishing thing to do on the spur of the moment. He hadn’t even been in Shetland that long. She thought of Perez, the agonizing there’d been over his future, where he would live. She admired Wilding’s ability to take a life-changing decision so lightly.

‘Once I saw it I had to have it. I tracked down the owner and put in an offer. A very good offer. I don’t think she’ll turn it down. It was left to an elderly woman who lives in Perth and she hardly ever visits. I can’t show you round the house. I haven’t got a key yet. I’ll hear for certain at the beginning of next week. I would like to see what you make of it. It’s to be a project. I was hoping you might advise on the design.’

So, she thought, we’ll have more excuses to meet. Still she wasn’t sure what she felt about that. Of course he hadn’t bought the house just to provide an opportunity to spend time with her, but still she felt she was being manipulated, that she, like the house, was one of his projects.

Now the food was spread out on the rug. There were squares of pâté and little bowls of salad, chicken and ham and home-made bread.

‘I do hope you’re not a vegetarian,’ he said. ‘I should have asked.’ He smiled and she could tell he knew already the food would be to her taste. He must have asked around – Bella or Martin. She supposed she should be flattered that he’d put so much preparation into the lunch, but found the careful planning disturbing. And he had made the assumption that she would accept the invitation to eat with him, since the food must have been ordered before the call was made. But she drank more wine and turned her face to the sun. She wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.

‘What a terrible business that murder was,’ he said. ‘Do the police know yet who he was?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard the news today.’

‘But wouldn’t you hear before the rest of us?’ He reached across her to fill her glass again. ‘I understand that you’re a close friend of the inspector.’

She sipped the wine. She wished she wasn’t lying down. It was hard to challenge him, spread out at his feet. She pushed herself upright, sat cross-legged so she was facing him.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Hey.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I asked Bella if you were seeing anyone. She mentioned the cop. That was all.’

‘It didn’t stop you asking me out to lunch.’

‘It’s lunch. I wanted someone to share this place with me. You didn’t have to accept.’

She felt suddenly that she was being ridiculous. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should never drink at lunchtime. It’s always a mistake. This is all lovely.’

‘Is it true then? You and Perez . . .’

He was looking at her, squinting into the sunlight.

‘I don’t think,’ she said sharply, ‘that’s it’s any of your business.’

‘Does that mean I still have a chance then? Of winning a place in your affections?’

She looked at him. She couldn’t make him out. Was he teasing her? Was this innocent flirting? Or something more sinister?

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘My affections are definitely taken.’

‘What a terrible pity. You need some fun in your life and Inspector Perez doesn’t seem a lot of fun. I’d help you to play.’

She didn’t answer that. He piled mackerel pâté on to an oatcake and handed it to her.

‘Does Perez ever talk to you about his work?’

‘There’s not usually very much to talk about,’ she said. ‘Nothing interesting.’

‘But this is murder. We’re all interested in that.’

‘I don’t think I am. I want the murderer caught, of course. But I didn’t know the victim and I’m not involved in the case to any extent. It’s Jimmy’s job and nothing to do with me.’ She wondered now if he’d just brought her here because he was curious about the investigation.

‘I’m fascinated. I’d have thought you would be too. You used to be a journalist! And art’s about the experience of extremes, don’t you think?’

‘I’m too chilled to think anything,’ she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

He seemed to realize that it would do no good to push it. ‘Somewhere in here there’s a very good chocolate cake.’ And he went on to entertain her with stories of publishers’ parties and the sexual activities of famous novelists, so she almost forgot that there’d been any awkwardness between them.

He was the one to say they should make a start back or she’d be late to pick up Cassie. She was surprised at how quickly the time had passed. She stood up and brushed the crumbs and sand from her clothes and followed him up the steps to the house.

‘You will take it on, won’t you?’ he said. ‘The house, I mean.’

‘I’ve never done interior design,’ she said.

‘That doesn’t matter. You have an artist’s eye. I know you’ll make a good job of it.’

She stood looking at the house, imagining how she would do it, saw it completed, the windows open to the sound of the waves and the seabirds, full of people for a house-warming party. Another glimpse of her old life. He couldn’t have thought of anything better to tempt her.

She laughed and refused to give him a real answer. ‘When it’s yours we’ll talk about it again.’