Текст книги "White Nights"

Автор книги: Ann Cleeves

Соавторы: Ann Cleeves
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Chapter Twenty-five

Perez had thought he might go back to Biddista when he left the care centre, call in to the Manse and see if he could find Roddy on his own. He felt he understood the young man a bit better now, still believed Roddy might have information that could help with the inquiry. But the news that Sandy had tracked down the victim’s lift made that impossible. How could he justify any delay to Taylor?

He found Stuart Leask at work behind the check-in desk in the ferry terminal at Holmsgarth. He was young and gap-toothed with untamed red hair. The terminal was quiet and echoing. It would be three hours before people would be allowed on to the boat.

‘Do you mind chatting here?’ Stuart said. ‘Only I’m on my own till Chrissie gets back from lunch.’

Perez leaned against the desk. ‘Sandy Wilson said you gave a chap a lift to Biddista the night of the Herring House party. Can you tell me what happened there?’

‘I was just coming off duty and this guy came into the terminal. I mean the Hrossey had long gone and I was about to leave, but I asked if I could help. He wanted to know about car hire. I said he’d left it a bit late, there’d be no one in the office until eight the next morning.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Skinny. Pleasant enough. English. He was wearing black trousers and a black jacket. A bit crumpled, but as if it was supposed to look like that. And bald, but as if that was intentional too.’

‘And did he seem OK in himself? I mean, not distressed or confused.’

‘Not at all. As if it was all a bit of a joke, having missed his lift to Biddista.’

‘He said he’d arranged for someone else to take him?’

‘Aye, he’d booked a taxi but the guy hadn’t turned up.’

‘I still don’t see how you ended up taking him.’

Stuart looked embarrassed. ‘I offered. I know, it was just stupid. Marie, my lass, says I’m just a sucker and people are always taking advantage. But he was a nice guy and I wasn’t doing anything else that night and he paid me what the taxi would have charged.’

‘Did you go straight from here?’

‘Aye, but we had to go and pick up his bag first.’

‘He had a bag with him?’

‘Like a black leather holdall.’

‘Where did you pick him up from? Hotel? B&B?’

Stuart grinned. ‘No. From the Victoria Pier. He was staying on that boat that turns into a theatre, The Motley Crew. You know the one?’

‘It’s quite a drive out to Biddista. What did you chat about?’

‘He was an interesting man, an actor. He was talking about some of the parts he’d played. Theatre, film. I mean maybe some of it was bullshit, all the people he said he’d met, but you sort of didn’t mind, because he was still entertaining.’

‘Did he say what he was doing in Shetland?’

‘I asked him that. I’d have gone to see him if he was in a play here. But he said he was looking up some old friends.’

‘And all the time he seemed quite rational? He didn’t claim he was feeling unwell?’

‘Nothing like that. He was brilliant company. It was a really easy way to make a few quid.’

‘He definitely took the bag with him? You’re sure he didn’t leave it in your boot?’

‘Absolutely. I thought it was kind of odd.’

‘What was?’ Perez was glad that he’d decided to interview Stuart himself. By now, Taylor would be beside himself with impatience.

‘Well when we got to Biddista I went right up to the jetty to turn round. And I saw the man stick the bag just below the sea wall on the beach. It would have been quite safe there. It was well above the tideline and folks wouldn’t have been able to see it from the road. But it just seemed strange. I mean, if he was going to stay with friends, wouldn’t he have taken the bag with him?’

‘He was going to the exhibition opening at the Herring House,’ Perez said.

‘Still, you’d have thought he’d keep it with him. I’m sure there’d have been somewhere to leave it.’ This detail seemed to fascinate Stuart more than the reason for the man’s death.

‘Did he say where he planned to sleep that night?’

‘I imagined he’d be staying with his friends. He didn’t seem worried at all about getting a lift back to town.’

‘Did he tell you who his friends were?’

‘No, and I asked him. Aggie who runs the post office is a sort of relative. A cousin of my grandmother, something like that. But he just launched into another story, so I never found out.’

‘He must have told you his name,’ Perez said.

‘Just his first name. And that wasn’t anything I’d heard before. I thought maybe it was something popular in the south. Or a nickname.’

‘So what was that?’ Perez thought that soon even his patience would run out.

‘Jem. Not Jim. Jem.’

Before he left the ferry terminal for Victoria Pier, Perez phoned Sandy and asked about the bag. There’d been a search around the jetty at Biddista, but he wasn’t sure how far it had extended along the beach. He couldn’t believe they’d have missed it, but he needed to check.

He drove too fast into the town. He had a sudden panic that he would arrive at the pier and find the theatre ship had gone, but it was still there, moored near the end of the jetty. A big new banner strapped to the wooden hull read LAST PERFORMANCE SATURDAY.

A young woman was sitting on the deck, sunning herself like a cat. She wore cropped jeans and a long red jumper and there was something feline about the flat face and the green eyes narrowed and lengthened by black eyeliner. She was leaning against the cabin and had a script on her knee but seemed not to be reading it.

‘Excuse me.’

She looked up and smiled. ‘Do you want tickets for tonight? I think there are a couple left. It’s well worth seeing.’

‘Are you one of the actors?’

‘Actor, set designer, front-of-house manager, general dogsbody. Hang on a minute and I’ll fetch the tickets.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the show’s great, but that’s not why I’m here.’ He stepped aboard, thinking this was a lovely old vessel, the timbers weathered, honey-coloured. ‘My name’s Jimmy Perez and I work for Shetland Police.’

‘Lucy Wells.’ She remained where she was sitting.

‘Did you hear about the guy who was killed in Biddista earlier in the week?’

‘No. Shit.’

‘It’s been all over the news. He was found hanging in the boathouse there. He’d been strangled.’

‘It’s crazy,’ she said. ‘Life on the boat. Like living in a bubble. You’re rehearsing for the next show during the day and performing at night. The country could have gone to war and I’d not have known about it.’

‘Are you missing one of your actors?’

‘No.’

He had been so certain that the dead man had been part of the theatre group that the answer threw him.

‘A middle-aged man. Shaved head.’

‘Sounds like Jem,’ she said, ‘but he wasn’t part of the group. Not really. He was more of a hanger-on. A friend of the management. And he didn’t go missing. We knew he was leaving.’

‘We think he might be the dead man,’ Perez said. ‘Would you be able to identify him from a photo?’

She nodded. He saw she had started to cry.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Sorry, it’s just a shock. I didn’t even like him particularly. He was a bit of a nuisance. Not his fault, he was pleasant enough, but the accommodation here is cramped as it is and he was foisted on to us. It’s horrible to think he’s dead. I couldn’t wait to see the back of him, so it’s almost as if it’s my fault. Wish fulfilment.’

‘What was Jem’s full name?’

‘Booth. Jeremy Booth.’

‘How did he land up with you?’

‘Like I said, he’s a friend of the management. He was one of the original team. The Motley Crew’s been touring the Scottish coast for donkey’s years. Jem needed somewhere to crash and we were told to put him up.’

‘What was he doing in Shetland?’

‘Who knows? None of us took a lot of notice of him. He was full of himself and his own importance. He made out that he was here on some mysterious mission. The deal of a lifetime. We thought it was all crap and we were just pleased he was leaving.’

‘If you could remember exactly what Mr Booth said about the deal, it would be very useful. Even a small detail might help.’ Perez paused.

There was a moment of silence. She set the script carefully face-down on the deck. Then she closed her eyes.

‘He talked about a weird coincidence. “A blast from the past. A rave from the grave.” That was the way he spoke. You know, kind of knowing, self-mocking, but still thinking he was hip. He was a joker, one of those people who are full of gags that never quite make you laugh. He said there was a nice little deal which would set him up for a few years if he could play it right.’

‘Did he mention any names?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. Like I said, he enjoyed being mysterious.’

‘When did he arrive with you?’

‘The twenty-second. Two days after The Motley arrived in Lerwick.’ And two days before Booth was seen handing out the notices which cancelled the Herring House exhibition to the cruise passengers.

‘Did he come on the plane or the ferry?’

‘The ferry. It was a tiny bit bumpy when he came across and he was ill. You wouldn’t believe the fuss he made. The next day he went off somewhere. He was back that night, then we didn’t see him again.’

If he’d arrived on the ferry, Stuart Leask would have access to all the man’s contact details, Perez thought. In an hour they’d have a full name and address, a phone number and access to a credit-card account. Their victim was no longer anonymous. The investigation was suddenly more manageable. More ordinary.

‘Did he tell you where he came from?’ Perez was interested in what the victim had said about himself, to find out how close it was to the truth.

‘He ran a drama-in-education company in West Yorkshire. “I’ve always believed in community-based theatre, darling. Really, it’s the most worthwhile work you can do.” Which probably means regular theatre wouldn’t employ him and he’d conned funding out of the Arts Council to set up on his own.’

‘You’re very cynical,’ Perez said.

‘It’s the business. We all start off imagining work with the RSC and end up spouting crap lines to three deaf old ladies for the Equity minimum.’

‘You could give up. You’re young.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But I still have the dream. I can still see my name in lights in the West End.’

He couldn’t quite tell whether or not she was joking. He pushed himself away from the rail, so he was standing upright.

‘Just a minute.’ She sprang to her feet and disappeared below deck. When she returned she was holding some tickets. ‘Comps for Saturday. See if you can make it. I’m really rather good.’

There was something desperate in the way she spoke. He thought if he rejected the tickets she would see it as a rejection of her. He took them awkwardly, then mumbled that he was very busy, but he’d make it if he could.

When he got into his car she was still watching him.

He phoned the station and spoke first to Sandy.

‘Any news on the victim’s bag?’

‘Well it’s definitely not on the beach.’

Perez asked to be put through to Taylor. ‘I’ve got an identity for our victim.’

‘So have I,’ Taylor said. Perez could hear the smirk, the self-satisfaction. ‘Jeremy Booth. Lives in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire. Runs some sort of theatre group. We’ve just had a phone call from a young woman who works with him. She saw the photo in one of the nationals.’

Perez had nothing to say. Let Taylor have his moment of glory. It was good to have the identity of the victim confirmed.

‘I was thinking someone should go down there,’ Taylor went on, ‘to check out his house and talk to his colleagues. Do you want to do it?’

Perez was tempted. England was still a foreign country. There would be the thrill of exploration. But, he thought, this was a Shetland murder. The victim might have been an incomer, but the answer to his death lay here.

Taylor was obviously becoming impatient. He hated waiting for the answer. ‘Well? Or would you rather I go?’

Then Perez realized Taylor was itching to take on the job. This was what he liked best about policing. The chase. He would adore the last-minute flights and hurried arrangements. The overnight drive. Gallons of coffee in empty service stations. And once he arrived he’d get answers immediately, firing away questions, blasting through the uncertainty with his energy.

‘You go,’ Perez said. ‘You’d do it much better than me.’

Chapter Twenty-six

Taylor picked up the last flight out of Shetland that day, then blustered his way on to a packed BA plane from Aberdeen to Manchester. There was a group of oilmen on the flight; they’d just finished a stint on the rigs and were rowdy, determined to celebrate. A couple of them came from Liverpool and, trying to catch an hour’s sleep, Taylor felt the old resentment against his home city coming back. Resentment mixed with a strange kind of kindred spirit.

At Manchester Airport he picked up a hire car and as he hit the M62 he realized he was only half an hour from home. Turn west and he could be there before his brothers were back from the pub. How would they receive him if he knocked on the door, a bottle of whisky under his arm and a dopey grin on his face? Hi, remember me? Any chance of a bed for the night?

Becoming a cop had been seen as a betrayal. He’d joined up on the wrong side in the class war. Even now that the boundaries were blurred he didn’t think that would ever be forgiven.

He took the road to the east. It was dark and he could tell he was climbing the Pennines because of the absence of lights, not because of the view. The motorway was unusually empty and he found himself running over a fantasy in his head. About how he’d track down some fact or relationship that explained Booth’s death so far away from home. How his Liverpool relations would see him on the national TV news talking about the arrest. He’d come across as calm and modest, but everyone would know that the conviction was down to him.

On the way into Huddersfield he checked into a Travel Inn, picking up the last room on a cancellation. The adjoining pub had stopped serving food, so he ate all the biscuits in his room and went to bed. Surprisingly for him, he fell straight asleep. It was a relief to have a dark night. Shetland was unnatural, he thought. The spooky half-light which never disappeared really freaked him out. That’s why he’d slept so poorly the night before. Perhaps it was the extreme of the dark winters and sleepless summers that made the people so odd. He could never live there.

He woke very early and was on the road before six, picking up a bacon sandwich from a truckers’ café and eating in the car as he continued to drive. He’d been given the mobile number of a local DC, a woman called Jebson, but waited until seven before he called.

‘I wasn’t expecting you till later.’ She was brusque and graceless, though he could tell he hadn’t woken her.

‘Well, I’m here now. Can we meet at Booth’s house?’

‘If you like.’ She sounded less than thrilled. ‘But I can’t be there till eight-thirty.’ He heard a child’s voice in the background and thought that was the problem with women in the service. Work never came first with them. It was either their men or their kids. He was about to comment but thought better of it. It would only take one complaint from a lass with a chip on her shoulder for his whole career to go down the pan. He’d seen it happen. And just when he seemed to be getting a bit of recognition that was the last thing he needed. ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Eight-thirty.’

In Denby Dale he found the house from her directions. ‘Director of a theatre company’ had sounded quite grand and he’d been expecting something more impressive than a mid-terrace cottage leading straight off the street. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and get a feel for the place.

A neighbour opened her door a crack to bring in a bottle of milk. Through the narrow slit he saw she was wearing a dressing gown which slipped to reveal one bare leg. He couldn’t make out her face, just an arm reaching out to the doorstep.

‘Excuse me. Police. Have you got a minute?’

He’d startled her. The milk remained where it was. She opened the door a little wider, pulled her dressing gown around her. She was middle-aged but wearing well.

‘Could we have a chat?’ he said. ‘It’ll not take long.’

An animal-feed lorry rolled past, bringing with it a strange yeasty smell. ‘You’d best come in,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly decent for talking in the street.’

Her name was Mandy and she was a library assistant in Huddersfield, divorced, the kids all grown up. Today she wasn’t starting work till midday.

‘What was he like then, the bloke next door?’

Taylor was sitting at the table in the small kitchen. She’d made him tea, very strong, and there was bread in the toaster.

‘Why? What’s happened to him?’ She’d lit a cigarette. ‘The first of the day,’ she said, relishing it. There were times when Taylor wished he still smoked.

‘Didn’t you see his picture in the paper?’

‘I don’t bother with a paper these days.’

‘He’s dead,’ Taylor said. ‘He was found strangled in Shetland.’

‘Where?’ She was curious but she didn’t seem terribly upset that her neighbour had died.

‘The Shetland Islands. Right off the north of Scotland.’

‘Oh.’ She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in her saucer. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen him lately, but he keeps strange hours. I suppose the house’ll be up for sale. I hope we don’t get a noisy bugger moving in.’

‘Was Mr Booth noisy?’

‘Not really. Occasionally he’d have friends in late. I’d hear them talking, maybe a bit of music, but they weren’t rowdy. Nothing you could complain about.’

‘How long had he lived there?’

‘About five years. He moved in after me.’

‘Was he on his own for the whole of that time? No girlfriends? Boyfriends?’

‘He wasn’t gay,’ she said seriously. ‘At least I don’t think he was. He’d been married once. And he’d had a child. But he left them. Quite suddenly.’

‘How do you know all that?’

‘He told me,’ she said.

‘Close, were you?’

‘No. We lived our own lives. I don’t want the whole village knowing my business and nor did he. But one night he’d locked himself out of his house. He’d left all his keys in the Mill. There was a lass who works for him, lives in Huddersfield, and she had a set, but it took a while to get hold of her so he waited in mine. I’d just opened a bottle of wine and we ended up sharing it. It was the only time we really talked. That was the time he told me about his wife. He regretted just walking out on her, but she didn’t understand his dreams.’ She paused, looked at Taylor. ‘Dreams! You’re all the same, you men. Selfish bastards.’

Taylor wanted to reply that in his experience it was the women who were the dreamy ones, but he made no comment. ‘He didn’t tell you he was going away this time, then?’

‘No. Like I said, we weren’t that sort of neighbours. I just noticed that I’d not seen him around for a few days.’

The toaster popped. She nodded towards it. ‘Do you fancy a piece?’

But Taylor didn’t have anything else to say and couldn’t imagine sitting at her table making polite conversation. That was much more Perez’s style than his. He refused the offer and thanked her. As she showed him out she was already lighting another cigarette.

Back on the street, teenagers were coming out of the houses and wandering towards the bus stop for school. How old would Booth’s child be now? He wondered if Jebson had traced the wife, if she’d even found out that the man had been married. A small train wound along a viaduct crossing the valley. The sun was already hot enough for Taylor to feel warm in his jacket.

Jebson arrived dead on time. He’d gone into a newsagent’s and was sitting in the car trying to concentrate on a paper. She was square with very dark hair and dark eyebrows. He’d have marked her out as CID from a hundred yards, but wasn’t sure why. He got out of his car and joined her on the doorstep of Booth’s house. She pulled a bunch of keys from her bag.

‘Where did you get those?’

‘Martha Tyler, Booth’s assistant. She’s been into the house once. She was worried when he didn’t come back. He’d said he’d only be away a couple of days. She imagined some sort of accident.’

Inside, it had the feel of a bachelor household. Tidy enough but not very clean. His place was much the same. He walked quickly through, stopping at the door of each room and looking inside. A small kitchen, the microwave the most prominent piece of equipment, a living room with a sofa and a coffee table a convenient height for eating takeaway food in front of the TV.

‘Have you found the wife?’ he asked.

‘What wife?’

He felt a stab of satisfaction. He’d been here an hour and already he was showing the Yorkies how to do the job.

‘According to a neighbour he deserted a wife and child. A few years ago now. Didn’t Miss Tyler mention it? You must have asked her about next of kin.’

Jebson shrugged. ‘She said she didn’t have any contact details for relatives.’

Suddenly he hated being in the small house. It was too depressing, too close to home. If he died suddenly, would anyone know who to contact for him? ‘We should leave this for the search team,’ he said. ‘We’ll only get in the way. First priority is to check phone calls and emails. Work computer and home PC. He had some reason for going to Shetland. He knew people there, though no one’s admitting to it at the minute, and he must have been in touch to make the arrangements for the visit. And get into his bank account. He might have left his wife and child but he should have been supporting them financially. The CSA ought to have records.’

‘You’ll have to check with the boss,’ she said. ‘The way he sees it, it’s not even our case.’

‘Well, I’m hardly going to send a search team from Shetland . . .’

She shrugged again.

Out on the pavement again, he realized he should have handled things differently. But he’d used up all his sweetness and charm with Perez and his team. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have made assumptions. It’s a sod of a case. But you can see we need to know more about Booth, and you’re the people on the ground.’

‘Like I said, you’ll have to have a word with the boss.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Martha Tyler said she’d get into work early today. She should be there by now. I’m due in court at nine-thirty, but I’ll point you in the direction of the Mill.’

Martha Tyler was in the office drinking coffee. Her hair was tied into one plait, so long that it reached halfway down her back. It seemed old-fashioned and at odds with the jeans and the skimpy green vest top. She watched Taylor approaching across the rehearsal room and got up to meet him. She looked as if she’d had a heavy night.

‘I don’t know what to do with the company,’ she said. ‘The actors are supposed to start a school tour on Monday. Should we carry on?’

‘Did Mr Booth have an accountant? A lawyer? Perhaps it would be wise to check the legal position with them.’

‘I don’t know. I’m only here on a sort of work experience.’ She returned to the office, sat behind the desk, motioned for Taylor to take the other chair. ‘It even seems odd sitting here. This was Jeremy’s domain.’

‘Tell me about him.’ The sort of question Perez would have asked, which drove Taylor to distraction because it took so long to get relevant answers.

‘He was an actor,’ she said. ‘That’s the first thing to remember. I was never quite sure if he was performing, if I was getting the truth or a story. I’m sure he didn’t mean to lie. He just liked his version best. He was funny and kind, but there was always this mask. You never knew what was going on in his head.’

‘What did he do before he started the company?’

‘Bits and pieces of acting, I think. He was full of the people he’d worked with. Maybe some of it was true. But it’s such a tough business. Even if you’re good, it’s all about luck. It’s the good people who never make it that I’m most sorry for.’

‘And before that? Drama school?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. He was quite scathing about the kids who turned up here to work with their degrees in performance and no real experience in theatre.’

‘Did he ever talk about his private life?’

‘Never. Only about work.’

‘No relationships?’

‘I think there might have been a few brief flings – young actresses taken in by the bullshit and too much to drink. He liked to be seen with them. It must have been good for his ego. They never lasted, though.’

‘They saw through him?’

‘No. He was always the one to do the dumping. A couple of them were quite smitten. He was very kind and he did have a certain style.’

Taylor’s phone rang. He went into the rehearsal room to take it. It was Jebson.

‘The court case was adjourned, so I’ve made a few calls for you. Work history through the DSS. He’s been self-employed for fifteen years, as an actor. I’m waiting to hear back from the tax people about his income.’

‘Before then?’

‘He was a teacher. A school in Chester.’

‘Thanks.’

‘One more thing. I’ve traced the wife.’