Текст книги "White Nights"

Автор книги: Ann Cleeves

Соавторы: Ann Cleeves
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Chapter Six

Perez walked up the track to Kenny Thomson’s house. He was very tired now and his brain felt sluggish. He thought the exercise might make him more alert. Skoles, the Thomson place, was more like a farm than a croft. Since he’d bought up the land all around him Kenny had more sheep than he needed for his own use and there were cows in one of the low parks near the house. But everything was still done in the old way. Perez liked that. A field of tatties just coming up, the lines straight and true, and a field of neeps. In lots of places crofters were selling sites for new housing, but it seemed Kenny hadn’t been tempted to go down that route.

Perez tried to remember when he’d talked to Kenny last, but couldn’t think. He might have nodded to him in town, bumped into him at Sumburgh or in the bar on the ferry. But Kenny was more than a casual acquaintance. The year of Perez’s sixteenth birthday, Kenny had spent the whole of one summer in Fair Isle and they’d worked together. It was the time they did the major work on the harbour in the North Haven. Kenny had been brought in to oversee the building work and Perez had been one of the labourers, his first proper job over the school holidays. He still remembered the blisters, the aching back and the ease with which Kenny, twenty years his senior, slender and dark then, could lift a Calor cylinder under each arm when he helped the islanders unload the boat, the way he could work all day at the same pace without seeming to get tired.

Kenny had started off lodging in the hostel at the Observatory, but after a couple of weeks had moved down the island to stay at Springfield with the Perez family. It was further away from the site, but he felt awkward in front of all the birdwatchers, he said, and it would be a bit more money for them if they took him on as a lodger. In the evening he would shower and then join the family for dinner. ‘Kenny’s no bother at all.’ That was what Perez’s mother had said, and it had been true. He had been unobtrusive, considerate, setting the table and helping her with the washing-up afterwards. A perfect guest.

Now, Perez tried to remember what the two of them had talked about as they were digging out drains and mixing cement. Kenny hadn’t given very much of himself away. He’d listened to Perez talking about his plans for college and how much he hated life at school, but he had hardly talked about himself at all. Occasionally he’d let something slip about his life in Biddista and the other folks who lived there, but very rarely. And would I have been interested anyway? Perez thought. Kenny just seemed middle-aged and boring. A stickler for doing things right. He was already married to Edith, who had been left behind. She’d been staying at Skoles, taking care of Kenny’s father, who was still alive. Kenny had mentioned Edith, but not with great affection. It couldn’t have been easy for her, Perez thought, looking after an old man who wasn’t even a relative. Kenny should have been more grateful.

Then suddenly he remembered a party that had taken place in the Fair Isle hall. A return wedding: an island boy who’d gone away to marry a southerner in her own town, then brought her back to celebrate properly on the Isle, the lass wearing the long white wedding dress and carrying flowers just as she would have done in the English church. There’d been a meal in the hall, all the island invited, and afterwards a dance. Perez remembered Kenny dancing an eight-some reel with his mother, swinging and lifting her until she laughed out loud. His father, watching from the side, had seemed slightly put out. Perhaps Kenny had been a little drunk that night. Perez himself had been drinking too, so perhaps his memory was at fault. Soon after the party Kenny had returned to the Observatory to stay. When Perez had asked why, he’d been as unforthcoming as ever: ‘It suits me better just now.’

When he came to the house, Perez knocked at the kitchen door. He stood for a moment. There was no answer and he was wondering if he should let himself in when Kenny came up behind him, a scruffy dog completely silent beside him.

‘I was looking out for you,’ Kenny said. ‘Sandy said he’d called you. But I thought I might as well get on with some work. We’re planning on clipping the sheep at the end of the week.’

‘Do you want to carry on? We can talk just the same.’

‘No, I was about ready for a coffee. You’ll join me?’

The kitchen was tidier than most croft houses Perez had been in. Kenny stood at the door and unlaced his boots before walking inside with stockinged feet. Perez checked that his shoes were clean before following. The room was square with a table in the middle, a couple of easy chairs close to the Rayburn. The fitted cupboards and the fancy appliances all Kenny’s work, Perez thought, but chosen by Edith. A jug of campion stood on the windowsill, its deep pink matching a motif in the wall tiles. Everything planned and ordered. The breakfast things, still unwashed on the draining board, were the only items out of place.

Kenny must have seen Perez looking at them. ‘I’ll have those done before Edith gets in,’ he said. ‘It only seems right when she’s been at work all day. Are you all right with instant? Edith likes the real stuff – Ingirid bought her a fancy machine for Christmas – but I’ve always thought it kind of bitter.’

‘Of course,’ Perez said. ‘Whatever you’re having.’ He could have done with a strong espresso, but knew it wouldn’t be right to ask.

He waited until Kenny joined him at the kitchen table before starting the questions.

‘What time did you find him?’

Kenny considered. Everything he did would be slow and deliberate. Except dancing, thought Perez, remembering the scene in the Fair Isle hall. He was a wild dancer.

‘It would have been about ten-past nine this morning. Edith had left for work around half-past eight and I was thinking about starting on the neeps; there aren’t many days like this, even in the summer.’ He smiled. ‘I was tempted by the fishing. Thought we might have a bit of a barbecue tonight if I got lucky and brought back some piltock or mackerel.’

Perez nodded. ‘I know you didn’t see his face, but do you have any idea who the dead man might be? We need to identify him.’

Another pause. ‘No. I’d never met him.’

‘But you might have some idea?’

‘Bella had one of her parties last night. The place was full of strangers.’

Not so full.

‘You weren’t there yourself, Kenny. I thought she always asked Biddista folk to her openings. I thought you were the inspiration for her work.’

Kenny’s face was brown and lined. It cracked into a brief mischievous smile. ‘That’s what she tells the media. Did you see that TV documentary about her and Roddy? I’ll never believe anything I see on the TV again. They came to film in Biddista, you know, followed me around one day and you’d think from the programme I was some great landowner, almost a laird.’ The kettle came to a boil. ‘Don’t be taken in by the stories, Jimmy. Bella Sinclair always thought she was better than us. Even when we were at school and she was living in a council house down at the shore. It was true that she could always draw, mind, even as a scrap of a girl. She seemed to see things differently from the rest of us.’

‘Do you know if she had any people staying at the Manse with her last night?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, Jimmy, we don’t mix with Bella these days. We wouldn’t know. I don’t think she has such big parties staying in the house as she did before. The old days, the Manse was always full of strangers. Even then it was as if Biddista folk weren’t good enough for her. Maybe she’s finally growing up and she doesn’t need people telling her how wonderful she is all the time.’

‘Roddy was at the Herring House.’

‘Then he’ll be staying with her at the Manse. Slumming it until he gets a better offer.’

‘You don’t like the boy?’

Kenny shrugged. ‘He’s been spoiled rotten. Not his fault.’

‘He was at the St Magnus Festival in Kirkwall and Bella persuaded him north to play for her.’

‘He’s a fine musician,’ Kenny said. ‘Just as she’s a fine artist. I’m not sure that excuses the way they treat folk, though. Roddy used to tag along after my children when he came to stay with Bella. He was younger than them but he still used to boss them about. And later he took my Ingirid out a few times. Thendumped her. She cried for a week. I told her she was well out of it.’

‘I just know what I read in the press.’

‘Well,’ Kenny said. ‘That’s only the half of it. Even when he was at school he was a wild one. Drinking. Drugs too, according to my kids.’

Perez found himself eager to hear the stories about Roddy’s exploits. It probably had no relevance to the death of a strange Englishman, but everyone in Shetland was fascinated by Roddy Sinclair. He’d brought glamour to the islands.

‘I did see someone leave the party,’ Kenny said. ‘I was just on the hill there behind the house. Someone dressed in black. I wondered if it might be yon man in the hut.’

‘What time was it?’

The pause again. The deliberation. ‘Nine-thirty? Maybe a little later.’

Perez thought that would fit in with the disappearance of the Englishman.

‘Did he get into a car?’

‘No, he didn’t go towards the car park. He came this way, up towards the Manse. But he was a good way off. I couldn’t swear it was him. He was running. The man I saw. Running as if the devil was after him.’

Not the devil, Perez thought. Me. I’d assumed he’d gone towards the big road south and if I’d spent more time looking I’d have found him. Why would he come this way? If he had run away from the beach towards the Manse and Skoles, how did he find his way back to the jetty with a noose round his neck? Then he thought how frightened the man had been about being left alone. Perhaps someone else was chasing him too.

Perez could tell that Kenny wanted to be away outside, and besides, he could think of nothing else to ask. He knew that there would be other questions, later. He’d wake up to them in the middle of the night. He stood in the garden waiting while Kenny stooped to put on his boots.

‘Would Edith have seen the man?’ It had come to him suddenly that from the house she might have had a better view.

Kenny squinted up from where he was crouching. ‘She didn’t see him at all. I asked her.’

‘Will you both be in this evening, if I need to speak to you again?’

Kenny straightened. ‘We’ll be around here somewhere. But there’ll be nothing more to tell you.’

As Perez walked back towards the shore, the sound of the kittiwakes on the cliffs beyond the beach got louder. He didn’t care much for heights. While the other kids clambered down the geos at home, he’d stayed well away from the edge. But he liked to see the cliffs from the bottom, especially at this time of year when the birds had young, the busyness of them all jostling for a place on the ledges. The tide must be full now. The water had almost reached the boats pulled up on the beach. As he approached Sandy, a Range-Rover drove down the coast road, past the Herring House.

The doctor, Sullivan, was a Glaswegian. Young, bright. He’d fallen for a Shetland woman and loved her so much that he’d followed her north when she was homesick in the city. They said he could have been a great consultant, but had given it up to be a country GP. How romantic was that! They said. More stories, Perez thought. We all grow up with them, but how can we tell which of them are true?

Sullivan obviously hadn’t found the shift too great a sacrifice, because he was whistling when he got out of the car and grinned at them.

‘Sorry to keep you, gentlemen. A lady in Whiteness was further into labour than she’d realized and we delivered her baby at home. A very bonny little girl!’

Perez wondered if he’d be so cheerful in the winter. There were incomers from the south who couldn’t face the endless nights and the wind. These light nights would soon give way to the storms of the autumn equinox. Perez loved the dramatic change in the seasons but it didn’t suit everyone.

Sullivan took a quick look at the body from the door, then returned to his car. When he came back he was carrying a heavy torch. He shone it into the corners of the hut, lifted a small wooden stepladder that had been hooked on to nails in the wall.

‘I need a closer look. That’s OK?’

Perez nodded. If this turned out to be a crime scene, they’d be lucky if the CSI from Inverness got there that day. Best he got all the information he could now. ‘Just try not to touch anything else.’

The doctor had set up the stepladder so he was level with the hanging man. He shone the torch at the neck.

‘Problems?’

‘Maybe. Not sure yet. It looks like he died of strangulation, but that’s not unusual with hanging. They don’t often go with a quick break of the neck, especially with such a short drop.’ He came down a couple of steps. ‘If I had to place a bet, I’d say he was strangled and already dead before he was strung up. Look: this rope is very thick, but there’s another mark on the neck here and the angle’s rather different. The mark from the thick rope doesn’t quite hide the thin one.’ Now he was standing back beside them. ‘I’d like a second opinion before I call this in as murder, inspector. I’m new here. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

‘But you’re pretty sure he didn’t kill himself.’

‘Like I said, inspector, if I was a betting man, I’d say he was already dead before he was hanged. And if I was on my home territory I’d have no hesitation. But it’s not my place and you’ll not get me to commit myself until someone with a bit more experience has taken a look.’

Perez looked at his watch. If this was a murder investigation he’d need to get the team from Inverness in on the last plane of the day. There was still time, but not much. ‘How soon can you get your second opinion?’

‘Give me an hour.’

Perez nodded. He knew he wanted it to be murder. Because of the excitement, because this thrill was what he’d joined the service for, and in Shetland there weren’t so many cases to provide it. And because if the man hadn’t killed himself Perez wasn’t responsible, couldn’t have foreseen it.

Chapter Seven

Lying on her bed, watching the sunlight on the ceiling, Fran tried not to get seduced by the sense of well-being. She had felt equally euphoric after her first night with Duncan and look what had happened there! He’d been sleeping with a woman old enough to be his mother all the time they were married and had made a complete fool of Fran. Thinking about it still made her squirm inside. A breeze from the open window blew the curtain and she had a glimpse of a fat black ewe, chewing, only feet from the house. The curtain fell back into place and Fran pushed images of Perez from her mind.

When she had left Duncan, the temptation had been to run back to live in London, to her gang of friends, the anonymous city streets where nobody knew of her humiliation. But there’d been Cassie to think about. Cassie was nearly six now, had more freedom here than she’d ever have had in London. She had a right to know her father. And Fran had come to love Shetland, despite its bleakness, so she’d moved into a small house in Ravenswick, rented it over the winter to give herself time to make up her mind about where she wanted to be. Three months ago she’d bought it. She’d committed to Shetland. She wasn’t sure, though, whether she could commit yet to Jimmy Perez. It was all too much to deal with at once.

Safer to concentrate on the failure of the party at the Herring House. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the exhibition opening, but she’d certainly hoped it would be more of an event. Even with Roddy Sinclair trying valiantly to bring a sense of occasion, the evening had been an anticlimax. The room half empty. Very few of her friends had been there to share the celebration. She had dreamed of having the chance to show her work for so long that she felt cheated. And what would people remember? Not the art at all, but a strange man having hysterics.

Yet the residual disappointment, the childish ‘It wasn’t fair’ couldn’t prevent her thoughts drifting back to Perez. To the first, slightly clumsy, coffee-tasting kiss. To the line of his back, just as she’d imagined it, the knots of his spine against her fingers.

The phone rang.

She assumed it would be Perez and got quickly out of bed, walked naked into the living room which was also her kitchen, thinking she would tell him she had no clothes on. That would excite him. Wouldn’t it? She had so much to learn about him. The dress she’d worn to the opening was lying in a heap on the floor. On the table the dregs of coffee in a jug, two glasses.

She picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’ Keeping her voice low and inviting.

‘Frances, are you all right? You sound as if you’ve got a cold.’ It was Bella Sinclair.

She’ll blame me, Fran thought, for the disappointing turnout last night. If Bella had been the only person exhibiting, they’d have come. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘A bit tired.’

‘Look, I need to talk to you. Can you come here? What time is it now? Eleven-thirty. Come for lunch then, as soon as you can.’

What does she want? Fran knew it was ridiculous but she was starting to panic. Bella had the ability to intimidate. Perhaps she wants money from me, she thought. Compensation for the expenses involved with setting up the party and the lack of sales. And she had no money. But of course she would obey Bella’s summons.

‘Shall we meet in the Herring House café at twelve-thirty?’ she suggested tentatively. It would take her at least that long to dress and drive north.

‘No, no.’ Bella was impatient. ‘Not the Herring House. Here, at the Manse. As quick as you can.’

Driving to Biddista, Fran thought she should have put up more of a fight, arranged to come another day. Just because she admired Bella’s work didn’t mean she didn’t have a mind of her own. Once she’d been known as strong-willed, assertive. But that had been in the old days when she had a proper job and a bunch of friends and she lived in London. Now she was struggling as an artist and to find her place in the community. As she drove past the Herring House she was wondering what the girls from the magazine would have made of Perez, so she didn’t register the cars parked at the jetty or the small group of men standing outside the corrugated-iron hut. They were part of the landscape. Men planning to get out fishing. My friends would say he wasn’t my type, she thought. Not strong enough to take me on. They’d say the relationship would never last.

The Manse was a square, stone building, imposing, on a slight rise, looking down to the sea. Fran had seen it from outside but never been in. All her previous meetings with Bella had been in the Herring House café, with Martin Williamson dancing attendance with coffee or tall glasses of wine. Bella must have heard the car on the gravel because she had the door open before Fran had climbed out. She was wearing jeans and a loose linen shirt. Even at home she had style.

‘Come in.’

Once there had been a kirk standing between the house and the beach, and the architecture of the Manse reflected the religious connection. Inside, the staircase was lit by a tall thin window, two storeys high, a church window but with clear glass which let the sunlight in. Fran stood just inside the door and took it all in. ‘What a wonderful house!’ She saw at once that was the right thing to say. Bella knew it was a wonderful house, but she liked to be told. She relaxed a little, became less imperious.

‘Come into the kitchen. It’s last night’s leftovers, I’m afraid, but there are plenty of those.’

‘I’m so sorry so few of the people I invited came. I had asked them.’

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Bella said. ‘Oh no, you mustn’t blame yourself.’

Fran expected some explanation then, but Bella was moving on and talking about Biddista and the house, not about the party.

‘I grew up in Biddista, you know. Not here in the Manse, but in one of the council houses down on the shore. They were council houses then. They’ve all sold now. None of the people I grew up with could afford them. Willy was the last of them to live there and even he wasn’t a council tenant in the end.’

Fran was a little flattered that Bella assumed she knew who she was talking about, was treating her as a Shetlander. She hadn’t a clue of course, but she let Bella continue.

‘There was still a minister living in the Manse in those days. An Englishman who’d been a missionary in the Far East and treated us as natives who needed educating. The kirk had already gone by then and he held services in the dining room. Sometimes in the middle of a dinner party, I think I can hear the hymns.’

The kitchen, at the back of the house, seemed a little dark after the sunlight in the hall. It too still had something of the church about it. A dark wood bench under the window which could have been a pew, a high ceiling. All the ceilings seemed very high to Fran. She was used to being able to reach up and touch hers. Bella lifted plates covered with clingfilm from the fridge and Fran recognized the buffet food from the night before.

‘I need wine,’ Bella said. ‘Let’s see if Roddy has left any. He was still up when I went to bed last night, but I doubt if even he could have drunk his way through everything that was left. There are cases still in the Herring House.’ She returned to the fridge and came back with a bottle. ‘Would you like a glass? This one’s rather good.’

Fran shook her head. ‘Will Roddy be joining us?’ Despite herself she was attracted by the celebrity of Roddy Sinclair. Being a Shetlander was his trademark and his unique selling point, but for her he represented life away from the islands, her old life of wine bars and serious shopping and tabloid gossip. She told herself that world was shabby and vulgar, but she missed it. She found it alluring, caught herself reading Hello! magazine when no one was looking.

Bella looked at the clock. ‘I don’t think Roddy’s been out of his bed before mid-afternoon since he left school. Unless he had a plane to catch.’ She set plates and cutlery on the table, lifted cling wrap from the trays of food.

Fran still didn’t understand the reason for the urgent summons. Was it just Bella reminding herself that she had the power to make things happen? ‘You said you wanted to talk to me. It sounded important.’

‘Perhaps I overreacted.’

‘I’m a busy woman, Bella. Will you tell me what this is about?’ Something of her old confidence reasserting itself.

Her tone seemed to shock Bella because there was a moment of silence. She is such a drama queen, Fran thought. She doesn’t move a muscle without calculating the impression she’ll make. Bella got to her feet, reached into her bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

‘This is what it’s about. Andy from Visit Shetland dropped it in this morning. He couldn’t understand it, of course. He had a day off yesterday and came straight to the party from his home.’ She put the paper on the table, unfolded it and slid it towards Fran. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about it?’

It was a computer-generated flyer, printed in red and black on white. Not professionally printed, but not badly designed. Fran noticed that before reading the words.

EXHIBITION OPENING CANCELLED

Because of a death in the family.

SHORELINES

An exhibition of original art by Bella Sinclair and Fran Hunter in The Herring House, Biddista has been cancelled.

The family requests privacy at this time.

Fran looked at it, confused. She could see that Bella expected a reaction, but felt foolish because she couldn’t understand what lay behind the scrap of paper. ‘What is this? Why would I know anything about it?’

‘They were all over Lerwick yesterday. Posted in the window of the tourist office, on the noticeboard in the library and handed out to visitors coming off the cruise ships. Scalloway too. It’s hardly surprising there wasn’t much of a turnout at the party.’

‘Of course I don’t know anything about it,’ Fran said. ‘I mean, nobody in my family’s died.’

‘Nor mine. So what is this about?’ Bella was in dramatic mode again. ‘A mistake? A tasteless prank? An act of sabotage?’

‘Why would anyone want to sabotage an art exhibition?’

Bella shrugged. ‘Jealousy. Spite. I don’t think I’ve upset anyone enough for them to bother with something like this. Not recently at least. What about you? A first exhibition’s a big deal. Anyone out there who’d want to spoil it for you?’

‘That’s a horrible idea. No. Absolutely not.’

‘It couldn’t be your ex playing games?’

‘Duncan and I are being civilized at the moment, for Cassie’s sake. Besides, it’s not his style. He has a temper but this is petty and unpleasant. Anonymous too. Duncan would want everyone to know it was him.’ She nodded towards the flyer. ‘He’d think that beneath his dignity.’

‘A prank then.’ Bella’s voice was quiet. ‘A joke that got out of hand.’

The doorbell rang. There was an old-fashioned pull which rang a bell in the hall. Perhaps the bell was cracked because the sound was tinny, grating. Bella seemed relieved by the interruption, jumped to her feet and hurried away. She returned followed by Perez. He nodded to Fran, gave an embarrassed little smile.

‘I saw your car in the drive.’

‘Were you looking for me?’ Fran felt confused, as if the day was spinning out of control. It’s the lack of sleep, she thought. She longed suddenly for dark nights, thunderclouds, rain.

‘No. I need to talk to Bella. It’s work.’

‘I should go then.’ She was relieved to have an excuse to leave. She didn’t want an inquest into the fiasco of the launch. The flyers were obviously part of some stupid game played by Roddy and his friends. It was the sort of imbecility he was famous for. Bella had been the target and she, Fran, had been caught in the crossfire. Later she’d be angry. Now she just felt embarrassed. It was like being caught eavesdropping on a very personal row between a married couple.

‘No,’ Perez said. ‘I need to talk to you too.’

She had a sudden panic. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Not Cassie,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’

Bella went to the fridge and absent-mindedly poured more wine. ‘If it’s about the flyers cancelling the party last night,’ she said, ‘we know about them. Hardly a police matter, I’d have thought, even here. We don’t want to press charges.’

I might, Fran thought. Don’t speak for me.

‘This is why you’re here, Jimmy?’ Bella picked up the paper between her thumb and index finger as if she could hardly bear to touch it, then dropped it on the table in front of him.

Perez frowned as he read it. Fran decided the information was new to him. ‘That’s why so few people turned up last night,’ she said. ‘These were all over Lerwick, apparently, and because of the final line, nobody liked to phone.’ She wanted him to know she did have friends, and that they would all have been there to support her if it hadn’t been for this.

‘I’ll have to take the flyer with me.’

‘I’ve told you,’ Bella said sharply, ‘I don’t want to press charges.’

‘Do you think that little scene last night could be related to this?’ he asked. ‘The hysterical Englishman who claimed to have no memory?’

‘Another attempt to disrupt the party? I suppose it could. Certainly after that drama people started to leave. He made them uncomfortable.’ Bella looked at him over her wineglass.

‘There’s a body in the hut on the jetty,’ Perez said. ‘We’re pretty sure it was the man who caused the scene last night.’

‘Really!’ For a moment Bella seemed to take an unsophisticated pleasure in the news. It was a story, gossip to pass on. ‘How did he die?’

‘We’re not sure yet. The circumstances seem a little unclear.’

What are you hiding? Fran thought.

‘My God,’ Bella said. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit spooky? The flyer, I mean. “A death in the family”. Do you think he was predicting his own death?’

‘But he wasn’t family, was he?’

‘Don’t be silly, Jimmy. Of course not. I don’t have any immediate family left. Only Roddy and he’s still alive, thank God.’

‘We want to inform the man’s relatives and he has no ID. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him, either of you?’

‘Quite sure,’ Fran said.

‘I didn’t know him last night.’ Bella was twisting the stem of her glass. ‘But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t an acquaintance. Someone from my past. I’ve met so many people and my memory isn’t what it was. I’m an old woman now, Jimmy.’

She smiled, waiting to be contradicted.

It seemed to take him a moment to understand the rules of the game. Fran found that she was holding her breath. This was such a blatant cue for a compliment. Would he really have the nerve to ignore it?

At last he smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll never seem old, Bella.’

In the silence that followed, Fran saw the scene as a painting. A gloomy Dutch interior, all dark wood and shadow. Bella’s face in profile had an anxious, almost haunted look, and the lines of stress round her eyes made Perez’s words seem cruel, mocking.

‘I wonder if I might talk to Roddy.’ He leaned forward. Fran could smell the soap, her soap, on his skin.

Bella seemed about to refuse, but there were footsteps on the wooden floor outside and the kitchen door opened. Roddy Sinclair stood, backlit by the sunshine flooding through the long window in the hall. He yawned and stretched, aware that they were all looking at him.

‘A party,’ he said. ‘Oh good. I do love a party.’

Fran pulled up by the side of the road opposite the Herring House. She didn’t want to park too close to the jetty, to be thought the sort of rubberneck who’s excited by road accidents and blood. But the beach was so beautiful here and she needed to clear her head. She sat on the wall, looking out over the water.

She saw a figure walking towards her along the road, followed his progress. It was the dark-haired man who’d talked to her about her painting the night before. He’d spoken with such passion about her work that she’d been flattered and hoped that he would buy a piece. She’d thought he was a dealer because he’d talked with knowledge and authority and was surprised to see him still in Biddista. She struggled to remember his name. He’d introduced himself the night before. Peter Wilding. It had seemed familiar to her then and again she thought it should have some meaning to her.