Shetland 05: Dead Water (16 page)

‘Why would anyone want to kill Markham?’ he said. ‘Why now?’

There was a pause. Jessie Watt poured herself tea.

‘I knew him a bit when he worked on the
Shetland Times
,’ Francis said. ‘Before there was all that trouble with Evie. He was good at making enemies.’

Out of the window Perez saw a child running across the beach, chasing a dog. ‘This story he was writing about the new energies. Might that have made him enemies too?’

‘You’re talking politicians taking backhanders? Playing fast and loose with the planning laws?’

Perez hadn’t been thinking that way, but he could see that it might be a possibility.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Francis went on. ‘People get obsessed with money. But I’ve heard nothing of that sort. Nothing serious enough to kill a man for.’

‘Anything at all?’ Perez persisted.

Francis shook his head.

On the way out of the house, through an open door, Perez saw a small office. Clean and uncluttered, quite in contrast to the kitchen. A filing cabinet and a desk with a PC. It seemed the Watts were happy enough to use the new technologies when it came to promoting their business. Walking down the track to the car, he felt that he’d missed an opportunity and left the important questions unasked.

Chapter Nineteen

Rhona Laing woke early. It was still dark. Since the discovery of Markham’s body her sleep had been fitful. Over the weekend she’d stayed up drinking late, but even the alcohol hadn’t knocked her out properly. For the first time in her life she felt that things were running out of her control. And for the first time in years she longed for companionship, someone to talk to and someone she could trust. A body in her bed for the whole night.

Monday. A working week. She lay in the grey half-light, running through the events of the day. In the morning there was a trip to the north of Shetland mainland to see the proposed site of the new tidal-power project. The approval of the giant wind farm had made the development more viable. A cable would run from Shetland to the Scottish mainland to export electricity to the fuel-hungry UK. Once the cable was in place, Shetland could make a profit from the export of tidal power too. The islanders had become accustomed to the good life and wanted to maintain their standard of living. Local politicians had supported the wind farm, despite some objections from their electorate.

The trip wasn’t official Fiscal business. Rhona was a member of many island committees that had little to do with her work. Her love of sailing had brought her north, but she didn’t intend to be a Fiscal in the wilds forever. She’d always had political ambitions, could see herself in a position of power; in her wildest dreams she imagined a seat in the Lords. Baroness Laing of Aith had a ring to it
.
And that would only happen if she forged the right connections, made herself useful to the party. A senior politician had indicated that such a move wasn’t impossible. Rhona had no strong feelings about green energy, but it had seemed to her that the topic would grow in importance, especially north of the border. So she’d read about it, represented the islands in discussions over the controversial wind farm. And now she’d made sure that she was a part of the tidal-power working group. Of course if the Jerry Markham connection came to light, there’d be no chance of any form of political preferment. She wouldn’t even keep her post here in Shetland.

She put coffee into the filter machine and took a shower. Very hot, to clear her head. At least the Power of Water meeting meant she wouldn’t have to go into the office this morning. She wouldn’t have to answer questions about the investigation. Then it occurred to her that she still had leave to take before the end of April. Why not hand over responsibility for the Markham case to her assistant? She could say that she was compromised because she’d found the body. Ethically she shouldn’t be involved. That would run well with the press. Drying herself, she felt slightly more optimistic. It would be a way to distance herself from the investigation and from Detective Inspector Willow Reeves.

She checked her emails and found a message from Evie Watt’s BlackBerry, asking if they might meet at the proposed tidal-power site half an hour later than planned. Something unexpected had turned up and she was running a little late. That meant Rhona had time to call her line manager, say that she intended to take a few days’ leave and explain her reasons. ‘Just until the police have completed their investigation,’ she said. ‘We must be seen to be acting with complete transparency.’ Then she called the office, checked her watch and saw that she could still fit in more coffee and a slice of toast.

They’d arranged to meet in the car park in Hvidahus, close to the coastal path and to the proposed site of the tidal generation. It had been years since Rhona had driven this way and she’d forgotten how attractive the valley was. Sheltered from the prevailing wind, it led to two small houses and then to the sea and a large white house looking out over a small pier. There were only three people on the working group: Rhona, Evie Watt and Joe Sinclair, who was the harbour master at Sullom Voe. He’d been co-opted because of his knowledge of the tides and because he was a local man who had influence in the islands. He could sway public opinion. There was already some opposition to the scheme, and Joe would be useful in smoothing troubled waters.

Rhona arrived before the other two and got out of her car. There was a squally breeze that took her breath away when she faced the sea. Here, a natural harbour looked out to the island of Samphrey, but further north the cliffs were enormous, great steps of rock leading down to the water. At the highest point was a small pile of stones that she hadn’t noticed before. She watched a raven balance on the wind and then land on an untidy nest on one of the ledges. Glancing at her watch, she realized that Evie Watt and Joe Sinclair were even later than they’d agreed and experienced a stab of irritation. She felt poor punctuality as a personal insult.

She walked away from her car and towards the pier. Already tense and jittery, she found this waiting unbearable. She was tempted to drive away. An otter swam between the concrete pillars and onto the rocky beach, distracting her for a moment. It was eating a fish, delicate bites with very sharp teeth. Rhona had no sentimental attachment to the natural world. She thought nature was all about the survival of the fittest. The raven and the otter would kill to save themselves and their young.
And so would I.
The thought came without warning. She held it for a moment and then chased it away.

Sinclair and Evie arrived at the same time, though in different cars. Rhona saw the vehicles snake down the narrow road and walked back to join them. Evie seemed strangely distant and preoccupied. Rhona had never taken to the girl. She was efficient enough, but her childish enthusiasms were irritating. Principles were all very well, but sometimes they prevented real business from being done: compromise was essential. Rhona didn’t want to be associated with a project that failed because of the young woman’s reluctance to operate in the real world.

‘Will you show us the proposed site then?’ Rhona said. ‘Now that you’ve arrived at last. So we’ll know what we’re talking about when we meet that professor from Robert Gordon University.’

She was pleased to see Evie blush. The young woman led them along the coastal path, which climbed steeply to the top of the cliffs. ‘We’ll get a better view of the whole site from here.’ She pointed out the uninhabited islands of Samphrey and Bigga. Beyond, Yell was in the distance and the roll-on, roll-off ferry was crossing the Sound. ‘The sea’s very deep around Samphrey.’ She looked back at Hvidahus. Already the cars and the houses looked tiny. ‘We’d need to strengthen the existing pier, but we already have easy access to the water and there’s a tremendous tidal stream at this point.’

‘Won’t there be problems with the planners? I thought this was a Site of Special Scientific Interest.’ Rhona wanted to show that she’d done her homework too.

‘There won’t be any substantial development. There’s already a building close to the site that could be adapted for the substation.’ Joe Sinclair pointed in the distance to a low stone shed crumbling into disrepair, which squatted on short grass inland from a shingle bank beyond the pier. Rhona looked, but she was already losing interest. Evie was still talking, but Rhona found her list of kilowatts and depths and tide speeds boring. She was more interested in the strategic decisions.

‘It used to be a salmon hatchery,’ Evie said. ‘So officially it already has an industrial use. And we’re not talking a major development. Just an experimental project to check the feasibility at this stage. We’ll walk down that way and I’ll show you.’

‘They’ll need to put in a road to the substation. And improve that to the pier.’ The Fiscal was arguing for its own sake now. Because it was expected of her. Really, she didn’t care. ‘I assume the turbines are substantial pieces of kit.’

But she saw that the scheme might work. Shetland had the confidence to see through grand designs.

‘I’m already putting together funding bids,’ Evie said. ‘There are still grants available for renewable projects. And the Power of Water community programme has already raised a decent sum. We’ll pull in more small investors, when folk start to see that it might become a reality.’

‘I hear there’s an action group, lobbying to prevent the scheme.’

Evie was dismissive. ‘A couple of Nimbys who live in the White House, and a handful of their friends. No real opposition.’

Joe had started walking back down the path towards the hatchery. Perhaps he thought it was more tactful to leave the women together to sort out their differences.

The wind blew a hole in the cloud and a ray of sunshine caught the breaking waves and the pure white of the gannets below. Evie was standing in front of Rhona. All at once the Fiscal had an almost overwhelming impulse to push out, to shove the woman over the cliff. She could imagine herself doing it, had the sensation of movement in her muscles, the touch of Evie’s waterproof jacket on the palms of her hands. Experienced the thrill and the exhilaration of watching the woman fall. Not for a reason that made any sense, but because she
could.
Because she was stronger, more ruthless. Because, as the woman’s body twisted and bounced down the cliff, she would stop feeling helpless.

The sensation scared her. She stepped back, so that Evie was out of her reach even if she raised her arms. She found that she was shaking.
What’s happening to me? What might I do next?
Turning, she saw that Joe had stopped and was staring at her. It was almost as if he’d guessed what she’d been thinking. She hurried to join him.

‘Did you hear that the Walshes held a meeting of the action group on Friday night?’ Joe said.

Evie had joined them. ‘Like I said. They’re a couple of Nimbys. No threat.’

‘I did hear,’ Joe said, ‘that they’d invited Jerry Markham to the meeting.’ He paused. ‘Lucky for us that he died before he could write a story about the scheme. Who knows how he might spin it?’ Rhona was surprised by the facetious tone of the comment; Joe walked on before the women could answer.

They’d arrived at the hatchery. It was built of stone, with a rusting corrugated-iron roof and a concrete floor. Evie pulled open the wooden door. Rhona saw that she was still troubled by Joe’s information about Markham’s link to the protest group.

‘Will the police make a connection between Markham’s death and the project?’ Evie asked. She stood aside so that they could see in. The only light came through the open door. The place smelled of damp and mould and made Rhona nauseous. She stayed where she was.

Joe laughed. ‘Markham had enemies enough. And we’ve done nothing wrong, have we? Why would we want to kill him?’

Chapter Twenty

Willow Reeves was back in the station. The lay-by with the skid marks was taped and guarded, and the mist had cleared enough for the planes to be running. Vicki Hewitt had arrived on the overnight ferry and Sandy had picked her up from the Holmsgarth terminal in Lerwick. They would be at the crime scene now. But Willow was restless and impatient. She got on the phone to Perez. No reception. Willow wanted to know if the manager of the Bonhoga coffee shop had recognized Rhona Laing as the strange woman who’d met Markham on the morning he was killed. Surely Perez should have news by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She still wasn’t sure what she made of the man. She brooded on the matter for a moment and then phoned her DC in Inverness.

‘Have you found any link yet between Rhona Laing and Jerry Markham?’

‘Nothing. And really, Boss, I don’t think there’s anything to find. No contacts in common. I don’t think he ever even reported any of the cases she worked on before she moved to Shetland.’

So it’s here.
Willow stretched. Her muscles were tight and tense. She needed exercise. Yoga. A run.
Whatever was going on between Markham and the Fiscal happened here.
Or were the Shetlanders right, and there
was
no connection?

‘Any news on Markham’s phone?’

‘Not yet. I’ll chase it up again.’

She thought she needed to get more of a handle on the case, a better perspective. Maybe she should meet some of the people involved and not rely on the opinion of the local officers.

She found Evie Watt’s work phone number and tried that. A woman said that Evie was out of the office that morning and passed on a mobile number. That connected, though the reception was poor. It sounded as if Evie was driving, using a hand-free device. Willow introduced herself and suggested that they might meet for lunch. ‘If you haven’t eaten already. That way I don’t take up any work time. I’m a veggie. Verging on the vegan. Can you think of anywhere?’ She sensed that the woman on the other end of the phone was surprised by the call, but after a moment’s silence there was a response.

‘I’ve been out onsite. I’m on my way back to town, but I’ll be there in half an hour. What about the Olive Tree in the Tollclock Centre? Close to work for me, and you’ll find something there to eat.’ Then clear directions.