Shetland 05: Dead Water (33 page)

‘It’s the same as the one Jerry Markham sent to Annabel,’ she said. ‘There were others in his briefcase next to the body.’

‘There’ll be hundreds of them floating around Shetland,’ Perez said. ‘They were handing them out free in the Bonhoga. It could mean nothing.’

But she could tell that he believed it was more important than that. ‘If it had come loose from a bouquet or a gift, surely it would have a message on it,’ she said.

‘That was my thought.’

‘So, Jimmy, what conclusion have you come to? What was this thing doing there?’

‘The killer could have taken it from Markham’s briefcase.’ His voice was quiet, tentative. Was he worried that she would mock him for his ideas? Surely he must know her better than that.

‘A trophy, you mean?’ She frowned.

‘Or a memento.’

‘And then he left it at the place where John Henderson died. Why would he do that?’ Willow was struggling to understand this.

‘I don’t know. To link the killings. As a sign? A message?’

‘Who to?’ Perhaps Perez
is
crazy, she thought. Perhaps he was right when he said he was mad.

‘Ah.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘That’s the important question, isn’t it?’

‘To Evie Watt, do you think?’ Willow found herself groping towards an explanation. ‘Perhaps she did meet Markham in the Bonhoga, after all. Perhaps he passed on information. Something he’d discovered in his research.’ Suddenly she was excited. She could feel the possibility that she might connect all these unrelated strands of the investigations. ‘His story. The story that brought him to Shetland in the first place. Something to do with her work? The green energy? The Fiscal was on the working party for the tidal-power project. The Power of Water. Perhaps that’s the reason Markham’s body was left on the water at Aith. Another message. To a twisted mind. And Markham met Henderson too, perhaps looking for more information, or giving it. And the postcard is a message to Evie to keep her mouth shut. What do you think, Jimmy?’

She could tell he was considering the theory, running through the facts in his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it could have worked that way.’ She thought he seemed almost relieved. She wanted to ask him what weird and dreadful scenario he’d conjured up.
Why is my theory so much more attractive to you?
But she was a detective and not a shrink, and she was exhilarated because all these disparate facts were finally hanging together. So instead she concentrated on actions for the day.

‘I’d like to see Joe Sinclair.’ She looked at Perez. ‘He was on the working party with Rhona Laing and Evie, but not a suspect in any way that I can see. An impartial witness. And I’d like to see the site for the tidal-energy project. He could talk me through it, couldn’t he? All the technical stuff?’

Perez hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

‘I was thinking I’d take Sandy with me,’ she went on. ‘Let him out of the office for a while.’
And there’s no way I can put up with your moods today.

Perez nodded again. She stood up, irritated by his silence.

‘Would you mind if I spoke to Rhona?’ he asked. She was on her way out and she had to turn to look at him. ‘I know you saw her yesterday, but she left a message on the answer phone the evening before. Wanting to talk to me. You wouldn’t mind?’

She froze, her hand on the door, revisited by the old suspicion that Rhona and Perez might be colluding over some part of the investigation. But if that was the case, Perez had no need to ask her permission before talking to the woman. He could just have picked up the phone. At least now he was keeping her informed.

‘Of course, Jimmy. But don’t give her any details. Nothing about the postcard or these recent ideas. I don’t have to tell you that.’

He nodded again and she left the room.

They met Sinclair at the lighthouse at Hvidahus Point. Sandy was full of energy, like a dog that’s been locked up overnight and is ready for a run. Sinclair had seemed unbothered by the request to leave his office and talk them through the project. The fog wasn’t so thick here, but the day was still damp and grey and there was limited visibility, so the cliffs seemed to drop forever towards the sea, to disappear into the murk where the air met the water. There were few cliffs on North Uist, and Willow had always felt uncomfortable with height. She had the feeling that she might be sucked over the edge, or even that she might be pulled there by an irresistible temptation to jump. Just to experience the sensation of falling, of hurtling towards the water like a diving gannet.

Willow judged Sinclair to be in his sixties, but he walked without effort across the cropped grass. He was happy to tell them what he knew about the new energy project. He was a natural lecturer, concise and simple. ‘There are two forms of potential green energy to be harnessed from the water,’ he said. ‘With wave power, the mechanisms float on the surface and it’s the movement that generates the energy. Tidal power is quite different. For that there are turbines underneath the water. Imagine the wind turbines that we’re all used to – like the ones in the wind farm on the hill just outside Lerwick. The only difference is that these are powered by the tide instead of the wind.’ He paused, ignoring Sandy running after him, to check that Willow was taking in the information.

‘And what’s being planned for here?’ she asked.

‘Both eventually.’ He led them down a steep bank so that they were almost at water level. ‘This will be an experimental site, remember. But first we’re concentrating on the tide. There’s a tremendous race between here and the island of Samphrey. There are stories from local boys about the power of the water at this point. They say there’s only twenty minutes of slack tide at low water. When they were laying the pipes to Sullom Voe, Delta Marine did a rescue exercise – they threw a dummy into the sea to practise pulling in a man who’d fallen overboard. The dummy disappeared in seconds, sucked under by the currents, and was never seen again.’

‘What stage are you at?’ Willow still wasn’t sure how any of this was relevant.

‘We’re ready to set up a pilot project, using a local company to build most of the components and another to install the turbines. We need to strengthen the pier and rebuild the old hatchery close to it, widen the track a tad, but that won’t take long.’ Sinclair spoke with a breezy optimism.

‘I thought there was some local opposition to the plans.’

‘Incomers,’ Sinclair said. ‘They’re more interested in the view than in providing a livelihood for our people. And Francis Watt, who’d have us all still cutting our crops with a scythe and milking our cows by hand, writing his nonsense in the
Shetland Times
.’

‘This should mean jobs for Shetlanders then?’

‘That’s the plan. The scheme will be evaluated by a scientist from RGU in Aberdeen. He was up the other day.’

‘And the Fiscal?’ Willow asked. ‘What’s her role in the working group?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Rhona Laing is an ambitious woman. She gets on top of a subject quickly and easily. Shetland suits her fine at the moment, but I’d not be surprised if she moves on before long. We’re too far from the centre of power for her. Let’s say that she has a game plan for the future. Gaining knowledge and influence in an area that’ll increase in importance is part of that plan. And from the working group’s perspective, it’s always useful to have a lawyer on board.’

The mist had turned into a fine drizzle.

‘Can we see the hatchery?’ This was Sandy, wanting to get inside and out of the wet.

‘Sure.’ Sinclair led them down the path, past the pier towards a low shed. A shingle bank protected it from the water.

‘Who’s providing the finance?’ The question had come to Willow as they approached the building. The roof was missing stone tiles and the walls were crumbling in places. It would take considerable funds to get this weathertight.

‘It’s a partnership project,’ Sinclair said, ‘between the Islands Council and a number of private investors.’ He answered immediately and the words were smooth and easy, but she sensed a slight discomfort. And he unbolted the door to the hatchery and pushed it open too quickly, as if he hoped to distract them.

‘And who are the major investors?’ Willow stood on the threshold and looked in. A smell of damp and something faintly chemical. There was mould on the stone flags and oily puddles where the roof had leaked.

Sinclair said nothing.

‘You must know,’ she persisted. ‘You’re part of the working group.’

‘We put together a consortium,’ he said. ‘Local people. We see water power as the technology of the future and we want a part of it.’

‘So you’ve put money into the project? You didn’t see that as a conflict of interest, as a member of the working party?’ Willow wished she knew how these things worked and what was normal.

‘We’d all invested.’ Now Sinclair was sounding defensive. ‘Me, Evie Watt and Rhona Laing. Putting our money where our mouth was. That’s how we saw it. But we’re not talking big sums here. There are a lot of investors. It was all quite open and above board. There was an article in the
Shetland Times
and we made it clear that we’d welcome as many people as possible to join us.’

‘Was the article written by Jerry Markham?’ The question was sharper than she’d intended.

‘No, no. He’d left long before we started planning this.’

Willow moved away from the door of the hatchery. ‘I’ll need a list of all the people involved,’ she said. The rain was harder now. She headed back towards the car. The ground was boggy and her feet were already wet.

Sinclair walked quickly to catch her up. ‘John Henderson had invested.’ It sounded like a confession. ‘That’s how he and Evie first got together. At our first meeting. He said that if the project was happening on his doorstep, he wanted a say in how it developed.’

She stopped in her tracks and turned on Sinclair. Sandy, walking close behind her, almost bumped into her. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

‘Peter and Maria Markham,’ Sinclair said. ‘They were members of the consortium too.’

Chapter Forty-One

Perez waited in the incident room until Willow and Sandy had left the building. They went out noisily, shouting their goodbyes to the officer on the desk. Then the building seemed unnaturally quiet. He went to the staffroom and made himself more coffee and prepared for his encounter with Rhona Laing. He’d already decided that he needed to talk to her in person, but that he should go through the proper channels and make an appointment.

His first call was to her office. It was nine o’clock now and she should be there. She was famous for being early. He got through to a local woman called Heather, who worked on reception and provided secretarial support for the Fiscal’s office.

‘I’m afraid Ms Laing isn’t in yet. Would you like to call back later?’

‘But you are expecting her at work today?’

A pause. Then some carefully chosen words. ‘Ms Laing hasn’t informed us that she won’t be in.’

‘But you’d normally have expected her in the office by now?’

‘Yes,’ Heather said. ‘I would. Or a phone call saying she’d be late.’

Perez considered. On the other end of the line he could sense Heather’s concern. ‘And she hasn’t been herself lately?’

‘No.’ Heather hesitated again, then the words came out as a rush. ‘Not since she found that body. But the Fiscal has seen dead bodies before. You wouldn’t think it would be such a big problem for her.’

There was another silence.

‘Would you normally buy Ms Laing’s plane tickets for her and make her travel arrangements?’ Perez asked.

‘Only if it was work-related. Not her personal travel.’

‘Has she mentioned a trip south to you?’

‘No, but then she probably wouldn’t.’ Heather paused. ‘She doesn’t talk much about her life outside the office.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be in soon.’ Perez replaced the receiver with a sudden and intense sense of anxiety. It was as if his world was shifting again. He had never liked Rhona Laing, had found her too shiny and slippery and certain. But he’d respected her. He wished he knew what was happening here, and that he’d tried harder to get hold of her the day before. He should have known that she’d never confide in Willow Reeves and that it must have been important for her to ask for his help.

He phoned Rhona’s home number, suspecting there would be no response, even as he dialled. Then he sat at the table in the big room. It had filled up with people, but he hardly noticed them. The chat and movement provided a blurred background to his thoughts.

He should check the airport and the ferry terminal to see if Rhona Laing had booked tickets south. But that would cause talk: it would get out that the police were investigating the Fiscal. Perez suspected that Reg Gilbert had spies in both airport and ferry company, and the last thing Perez needed was a spiteful, insinuating editorial in the
Shetland Times
.

So he stood up suddenly, picked up his coat and headed for the door. Only halfway down the corridor did he think that his behaviour might have seemed strange to his colleagues. He’d barged out of the room without a word. But now it was too late to go back.

On the pavement just outside the police station, on his way to his car, he bumped into Peter Markham. Perez was so preoccupied, so concentrated in his thoughts, that he didn’t see the man and almost stumbled over the briefcase at his feet. And for a moment he didn’t recognize Markham. Perez was accustomed to seeing him at the Ravenswick Hotel and here, out of context, he seemed slighter, rather shabby and nervous. Almost elderly. An old-fashioned commercial traveller, with his case of samples.

‘Jimmy!’ Markham seemed relieved to see him. ‘I was just going to the police station.’

‘Have you thought of anything that might help?’ Perez felt awkward, confused still, disorientated, standing here in the grey mist that felt more like November than spring.

Markham lifted the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought cuttings. All the articles Jerry wrote since he moved south. Maria kept them. I don’t know how useful they’ll be . . .’ His voice tailed off. ‘I wondered if you had any information, if Annabel and her father had thrown any light on the investigation. It was hard to tell when they came to visit us. It was all rather awkward.’ The man pulled up the collar of his waxed jacket. ‘Look, could we get a coffee? I can’t face going back to Maria yet. Not without something to tell her.’