Shetland 05: Dead Water (4 page)

‘What car did Jerry drive?’ he asked.

‘An Alfa Romeo.’ Markham was still holding his wife to his chest, rocking slightly as if he were comforting a fretful baby. ‘One of the small, sporty ones. Red, of course. A ridiculous thing. Old now. He bought it when he first moved to London.’

‘Maria said Jerry was here to work.’ Sandy couldn’t imagine what a fancy reporter from a London paper was doing in Shetland. How could what was happening here be of interest there?

‘Jerry said there was a story.’ Markham spoke quietly. Maria was so still now that Sandy wondered if she’d passed out, if she’d worn herself out with her sobbing. Markham stroked her hair. ‘He’d persuaded his boss it was worth following up and that he’d be the best person to do it, because of his local connections. So he’d get a few days home, all expenses paid, and the chance of a scoop too.’

‘What was the story about?’ Outside there was a sudden burst of laughter. Local diners were making their way to their cars and home.

Markham shrugged. ‘He’d asked if I could get him into Sullom Voe. Did I still have any contacts there? I thought there’d be nothing at the terminal that would interest the paper. The oil’s running out, after all. That place is old news. But I arranged for him to visit the press officer.’

‘And that was where he was today?’

‘Yes,’ Markham said. ‘That was where he was today. We were expecting him back for dinner; when he didn’t turn up, we thought he’d bumped into old friends. You know how it is here, coming back. I tried to phone, but there was no answer. No reception, we thought. It never occurred to me that anything would have happened to him. We worried about him sometimes in London. But not here. Here we expect everyone to be safe.’

He was still talking when Sandy stood up. Sandy thought Markham was reluctant now to let the detective go. His face was tight with the effort of holding himself together. With just Maria for company, he’d not manage it.

Sandy drove north again. The windows were still lit in Jimmy’s house. He wanted to stop and ask advice.
What should I do first? Tell me how I should run things.
But he drove past and went to the office, got onto the computer to check the registration number of Jerry Markham’s car, phoned Davy Cooper, who was on watch at the marina, and asked him to wander round the car park and see if it was there. Sandy hadn’t noticed it, and he thought he would have noticed such a flash car. Morag had left a note that she’d fixed accommodation for the Inverness team in Lerwick.

Sandy returned to his flat in the early hours of the morning. He switched on the television, with the sound very low – a young family lived underneath him and he didn’t want to wake them. He drank a can of Tennent’s without bothering to get a glass, then set his alarm clock and went to bed. He slept immediately. Even when he was worried, Sandy Wilson had no trouble sleeping. Jimmy Perez had always said that was a gift. Sandy thought it was one of the few he possessed.

Chapter Six

It was Willow Reeves’s first murder investigation as SIO. The boss had called her into the office and said he’d like her to take it on. ‘It takes a special sort of understanding to work in Shetland. They’re on the edge of the known universe up there and they think the normal rules of life don’t apply to them. They’re mad buggers.’ The implication was that she was a mad bugger too – though she came from the far west and not the far north – and that for her the case would be a piece of piss. No pressure then. If he’d known exactly where she’d come from, and how her family had been, he’d really have considered that she was crazy, but she never talked about that at work. What business was it of theirs?

They landed in Sumburgh on the first flight out of Inverness and her initial thought was how big and grand everything was. It was like a real airport, with the car-hire office and the lounge and the cafe. Everything shiny in the sunshine. Vicki Hewitt, the CSI, had worked in Shetland before and greeted the sergeant who met them like an old friend. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘How’s Jimmy Perez?’

The sergeant shrugged and muttered in an accent Willow struggled to understand. ‘Not so good. It’s taking a long time.’

They all knew the story of Jimmy Perez and how his fiancée had got caught up in a murder investigation on Fair Isle, how she’d been stabbed by a psycho and how Jimmy blamed himself. It had been talked about in canteens throughout the Highland and Islands Police for months. There were people who blamed Jimmy too. What was he thinking, involving his woman in his work? Willow had never expressed an opinion. One thing she’d learned growing up in the commune in North Uist was that often it was best to keep your mouth shut. At least until you knew what you were talking about.

The sergeant drove them north up a fine, straight road, pointing out landmarks on the way as if he were a tour guide. She had hundreds of questions to ask him about the case. Overnight she’d read the preliminary report from Shetland and everything she could find about Jerry Markham. In her briefcase there was a file of cuttings of the stories he’d written. ‘Tell me about Markham,’ she said at last.

Sandy Wilson didn’t seem offended by the interruption. ‘His father was from the south,’ he said. ‘But his mother was a Shetland woman, and Jerry was born here and grew up here.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Oh aye, but I’ve not seen him since he moved to London.’

‘So you wouldn’t know why anyone would want to kill him? There were no rumours? No stories of enemies or grudges?’ She understood that in small, tight communities grudges could be held for generations.

‘He worked as a reporter on the
Shetland Times
for a while,’ Sandy said. ‘Before he got that chance to work on the London newspaper. It didn’t always make him popular. Folk don’t like their dirty washing done in public. And it’s read by everyone. Maybe he thought he was practising for the big time while he was here, always on the lookout for the exciting story. But that was ten years ago. I don’t think it could be the cause of him getting killed yesterday.’

Suddenly he crossed the road and pulled the car into a lay-by. He nodded down the bank towards a big house that stood right on the shore. It was built of grey stone and there was a high stone wall all round it.

‘That’s the Ravenswick Hotel,’ Sandy said. ‘Jerry’s parents own it. Peter and Maria Markham.’

‘What do local people make of them?’ Willow thought it must be expensive, keeping a place like that going. None of the hotels on the Uists were that big or that smart.

‘They like them fine. It’s work for local people. The place is a bit pricey, but it always seems to be busy. It’s for tourists and folk here on business, but the locals eat in the bar or in the restaurant if they have something special to celebrate.’ And Sandy continued giving a history of the Markhams. Willow thought he’d go back a couple of generations, if she encouraged him. But she liked that. She liked to know that these people had roots. Her roots had very shallow soil to grow in. As Sandy talked she wished she’d thought to take a notebook from her rucksack to write it all down.

Lerwick seemed like a big town, with traffic lights and supermarkets and factories on the edge of it. ‘Do you want to drop your stuff at the hotel,’ Sandy said, ‘or should we go straight to Aith to look at the crime scene?’

‘To Aith.’ It was Vicki Hewitt, shouting from the back. ‘The poor man has been there all night. That’s long enough, don’t you think? Has James seen him yet?’

James Grieve, the pathologist, was based in Aberdeen. Willow had never met him and felt a little excluded. It was like being the new girl at school and not quite fitting into the established gang, no matter how kind the other children were.

‘He should be there by now,’ Sandy said. ‘The Aberdeen flight is the first one in, and we fixed a lift for him.’ Already they were leaving the town behind and driving north past giant wind turbines spinning slowly on the hill. The land seemed bare and windblown. There were no trees, not even planted conifers. ‘Morag met him.’

Aith was away from the main road. Willow had checked it out on the OS map at home the night before. This was a single-track with occasional passing places, and it ran across bare hillside and peat bog. There were views of water everywhere: of the sea, salt-water inlets and small lochs. When they did meet a car, the driver waved or nodded.
In a place like this strangers would be noticed, wouldn’t they?
Though she supposed that the place attracted tourists and they might explore away from the main roads too.

Dropping down to the settlement, she saw evidence of the investigation even from a distance. More cars than you’d expect. The blue-and-white police tape twisting in the breeze. A group of people showing unnatural interest in one big rowing boat, which had now been winched up onto the jetty so that the pathologist could get a good look at the body
in situ
. As she watched, a white tent was erected around it. There were gawpers, of course. Even in a small community like this there’d be sightseers who thought it’d be interesting or exciting to see a dead body. Here, a couple of old men and a handful of children gathered on the edge of the action.

‘We’ve taken over the school for the weekend,’ Sandy said suddenly. ‘It has Internet connection, phones and a kitchen so that we can feed the troops. Toilets.’ He paused and she realized suddenly that he was waiting for her approval. It would never have occurred to her that he’d need it. This was his territory after all.

‘Good!’ she said. ‘Great idea.’ And she watched him relax and beam.

They parked in the school playground. Walking towards the jetty, they were approached not by the suited and booted police officers or the pathologist, but by a middle-aged woman who was standing just outside the cordon. When she saw Willow she held out her hand. ‘Rhona Laing,’ she said. ‘I’m the Procurator Fiscal.’ She had an Edinburgh accent. Classy Edinburgh, clipped and glacial. She wore a tweed jacket over a cashmere sweater and grey wool trousers. Sensible shoes that managed not to look dowdy. ‘You must be Inspector Reeves. I understand that you’re to be in charge of the investigation.’ She allowed just enough surprise into her voice to annoy Willow. People were always thinking she didn’t look the part. It wasn’t her fault if she wasn’t what they were expecting. ‘You’ll be reporting to me while you’re here.’

‘Of course.’ Willow returned the handshake and wondered why women in power felt the need to play games. ‘You found the body, I understand, in the racing yoal.’

‘As I explained to Sergeant Wilson.’ The Fiscal nodded. There was a breeze from the sea, but her hair didn’t move. Either she’d had a fantastic haircut or used a serious amount of spray.

‘And you live locally?’

‘In the Old Schoolhouse.’ Rhona Laing nodded to a square, solid house on the bank behind them. ‘I thought some children had pushed the yoal into the water for a prank and I went to retrieve it.’ She gave a little smile, but her eyes were wary.

‘Thanks very much for coming to meet us.’ Willow made her voice sincere. She’d been in the drama club for a while at uni. ‘Perhaps we could take up a little more of your time when we’ve finished here. If you’ll be in, that is. I don’t want to eat into your weekend, and I don’t know how long we’ll be.’ She glanced towards the white tent, making it clear that she was keen to move on.

There was a pause.

‘Of course,’ Rhona Laing said. ‘I’ll make myself available.’

It was only as they’d put on the paper scene-suits and pulled the boots over their shoes that it occurred to Willow that the Fiscal had expected to be invited to join them. The older woman hadn’t realized that finding the body had put her in an ambiguous situation. Legally she was supervising the investigation, but she was a witness and might even become a suspect.

James Grieve, the pathologist, was walking away from the body. Well outside the cordon he stripped off the scene-suit. He was a small man, smart and dapper, with shiny black shoes. He greeted Vicki with a smile and a peck on the cheek. ‘Miss Hewitt, we should stop meeting like this.’

Willow introduced herself. She felt awkward because she was taller than him. And a whole lot younger. She should be accustomed to both these things by now.

‘Inspector.’ He gave a gallant little bow. ‘I’m away back to civilization. Or at least to Aberdeen. Everything, I suppose, is comparative. I’m assuming that you’ll be too tied up here to be present at the postmortem. You can give me a ring tomorrow. Early afternoon. I’ve arranged for the body to go south on this evening’s ferry and I should have something for you then.’

‘Cause of death?’ she asked.

He raised his eyebrows as if she were an impertinent schoolgirl who was pushing her luck in class. Then he smiled. ‘It looks as if he was hit very hard by the traditional blunt instrument. But after a quick glance at the body, you’d be able to tell that for yourself.’ He bowed again and walked away.

Vicki Hewitt was already taking photographs inside the white tent. The yoal was bigger than Willow had expected, about twenty feet long, big enough for six people to sit in pairs to row. Jerry Markham was lying on his back across the wooden seats. It looked uncomfortable. His head and feet protruded beyond the bench into space at each end, so that his head was tilted backwards. His shoes were obviously expensive. To annoy her parents, Willow had once gone out with an army officer. He’d always worn good shoes too, and something about the stiff and awkward posture of the man in the boat reminded her of him. Though not enough for her to recall the soldier’s name.

Markham’s arms were folded across his chest and again there was something formal about the pose; certainly he hadn’t fallen here after being struck. At his feet was a slim black briefcase, large enough to hold an electronic notebook perhaps, but not a conventional laptop. It occurred to Willow that, if it had contained anything useful, the killer would have taken it away. He or she was unconcerned about the remaining contents, and knew that they would provide no clue to their identity. It was even possible, given its prominence in the crime scene, that it was important to the murderer that the police should see whatever was inside. Willow stored that idea away for later.