White Nights (13 page)

‘It seems wrong keeping that dead man in the hut for a whole day.’

‘The fog kept the police from Inverness from getting in.’ The evening before, he’d gone to the bar in Middleton and everyone was talking about it. He’d only stayed for one pint. The pleasure the people took in having a dead body close by seemed unnatural to him. If it was someone they knew they’d have
behaved differently, but some people were even telling jokes.

‘I thought it was suicide. It seems a lot of fuss about a suicide.’

Kenny didn’t know what to say. He thought of the body swinging from the rafter. When he’d told Edith about the dead man she’d been so kind to him and had understood immediately what a shock it had been.

‘Oh my dear, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’

People died occasionally at the care centre. She said she’d never got used to it, but it seemed to him she took everything in her stride.

‘Aggie Watt came here yesterday,’ he said now. ‘She asked if the body could be Lawrence.’

‘It couldn’t be,’ Edith said. Then, ‘Or could it? Surely you’d have recognized your own brother.’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s not Lawrence, but I’d like to see the man again without the mask. I’ve been thinking about it.’ He’d lain awake a long time in the night, worrying about how Lawrence might have changed over the years, whether he might have made a terrible mistake. He’d thought Edith was awake, but he hadn’t told her about his fears, hadn’t felt able to tell her before about Aggie’s visit. He’d needed to sort out in his own mind what he thought before discussing it with her. ‘I wondered if I should ask that Fair Isle man, Jimmy Perez. Would they let me look at him again?’

She thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think you should ask him. I don’t think for a moment it is Lawrence, but it might set your mind at rest.’

Kenny thought he would phone Perez. He wouldn’t wait until the policeman was back at the jetty. He
didn’t want to see the dead man again there. Lying out in a mortuary somewhere, the mask taken from his face, that would be different. More dignified.

All morning while he was working in the field he caught glimpses of Edith. She’d done a pile of washing and once the fog lifted she came to hang it out on the line behind the house. He stopped for a moment and watched her, so deft, lifting the sheets from the basket, folding and stretching them and pinning them on the line. He waited for her to turn and wave to him, but she didn’t seem to notice he was there. When he went down for his coffee, she had just finished washing the kitchen floor. She was on her hands and knees on a folded towel, wiping the last corner with a cloth. He stood in the porch in his stockinged feet. Again she must have heard him come in, but she didn’t acknowledge his presence until she’d finished. Then she turned and smiled at him.

‘Just wait for a minute until it dries.’ She was still kneeling at his feet and had to tilt her head to look up at him.

‘Why don’t we walk down to the Herring House?’ he said. ‘Get one of Martin’s posh coffees there. He’ll surely be open now.’

‘I can’t go looking like this.’ But he could tell she was pleased by the suggestion.

‘Why not? You look lovely. You always look lovely.’

They walked down the track together, hand in hand. Kenny felt as if he was on holiday too. He took a quick look towards the jetty. There was a police car there and tape stretched right across the entrance, but nothing much seemed to be happening. He guessed that the police from Inverness hadn’t arrived yet.

The café at the Herring House let in all the light whatever time of day it was. Extra windows had been built into the wall facing the water.

There were more people there than you’d usually get on a weekday morning, and Kenny recognized some of them. A couple of elderly ladies from Middleton who’d taken a trip out in case there was anything to see. They turned out for any reported accident or disaster. A journalist from the
Shetland Times
. It occurred to Kenny that the plane bringing in the Inverness police would also be carrying reporters from the national press. Now he was here he felt awkward. He supposed he and Edith were just like the others; they’d come to the Herring House in hope of news.

Martin Williamson came out from the kitchen to take their order. He had a light, almost dancing, way of walking that made Kenny think of a racehorse just before it went into the stalls. Kenny nodded at the other customers. ‘At least it’s good for business, then, having a dead body next door.’

Martin grinned. ‘Aye. I’ll not be sorry when they take it away though. It seems kind of weird, leaving it there all night. Mother’s in a right state about it. I don’t think she slept.’

‘I know she’s upset. She came to see me yesterday.’

‘You can’t blame her,’ Edith said. ‘When you think what happened to your father. It must bring it all back.’

‘Have you heard when the police from Inverness will get here?’ Kenny asked. He was thinking that Perez hadn’t phoned him back. When the dead man was taken away he’d have a chance to see him, then he’d know for certain that it couldn’t be Lawrence.
The more he struggled to conjure his brother’s features in his head, the more they became blurred and slid away from him.

‘First plane out of Aberdeen,’ Martin said. ‘They’ll be in any time.’

Kenny asked for a cappuccino for Edith and a latte for himself. They always had the same when they came here. Because it seemed like a holiday he added a couple of pieces of cake to the order and Martin danced away.

They’d almost finished when Roddy Sinclair made an entrance. He stood at the door and heads turned. Everyone recognized him and there was a brief moment of silence before the conversation continued. He looked as if he’d just got out of his bed. His hair was tousled and he still seemed half asleep. Or maybe, Kenny thought, he’d been up all night. He didn’t find a table and wait for Martin to take his order, but walked towards the kitchen, leaned on the doorframe and shouted in.

‘Double espresso. Strong as you like.’ There were other people at the tables waiting to order, but nobody seemed to mind him jumping the queue. Typical Sinclair, Kenny thought. They’re arrogant, the lot of them. Across the tables, one of the Middleton old ladies smiled at the boy and gave him a little wave. Kenny thought that was typical too. Women would let the Sinclair boy get away with anything.

Roddy tilted his body away from the doorframe so he was standing upright.

‘Fantastic view from here,’ he said. ‘It always surprises me.’ He sauntered towards them. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘We’ll be going soon,’ Kenny said, but the boy seemed not to hear and sat down anyway. Outside now there was strong sunshine. A sailing boat was on the water halfway to the horizon. Kenny tried to work out who might own it and decided it didn’t belong to anyone local.

Roddy leaned forward across the table. ‘I understand you were the one to find the body.’ His accent was just as strong as when he’d been a boy. Kenny wondered if he practised at night in his Glasgow flat, in the hotel rooms in exotic cities. It was his trademark. He nodded.

Martin carried across the coffee. Roddy nodded his thanks, but continued to look at Kenny, and waited till Martin had moved away before continuing the conversation.

‘You’re sure he was a stranger?’ he asked. ‘You’d never seen him before?’

Kenny allowed himself to be distracted a moment by the smell of the espresso. If it tasted as good as it smelled he could be converted too. He didn’t want to make a scene here in front of Edith, but he wanted to tell Roddy Sinclair to mind his own business. What right did he have to interrupt them here? Spoil the time he had with his wife?

‘I didn’t recognize the man,’ Kenny said.

‘He was here at Bella’s launch,’ Roddy said. ‘But I didn’t take much notice of him then.’

‘You saw him alive?’

Kenny almost asked Roddy if the man could have been Lawrence, but what would Roddy know? Lawrence had left when Roddy was still a small boy. He was living in Lerwick with his parents and only
came to Biddista to visit Bella. He had been an annoying boy even then, spoiled, running wild about the place.

‘Yes. I wish I’d talked to him. If we knew who he was and where he’d come from, we could just get back to normal.’

What would you know about normal? Kenny thought. It seemed a strange thing for the boy to say. Normal was the last thing Roddy had ever wanted. He wanted drama, a different woman every night. Surely he’d be enjoying this small excitement.

Roddy turned to Edith. ‘What do you make of all this?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It sounds very callous, but I can’t get excited by the death of a man I didn’t know.’

Roddy was about to answer, but he was interrupted by the sound of a car driving down the road outside. Two cars. Everyone’s attention was turned to the window. The old ladies from Middleton stood up so they could get a better view. Quite shameless. Despite himself, Kenny swivelled round in his chair so he could see too.

Jimmy Perez got out of one of the cars. With him was a tall, heavily built man with a bald dome of a head. You could tell even from this distance that he was the boss. There were two other men and a woman, and a couple of police officers Kenny recognized: Sandy from Whalsay and young Morag. Suddenly he didn’t want to be here any more, staring down at the spectacle like children at the circus. He stood up and waited for Edith to follow him home.

Roy Taylor wasn’t sure what he felt about being back in Shetland. Certainly he was pleased to have finally arrived; all that waiting in Aberdeen had made him feel he was about to explode. And at least they’d got in on the plane. He hadn’t liked to tell the rest of the team – he didn’t believe leaders should admit to weakness, all that sharing, caring stuff wasn’t for him – but he felt queasy on the Mersey ferry. An overnight crossing on the boat and he knew he’d have thrown up.

Now, standing at the front of the queue waiting to get off the plane, that memory of the Mersey ferry suddenly made him homesick. A series of images played in sentimental succession in his head. The view of the Liverpool skyline from the river, Scouse voices in busy pubs, singing his heart and soul out in the Kop on a Saturday afternoon. It made him wonder if it wasn’t finally time to go back. His father was dead and couldn’t hurt him now. He dwelled briefly on the possibility of returning, then pushed it from his mind. He had other things to think about.

He’d headed for Inverness because it was the farthest place from home he could find. There’d been a masochistic pleasure in landing in a town so alien, so
unlike anywhere he would otherwise have chosen to live. As if he’d wanted to punish himself as well as the family he’d left behind. And now he was back in Shetland, which was even more remote and more strange.

The plane door opened. He took the steps at a trot and strode across the tarmac to the little door in the terminal building. He’d given instructions that his team should only bring carry-on luggage. They’d wasted enough time and he didn’t want them hanging around again for the stuff from the hold to appear.

Jimmy Perez was waiting for them. They’d worked well together on a previous investigation and had got on, perhaps because they had such different styles. If Perez had been a full-time member of his team, Taylor would have found the unconventional attitude, the long hair and the lack of urgency irritating. Here in Shetland, the quiet approach seemed to work. Perhaps too well. Taylor had always been competitive, and mixed with the affection was a residual resentment because Perez had been credited with solving the Catherine Ross case.

All the same he greeted Perez with warmth, taking his hand and clapping him on the back.

‘How’re things, Jimmy?’

The rest of the group should know that there would be no territorial rivalry on the case. Besides, it couldn’t be easy for Perez to have a senior officer fly in to take over the most interesting cases. Taylor himself wouldn’t be able to bear it.

They drove north and west, missing Lerwick, the only place in the islands where Taylor had felt anything like at home. At least in Lerwick there were shops and bars, chip shops and curry houses. If he
thought of the space all around him, he felt giddy and nauseous. It was the sleepless night in the Holiday Inn in Aberdeen, he thought. Once he got stuck into the investigation he’d feel on top of his game once more.

To pull himself back he began to fire questions at Perez, who was driving.

‘Are you telling me that in a place as small as this no one can put a name to him?’ He knew Perez would resent the tone, but couldn’t help himself.

Perez paused for a moment before answering. ‘We get fifty thousand visitors a year. Many of them have little contact with local people. It’s not that surprising it’s taking a while to trace him.’

‘All the same, someone must have missed him by now. A guesthouse. Hotel.’

Perez didn’t answer. He had this knack of keeping quiet if he had nothing to say. Taylor had never been able to master it.

The cars slowed down and they pulled up next to a small jetty. It looked to Taylor that they were in the middle of nowhere. You couldn’t call it a village. A couple of houses built along the road and that was it. On the way they’d passed the gallery, which was built almost on the beach. It seemed an odd set-up to Taylor. Who would come all this way to look at a few pictures? Perez had roused himself from his silence to explain that that was the last place the victim had been seen alive.

‘I was there,’ he said. ‘At a party to celebrate the opening of the exhibition.’ Taylor thought he had more to say but was waiting for another time, when there was nobody else listening. He reminded himself to ask him about it when they were alone.

He got out of the car to the shrieking seabirds and the smell of seaweed and bird shit. Behind the row of low houses the hill rose steeply. He thought, Why would anyone want to live here? He recognized it from a documentary there’d been about the folk musician Roddy Sinclair. Quite a long sequence had been taken in Biddista; the camera followed him round the place, showed him talking to the crofters, visiting the shop, drinking with his mates. Then it had been back to London and Glasgow, the music and the groupies.