Authors: Ann Cleeves
‘Where are we going?’ she asked again, keeping her voice even. ‘I didn’t know there was anywhere to eat down here.’
‘Just be patient,’ he said. ‘You’ll see soon enough.’
Perhaps this was a new hotel, she thought, though she surely would have heard about its opening and there’d been no sign on the main road. Besides, when they got closer she could see it was empty, almost derelict. There were slates missing on the roof and the windowframes were rotten, the paint entirely peeled away. Frayed threadbare curtains hung at the windows.
She thought he was waiting for more questions. He wanted her to ask about the house, what they were doing there. She said nothing.
The track came to an end by the entrance to the small garden. Tall double gates, rusting, stood slightly open. Beyond, the vegetation was surprisingly lush and overgrown, an oasis which had somehow survived the battering of the westerlies. There were more irises, a patch of rhododendron.
Fran wondered if he’d taken the road by mistake. She sat, expecting him to turn the car round, but he was opening his door.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrived.’ Now his excitement was unsophisticated. He was like a child desperate to show off a new achievement.
She followed him. What else could she do? He put his weight behind the gate to make the gap wide enough for her to squeeze through. The long grass behind it stopped it opening further. A path led to another smaller gate at the top of a shallow cliff and steps cut into the rock. The beach below was tiny, a perfect half-moon of sand. Beyond was a flat grassy island.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What do you think?’
She was wondering where they were going to eat. Why had he brought her here? Had she mistaken the nature of his invitation?
Perhaps he could guess what was going through her mind.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch it from the car. I thought we could have it on the beach. That is all right?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’
‘I only found this place a couple of days ago and I wanted someone else to see it. It’s so perfect.’
‘A secret garden,’ she said, reassured by his excitement. He wasn’t a stranger. He was a famous writer. His photo was on his website along with the jackets of his books.
‘Yes! Yes!’ He was beaming. ‘But you probably know it already. You’re a local after all.’
Oh no, she thought. I’ll never be a local.
‘I’ve not been here before,’ she said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’ She could tell he wanted her to be as excited as he was and realized she sounded like a polite child who’d been taken out for an unwanted treat. But the lunch date was turning out to be so different from what she’d been expecting that she wasn’t
quite sure how to respond. She’d imagined a lunch in a crowded restaurant, conversation about art and books. Not a picnic on the beach.
The food was in a cold-bag. Wilding carried it from the car with a woven rug, which he draped over his shoulder. It made him look as if he was in fancy dress and only added to Fran’s sense of unreality.
‘I cheated,’ he said. ‘I asked Martin Williamson from the Herring House to put something together for me. I hope that’s OK.’
He set off down the steps in the cliff without waiting for an answer.
On the beach, sheltered from the breeze, it felt very warm. Warmer than Fran could ever remember feeling in Shetland. The sand was white and fine. Seals were hauled up on rocks at the end of the island. Wilding spread out the rug. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him unpack the picnic. He took out a bottle of wine, still chilled so the glass was misty, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket with a flourish, and opened it. There were real glasses. But Fran thought the heat and the light had made her feel slightly drunk already.
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I was house-hunting.’
‘The house is for sale?’
‘Not exactly.’ He gave a sudden wide grin. ‘Not any more.’
‘You’ve bought it?’ It seemed to her an astonishing thing to do on the spur of the moment. He hadn’t even been in Shetland that long. She thought of Perez, the agonizing there’d been over his future, where he
would live. She admired Wilding’s ability to take a life-changing decision so lightly.
‘Once I saw it I had to have it. I tracked down the owner and put in an offer. A very good offer. I don’t think she’ll turn it down. It was left to an elderly woman who lives in Perth and she hardly ever visits. I can’t show you round the house. I haven’t got a key yet. I’ll hear for certain at the beginning of next week. I would like to see what you make of it. It’s to be a project. I was hoping you might advise on the design.’
So, she thought, we’ll have more excuses to meet. Still she wasn’t sure what she felt about that. Of course he hadn’t bought the house just to provide an opportunity to spend time with her, but still she felt she was being manipulated, that she, like the house, was one of his projects.
Now the food was spread out on the rug. There were squares of pâté and little bowls of salad, chicken and ham and home-made bread.
‘I do hope you’re not a vegetarian,’ he said. ‘I should have asked.’ He smiled and she could tell he knew already the food would be to her taste. He must have asked around – Bella or Martin. She supposed she should be flattered that he’d put so much preparation into the lunch, but found the careful planning disturbing. And he had made the assumption that she would accept the invitation to eat with him, since the food must have been ordered before the call was made. But she drank more wine and turned her face to the sun. She wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.
‘What a terrible business that murder was,’ he said. ‘Do the police know yet who he was?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard the news today.’
‘But wouldn’t you hear before the rest of us?’ He reached across her to fill her glass again. ‘I understand that you’re a close friend of the inspector.’
She sipped the wine. She wished she wasn’t lying down. It was hard to challenge him, spread out at his feet. She pushed herself upright, sat cross-legged so she was facing him.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Hey.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I asked Bella if you were seeing anyone. She mentioned the cop. That was all.’
‘It didn’t stop you asking me out to lunch.’
‘It’s lunch. I wanted someone to share this place with me. You didn’t have to accept.’
She felt suddenly that she was being ridiculous. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should never drink at lunchtime. It’s always a mistake. This is all lovely.’
‘Is it true then? You and Perez
. . .
’
He was looking at her, squinting into the sunlight.
‘I don’t think,’ she said sharply, ‘that’s it’s any of your business.’
‘Does that mean I still have a chance then? Of winning a place in your affections?’
She looked at him. She couldn’t make him out. Was he teasing her? Was this innocent flirting? Or something more sinister?
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘My affections are definitely taken.’
‘What a terrible pity. You need some fun in your life and Inspector Perez doesn’t seem a lot of fun. I’d help you to play.’
She didn’t answer that. He piled mackerel pâté on to an oatcake and handed it to her.
‘Does Perez ever talk to you about his work?’
‘There’s not usually very much to talk about,’ she said. ‘Nothing interesting.’
‘But this is murder. We’re all interested in that.’
‘I don’t think I am. I want the murderer caught, of course. But I didn’t know the victim and I’m not involved in the case to any extent. It’s Jimmy’s job and nothing to do with me.’ She wondered now if he’d just brought her here because he was curious about the investigation.
‘I’m fascinated. I’d have thought you would be too. You used to be a journalist! And art’s about the experience of extremes, don’t you think?’
‘I’m too chilled to think anything,’ she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.
He seemed to realize that it would do no good to push it. ‘Somewhere in here there’s a very good chocolate cake.’ And he went on to entertain her with stories of publishers’ parties and the sexual activities of famous novelists, so she almost forgot that there’d been any awkwardness between them.
He was the one to say they should make a start back or she’d be late to pick up Cassie. She was surprised at how quickly the time had passed. She stood up and brushed the crumbs and sand from her clothes and followed him up the steps to the house.
‘You will take it on, won’t you?’ he said. ‘The house, I mean.’
‘I’ve never done interior design,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t matter. You have an artist’s eye. I know you’ll make a good job of it.’
She stood looking at the house, imagining how she would do it, saw it completed, the windows open to the sound of the waves and the seabirds, full of people for a house-warming party. Another glimpse of her old life. He couldn’t have thought of anything better to tempt her.
She laughed and refused to give him a real answer. ‘When it’s yours we’ll talk about it again.’
Perez had thought he might go back to Biddista when he left the care centre, call in to the Manse and see if he could find Roddy on his own. He felt he understood the young man a bit better now, still believed Roddy might have information that could help with the inquiry. But the news that Sandy had tracked down the victim’s lift made that impossible. How could he justify any delay to Taylor?
He found Stuart Leask at work behind the check-in desk in the ferry terminal at Holmsgarth. He was young and gap-toothed with untamed red hair. The terminal was quiet and echoing. It would be three hours before people would be allowed on to the boat.
‘Do you mind chatting here?’ Stuart said. ‘Only I’m on my own till Chrissie gets back from lunch.’
Perez leaned against the desk. ‘Sandy Wilson said you gave a chap a lift to Biddista the night of the Herring House party. Can you tell me what happened there?’
‘I was just coming off duty and this guy came into the terminal. I mean the
Hrossey
had long gone and I was about to leave, but I asked if I could help. He wanted to know about car hire. I said he’d left it a bit
late, there’d be no one in the office until eight the next morning.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Skinny. Pleasant enough. English. He was wearing black trousers and a black jacket. A bit crumpled, but as if it was supposed to look like that. And bald, but as if that was intentional too.’
‘And did he seem OK in himself? I mean, not distressed or confused.’
‘Not at all. As if it was all a bit of a joke, having missed his lift to Biddista.’
‘He said he’d arranged for someone else to take him?’
‘Aye, he’d booked a taxi but the guy hadn’t turned up.’
‘I still don’t see how you ended up taking him.’
Stuart looked embarrassed. ‘I offered. I know, it was just stupid. Marie, my lass, says I’m just a sucker and people are always taking advantage. But he was a nice guy and I wasn’t doing anything else that night and he paid me what the taxi would have charged.’
‘Did you go straight from here?’
‘Aye, but we had to go and pick up his bag first.’
‘He had a bag with him?’
‘Like a black leather holdall.’
‘Where did you pick him up from? Hotel? B&B?’
Stuart grinned. ‘No. From the Victoria Pier. He was staying on that boat that turns into a theatre,
The Motley Crew
. You know the one?’
‘It’s quite a drive out to Biddista. What did you chat about?’
‘He was an interesting man, an actor. He was talking about some of the parts he’d played. Theatre, film.
I mean maybe some of it was bullshit, all the people he said he’d met, but you sort of didn’t mind, because he was still entertaining.’
‘Did he say what he was doing in Shetland?’
‘I asked him that. I’d have gone to see him if he was in a play here. But he said he was looking up some old friends.’
‘And all the time he seemed quite rational? He didn’t claim he was feeling unwell?’
‘Nothing like that. He was brilliant company. It was a really easy way to make a few quid.’
‘He definitely took the bag with him? You’re sure he didn’t leave it in your boot?’
‘Absolutely. I thought it was kind of odd.’
‘What was?’ Perez was glad that he’d decided to interview Stuart himself. By now, Taylor would be beside himself with impatience.
‘Well when we got to Biddista I went right up to the jetty to turn round. And I saw the man stick the bag just below the sea wall on the beach. It would have been quite safe there. It was well above the tideline and folks wouldn’t have been able to see it from the road. But it just seemed strange. I mean, if he was going to stay with friends, wouldn’t he have taken the bag with him?’
‘He was going to the exhibition opening at the Herring House,’ Perez said.
‘Still, you’d have thought he’d keep it with him. I’m sure there’d have been somewhere to leave it.’ This detail seemed to fascinate Stuart more than the reason for the man’s death.
‘Did he say where he planned to sleep that night?’
‘I imagined he’d be staying with his friends. He
didn’t seem worried at all about getting a lift back to town.’
‘Did he tell you who his friends were?’
‘No, and I asked him. Aggie who runs the post office is a sort of relative. A cousin of my grandmother, something like that. But he just launched into another story, so I never found out.’
‘He must have told you his name,’ Perez said.
‘Just his first name. And that wasn’t anything I’d heard before. I thought maybe it was something popular in the south. Or a nickname.’
‘So what was that?’ Perez thought that soon even his patience would run out.
‘Jem. Not Jim. Jem.’
Before he left the ferry terminal for Victoria Pier, Perez phoned Sandy and asked about the bag. There’d been a search around the jetty at Biddista, but he wasn’t sure how far it had extended along the beach. He couldn’t believe they’d have missed it, but he needed to check.
He drove too fast into the town. He had a sudden panic that he would arrive at the pier and find the theatre ship had gone, but it was still there, moored near the end of the jetty. A big new banner strapped to the wooden hull read
LAST PERFORMANCE SATURDAY
.
A young woman was sitting on the deck, sunning herself like a cat. She wore cropped jeans and a long red jumper and there was something feline about the flat face and the green eyes narrowed and lengthened by black eyeliner. She was leaning against the cabin
and had a script on her knee but seemed not to be reading it.
‘Excuse me.’
She looked up and smiled. ‘Do you want tickets for tonight? I think there are a couple left. It’s well worth seeing.’
‘Are you one of the actors?’
‘Actor, set designer, front-of-house manager, general dogsbody. Hang on a minute and I’ll fetch the tickets.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the show’s great, but that’s not why I’m here.’ He stepped aboard, thinking this was a lovely old vessel, the timbers weathered, honey-coloured. ‘My name’s Jimmy Perez and I work for Shetland Police.’
‘Lucy Wells.’ She remained where she was sitting.
‘Did you hear about the guy who was killed in Biddista earlier in the week?’
‘No. Shit.’
‘It’s been all over the news. He was found hanging in the boathouse there. He’d been strangled.’
‘It’s crazy,’ she said. ‘Life on the boat. Like living in a bubble. You’re rehearsing for the next show during the day and performing at night. The country could have gone to war and I’d not have known about it.’
‘Are you missing one of your actors?’
‘No.’
He had been so certain that the dead man had been part of the theatre group that the answer threw him.
‘A middle-aged man. Shaved head.’
‘Sounds like Jem,’ she said, ‘but he wasn’t part of the group. Not really. He was more of a hanger-on. A
friend of the management. And he didn’t go missing. We knew he was leaving.’
‘We think he might be the dead man,’ Perez said. ‘Would you be able to identify him from a photo?’
She nodded. He saw she had started to cry.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry, it’s just a shock. I didn’t even like him particularly. He was a bit of a nuisance. Not his fault, he was pleasant enough, but the accommodation here is cramped as it is and he was foisted on to us. It’s horrible to think he’s dead. I couldn’t wait to see the back of him, so it’s almost as if it’s my fault. Wish fulfilment.’
‘What was Jem’s full name?’
‘Booth. Jeremy Booth.’
‘How did he land up with you?’
‘Like I said, he’s a friend of the management. He was one of the original team.
The Motley Crew
’s been touring the Scottish coast for donkey’s years. Jem needed somewhere to crash and we were told to put him up.’
‘What was he doing in Shetland?’
‘Who knows? None of us took a lot of notice of him. He was full of himself and his own importance. He made out that he was here on some mysterious mission. The deal of a lifetime. We thought it was all crap and we were just pleased he was leaving.’
‘If you could remember exactly what Mr Booth said about the deal, it would be very useful. Even a small detail might help.’ Perez paused.
There was a moment of silence. She set the script carefully face-down on the deck. Then she closed her eyes.
‘He talked about a weird coincidence. “A blast from the past. A rave from the grave.” That was the way he spoke. You know, kind of knowing, self-mocking, but still thinking he was hip. He was a joker, one of those people who are full of gags that never quite make you laugh. He said there was a nice little deal which would set him up for a few years if he could play it right.’
‘Did he mention any names?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. Like I said, he enjoyed being mysterious.’
‘When did he arrive with you?’
‘The twenty-second. Two days after
The Motley
arrived in Lerwick.’ And two days before Booth was seen handing out the notices which cancelled the Herring House exhibition to the cruise passengers.
‘Did he come on the plane or the ferry?’
‘The ferry. It was a tiny bit bumpy when he came across and he was ill. You wouldn’t believe the fuss he made. The next day he went off somewhere. He was back that night, then we didn’t see him again.’
If he’d arrived on the ferry, Stuart Leask would have access to all the man’s contact details, Perez thought. In an hour they’d have a full name and address, a phone number and access to a credit-card account. Their victim was no longer anonymous. The investigation was suddenly more manageable. More ordinary.
‘Did he tell you where he came from?’ Perez was interested in what the victim had said about himself, to find out how close it was to the truth.
‘He ran a drama-in-education company in West Yorkshire. “I’ve always believed in community-based theatre, darling. Really, it’s the most worthwhile work
you can do.” Which probably means regular theatre wouldn’t employ him and he’d conned funding out of the Arts Council to set up on his own.’
‘You’re very cynical,’ Perez said.
‘It’s the business. We all start off imagining work with the RSC and end up spouting crap lines to three deaf old ladies for the Equity minimum.’
‘You could give up. You’re young.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But I still have the dream. I can still see my name in lights in the West End.’
He couldn’t quite tell whether or not she was joking. He pushed himself away from the rail, so he was standing upright.
‘Just a minute.’ She sprang to her feet and disappeared below deck. When she returned she was holding some tickets. ‘Comps for Saturday. See if you can make it. I’m really rather good.’
There was something desperate in the way she spoke. He thought if he rejected the tickets she would see it as a rejection of her. He took them awkwardly, then mumbled that he was very busy, but he’d make it if he could.
When he got into his car she was still watching him.
He phoned the station and spoke first to Sandy.
‘Any news on the victim’s bag?’
‘Well it’s definitely not on the beach.’
Perez asked to be put through to Taylor. ‘I’ve got an identity for our victim.’
‘So have I,’ Taylor said. Perez could hear the smirk, the self-satisfaction. ‘Jeremy Booth. Lives in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire. Runs some sort of theatre group. We’ve just had a phone call from a young woman who
works with him. She saw the photo in one of the nationals.’
Perez had nothing to say. Let Taylor have his moment of glory. It was good to have the identity of the victim confirmed.
‘I was thinking someone should go down there,’ Taylor went on, ‘to check out his house and talk to his colleagues. Do you want to do it?’
Perez was tempted. England was still a foreign country. There would be the thrill of exploration. But, he thought, this was a Shetland murder. The victim might have been an incomer, but the answer to his death lay here.
Taylor was obviously becoming impatient. He hated waiting for the answer. ‘Well? Or would you rather I go?’
Then Perez realized Taylor was itching to take on the job. This was what he liked best about policing. The chase. He would adore the last-minute flights and hurried arrangements. The overnight drive. Gallons of coffee in empty service stations. And once he arrived he’d get answers immediately, firing away questions, blasting through the uncertainty with his energy.
‘You go,’ Perez said. ‘You’d do it much better than me.’