Authors: Ann Cleeves
‘Are we sure the mother hadn’t found out the girl had tracked him down?’ Perez was hesitant. ‘It would be a dramatic way to stop the father having contact with the girl, but I suppose we should consider it.’
Taylor paused for a moment. Thoughts chased each other across his face like the cloud shadows outside.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I hadn’t seen that as a possibility. If the mother
was
involved she’s a better actor than Booth ever was. She couldn’t have done it personally. She was at home looking after her family.’
‘What else did you learn from the daughter?’
‘That Booth definitely had friends in Shetland. That was what he told the girl. He was mixing business with pleasure, taking the chance to catch up on old friends.’
‘Someone he met when he was here working on the theatre boat, maybe,’ Perez said. ‘I’ve contacted the management of the boat,
The Motley Crew
. He did a couple of tours of the northern isles in the early nineties. Must have been soon after he ran away from
his wife. The company have no record of him working here after that. But he kept in touch with them.’
‘Could he have had a fling with Bella Sinclair?’ Taylor said. It had been on his mind. Perez imagined him in the plane working over the scenario. Now his voice was eager. ‘You could see it. They’re around the same age. Two arty types together. The relationship obviously didn’t work out for some reason, but that could be our link.’
‘And that’s why he tried to sabotage her exhibition?’ Perez kept his voice even. Taylor took offence easily and didn’t like to be contradicted. ‘He’d kept a grudge after all this time?’
‘People do,’ Taylor said. ‘But you’re right, of course. Something must have happened to bring him back. But what?’
‘Had he had any contact from Shetland? Phone calls? Email?’
‘No phone calls to his landline, we know that. I haven’t heard about the emails. We need to get that sorted.’ Taylor leaned back in his chair and punched a number into his phone. Perez watched from the other side of the table, felt mildly embarrassed as he harangued some poor DC in West Yorkshire to fast-track the information. Which would probably mean, Perez thought, that it would go right to the bottom of the pile. Just out of spite. People wouldn’t take to being spoken to like that.
‘So where does Roddy Sinclair fit in?’ Perez asked. Taylor had subsided in his seat, suddenly quiet after the ranting. ‘He’d only have been a child when Booth was last here.’
‘We are sure he was murdered?’
‘I’m sure,’ Perez said, realizing as he spoke how arrogant that might sound. ‘Impossible forensically to tell the difference between murder, suicide and accident. He fell and he smashed his skull. But he knew the cliffs very well. He grew up there. And he was all set to get the plane south. You were with me when he talked about it. His car was loaded up. Something must have taken him out on to the hill.’
‘The murderer arranged to meet him there?’
‘That’s how I read it.’
‘Nobody saw him that afternoon?’
‘They say not. Sandy’s been in Biddista this morning talking to people.’
‘I’d like to give it another go. I still don’t feel I’ve got a handle on the place.’ Taylor leaned forward, his old intense self. ‘Come with me, Jimmy. You’ll get more out of them than I will on my own.’
So Perez found himself back in Biddista, parked again by the Herring House, all his attention focused on three ordinary families and Peter Wilding, to whom he’d taken an irrational dislike.
Saturday was the Herring House’s busiest day. There was a coach outside and a party of elderly Americans was climbing out and trooping into the gallery. Perez supposed there was another cruise ship in Lerwick. Upstairs the café was full. They took one look in and decided it would be impossible to get Martin Williamson’s attention now. Perez had expected the place to be closed as a mark of respect, but he suspected Bella hadn’t given the gallery a thought and
Martin had decided there were so many people booked in that it would be easier to stay open.
The post office had just shut and they found Aggie at home. She was in the garden taking washing from the line. Perez held out his arms to help her fold the sheets and they stood for a moment in silence, the sheet stretched between them, while Taylor watched as if they were performing a ritual dance. Inside she moved the kettle on to the hotplate.
‘You’ll have heard about Roddy,’ Perez said. He thought she looked very tired, more timid and mouse-like than ever.
‘That he’s dead. No details. The Whalsay lad that came to talk to me this morning was all questions and no answers.’
‘Roddy was found at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista. You’ll have heard that. We don’t know how he got there. We need to find out. You do see, Aggie?’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Poor Bella. I know what it’s like to live with uncertainty. But there are some things you can never know.’
‘You didn’t see him yesterday?’
‘Not on the hill. He came into the post office in the morning.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To buy some sweeties to take on the plane with him,’ she said. ‘He had a very sweet tooth, you ken, Jimmy. Just like a peerie boy.’
‘Did you have any sort of conversation?’
‘I asked him when he’d be back. I know he offended people. Dawn didn’t like the way he kept dragging Martin into Lerwick to parties; all the young girls threw themselves at Roddy and maybe she
thought Martin would get caught up with the same sort of thing. I told her she didn’t need to worry. Martin has more sense and he loves her to bits. It’s good for him to have a pal. He doesn’t get so much company out here. Roddy said he was doing a show in the Town Hall in Lerwick in six weeks’ time and he’d be back for that. He was quiet, thoughtful, but he didn’t seem depressed. I thought maybe he was starting to grow up.’ She paused. ‘Have you seen Bella?’
‘Only last night.’
‘I don’t know how she’ll cope with this,’ Aggie said. ‘That boy was her life.’
They left her sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen, reading a novel, its cover showing a young woman with a shawl thrown over her head, staring into the distance.
In the adjoining house Dawn was sitting with a pile of marking while Alice played with a doll’s house on the floor. It was a big house and the front came off completely so they could see all the rooms. The child held a tiny doll in one hand and moved her from room to room, talking to herself as she played out an imaginary conversation in her head. Perez and Taylor watched her for a moment through the window from the pavement. Dawn was frowning at something one of the children had written. Suddenly she became aware of their standing there and waved them to come in. She stood up to greet them and Perez thought he could see the first sign of her pregnancy.
‘This’ll be about Roddy,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s talking about it. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Come away into the kitchen. I don’t want Alice listening in.’
They followed her into a room the same size and
shape as Aggie’s, but about fifty years away in time. There was a microwave on the bench, a juicer and coffee maker. Perez couldn’t imagine that anyone would be baking in this kitchen.
‘Do you think Roddy was murdered too?’ she asked as soon as the door was shut. They could sense her panic. ‘What’s going on here? I’m even thinking of taking Alice away until we know what’s happened. I don’t feel safe. I wish it was already the end of term. I could go and visit my parents.’
‘We can’t know,’ Taylor said. ‘Not for certain.’
‘It’s the uncertainty I hate.’
‘Booth, the guy who was hanged, came from the same part of the country as you,’ Perez said. The thought had come into his head and he spoke without considering how she might take the remark.
‘I didn’t know him! Yorkshire’s a big county.’
‘He ran a small theatre company, worked out of a village called Denby Dale.’
Dawn shrugged but didn’t answer.
‘Did you see Roddy Sinclair yesterday?’
‘Sandy’s already been here and asked that. I was at work till gone five, came back and cooked a meal for Alice and me, put her to bed and watched television until Martin came in from work. He was at the Herring House all night, in case you want to know what he was doing too.’
She seemed niggly and out of sorts. Perhaps she’d been feeling sick and tired. Sarah had been like that in the early stages of pregnancy. Everyone had said it was a good sign, the hormones working properly. Then she’d lost the baby at fourteen weeks. Perez would have liked to tell Dawn that these questions
weren’t personal. Everyone would be asked the same. But perhaps at a time like this her feelings weren’t so important.
‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill Roddy?’ he asked. ‘He and Martin were friends. Roddy would tell him, wouldn’t he, if anything was bothering him?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘When he was drunk. But you’d take everything he told you with a pinch of salt. He was just a little boy showing off.’
It had been Taylor’s decision to spend the afternoon in Biddista, but now he wasn’t sure what good he was doing there. They’d drunk lots of tea, that was certain. He’d be pissing every five minutes by the time he got back to his hotel. It seemed to him that the first two interviews with the women hadn’t pushed the case forward at all. Their lives were so quiet and domestic. He thought Perez was wasting his time with them.
After leaving Dawn Williamson they went on to the writer’s house. Perez paused for a moment outside before knocking. The Shetlander’s hesitancy was starting to get to Taylor. It was as if Perez never had the courage of his convictions. He needs to sharpen up, Taylor thought. He’d never survive in the real world beyond the Pentland Firth. Then it occurred to him that here, in this bizarre, bleak, treeless community, Perez’s strange methods might actually get results.
Wilding led them upstairs to his workroom. Beside the computer there was a pile of paper, a typescript covered in scribbled notes. His focus still seemed drawn to it and his offer of coffee lacked any real warmth. It seemed as if he wanted them to go so he could get on with his work.
‘I get so caught up in the detail of a book,’ he said. ‘I lose the overall picture, the story I set out to tell.’
‘We’re here to talk about Roddy Sinclair,’ Taylor said. How self-centred could you get? he thought. A young man was dead and this guy was stressing about a fairy tale. Taylor was an obsessive himself and recognized the signs.
‘How can I help?’ For the first time Wilding seemed to give them his full attention. ‘It’s such terrible news. I can’t imagine what Bella must be going through. I wondered if I should call on her. What do you think? I don’t know what the convention is here.’
‘She’d probably be glad to hear from you,’ Perez said. ‘Maybe leave it for another day.’
‘I spoke to your colleague this morning. I don’t think I can help any more.’
‘He’ll have asked, I expect, if you saw Roddy yesterday.’
‘I saw him in the morning. From the window here. He walked down the street to the post office.’
‘And then he came back?’
‘I didn’t notice that. He was probably chatting to Aggie and then I was concentrated on my writing. This problem which has been haunting me for several days.’ Again his eyes flicked to the manuscript on his desk. ‘He must have come back. There’s no other way to the Manse, but I didn’t see him.’
‘We’ve identified the man who was killed here at the jetty,’ Perez said. ‘His name was Jeremy Booth.’
Taylor thought Wilding expressed a brief moment of recognition. ‘Do you know him?’
Wilding frowned. ‘The name sounded familiar for a moment. But I had an agent called Booth once. Perhaps
that was it. I had to sack him. His name was Norman. Probably no relation to the victim.’
‘This is a serious matter.’ There was an edge to Perez’s voice which surprised Taylor. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard of the man?’
‘No,’ Wilding replied. ‘I don’t think I have. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant.’
Taylor thought he didn’t sound sorry either.
‘How did you come to live in Biddista?’
‘I think I explained before that I’ve always admired Bella’s work. I wrote to her years ago to tell her how much pleasure I took from her paintings and we began a correspondence.’ He paused, saw that more explanation was required. ‘I’ve recently separated. My partner left me. It was unexpected, to me at least. I’d thought we were happy. But she’d been seeing someone else. I had a sort of breakdown. I even spent a couple of weeks in hospital.’ He stopped and looked over to where they were sitting. ‘Perhaps you know all this already. I suppose you check the backgrounds of people close to a murder case.’
Not well enough, Taylor thought. Obviously. He felt the old anger at a job not properly done.
Wilding continued. ‘I suppose I behaved rather badly. I followed my partner. Sent her flowers and presents. Tried to persuade her to change her mind. Her lawyer called it harassment, though I didn’t see it that way. I was never charged with an offence but she took out an injunction to stop me bothering her. I thought it would be safest to move away.’ He smiled briefly at Taylor, who seemed the most sympathetic of his listeners. ‘Shetland was about as far away as I could get.’
He seemed strangely unemotional now, talking about the obsession, the injunction. He could have been describing someone else.
‘What was your girlfriend’s name?’ Taylor tried to keep his voice even, but he allowed himself a tentative excitement; this held the possibility of some sort of motive.
‘Helen. Helen Adams.’
‘And her new partner?’
‘Jason Doyle. A rather vulgar name, I thought. It was a surprise when I found out he was a lawyer. I’m sorry to disappoint you, inspector. He wasn’t called Booth, and he’s a creature of the inner city. I don’t suppose he’d ever choose to visit Shetland. I haven’t killed anyone.’
‘What are your plans for the future, Mr Wilding?’ Perez again, crisp and clipped. He was being sharp enough now, Taylor thought. Perhaps it was because he was dealing with an incomer and he wasn’t so involved.