Authors: Ann Cleeves
He leaned across her desk and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you at home.’
Kenny sat beside Willy in the lounge. The staff were bringing round cups of tea on a trolley, stopping beside each person in turn. Willy already had his, but it sat untouched on the table beside him. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were half closed. It was very warm in the room and Kenny could see why some users of the centre spent all day dozing. He could feel himself nodding off too. He patted Willy’s hand just to wake him, though he didn’t seem properly asleep, just daydreaming. He was surprised at how cold the hand felt.
‘Hi Willy. It’s Kenny. You mind me from Biddista? You taught me everything I know about boats.’
The old man turned very slowly, opened his eyes and smiled.
‘Of course I mind you, man.’
‘I’ve just come to see how you’re feeling.’
‘Not so well. Things are such a muddle in my head these days. Don’t get old, man. There’s no pleasure in it.’
‘We had grand times, didn’t we, Willy? Those summers when you took us all out fishing. There was the group of us. Bella and Alec Sinclair, Aggie Watt, my wife Edith, who looks after you here, and Lawrence and me.’
Willy sat quite still, staring into space with a sort of fierce concentration.
‘You
do
remember Lawrence, Willy? My brother Lawrence?’
There was a moment while Willy stared into space.
‘He left Shetland,’ Kenny said. ‘We all thought he left Shetland because Bella Sinclair turned him down.’
‘No,’ Willy said firmly. ‘He’s still here.’ He raised a shaking hand to grasp his tea. ‘He didn’t go anywhere.’
‘Where is he?’
But Willy seemed not to have heard the question. ‘He’s a great one for the fishing,’ he said, and he started a story about taking the boat out with a couple of Englishmen. It was all about a big party Bella was holding and how she wanted fish to serve her guests. Willy gutted them for her and took the heads off. He described that in great detail, the gutting of the fish, as if Kenny had never done it for himself. In the end Kenny only listened with half his mind.
‘Was Lawrence there that night?’ he asked in the end. He wanted to get home in case Jimmy called at Skoles.
‘Of course he was. He wanted fish too.’
Willy closed his eyes again, then opened them slowly. ‘That Englishman came to see me,’ he said. ‘Full of questions. But I told him nothing.’
Kenny was going to touch his hand again, to prompt him back to the present, when the mobile in his pocket started to buzz. He fumbled to get it and answered just before the message service cut in. It was Jimmy Perez. Kenny stood up and walked with the phone out into the car park. Willy seemed not to notice his leaving and the other people watched him go without interest. There were a couple of gulls, very noisy, fighting over a scrap of bread, and for a moment he was distracted. Soon he realized there was no real news.
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you.’
‘I heard about the bones you’d found.’
‘I should have come to tell you, Kenny. But we were so late finishing last night I didn’t want to trouble you. And this morning I’ve been working on the case.’
‘Is it Lawrence?’
‘We won’t know for a while.’
There was a pause. Kenny could tell he was going to add something more, but couldn’t help interrupting. ‘Can’t you do something with DNA?’
‘We’d need bone marrow to do a standard DNA test, and because of where the bones were found we don’t have that. There is a tooth and it’s possible that we could get some dentine. But there’s another test.
Mitochondrial DNA. It’s passed down the maternal line. It means you and Lawrence would share it.’ Kenny was trying to focus, to take all this in, but found his thoughts swimming. This is what Willy feels like. He can’t keep a hold on what’s happening around him. He forced himself to listen again to what Perez was saying.
‘Could we take a DNA sample from you? Do you understand, Kenny? We need your DNA to identify your brother.’
‘Of course you can. Of course.’ Kenny felt ridiculously pleased that there was something he could do to help.
‘I’ll come in this evening to take a swab. But it might be very late. Or I could send someone else
. . .
’
‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. I’d rather you came. I’ll just stay up until you arrive. It doesn’t matter how late you are.’
‘And Kenny, it’s going to take longer than we’d like to get an answer. About two weeks, because it’s not a standard sort of test. I’m sorry.’
Kenny stood for a moment. He was tempted to go back to Willy, to find out what he knew. Then he realized there were other people in Biddista who should be able to tell him.
When he came back from seeing Wilding in Buness, Perez returned to the station. He phoned the pathologist in Aberdeen to check the situation on identifying the fragment of bone, then called the Thomson house. Nobody was at home. He knew what Kenny would be thinking and when finally he spoke to him on his mobile he could sense how much he needed an answer.
‘I’m sorry, man. I wish I could make it happen more quickly.’ Perez felt helpless because the test was completely out of his control. But all the time he was thinking that really it didn’t matter. He had a sense of events moving quickly, racing away from him. He thought the case would reach a climax before the results of the mitochondrial DNA test were returned.
He found Taylor at the desk he’d taken over in the incident room. He’d just finished a phone call and an A4 pad covered with scribbled notes lay in front of him. Taylor was hunched over them.
‘I’ve been on to Jebson in West Yorkshire to see if they’ve had anything back yet on emails to and from Jeremy Booth. Post too. They had a search team going through the house. The bin hadn’t been put out since he left and they thought they might find a letter.’
‘Anything useful?’
‘No mail. Jebson did come up with an interesting email contact though. A woman called Rita Murphy who runs a theatrical agency. I’ve just been talking to her. Booth was on her books, had been for years. She comes from Liverpool, like me. We hit it off and she’s been dead helpful.’
Taylor took a swig from a can of Coke. Perez thought he must be exhausted, running on caffeine and will power. ‘It seems Booth hadn’t done much through her in the last few years – most of his time was spent running his own business – but Rita said he liked to keep his hand in by doing bits of theatre if it was offered. They kept in touch, anyway. It sounds as if they’d become good mates.’
‘Was she representing him when he took on the work with
The Motley Crew
fifteen years ago?’
‘Yeah, she was just starting up then. She’d seen him in an amateur play and thought he was good, offered to take him on.’
Perez remembered the performance in the Herring House, the tears. Oh, he was good, he thought.
‘How did the work on the boat come about?’
‘She’d been in college with the guy who dreamed up the idea of the theatre in the boat and he asked her to find him a couple of actors. It was Booth’s first professional work. That’s why she remembers it.’
‘I don’t suppose he talked to her about it afterwards? Or that she remembers what he said?’
‘No detail. He called in to see her when he got back. She said he’d enjoyed the acting, travelling round the coast, but he seemed a bit low. She’d expected a blow-by-blow account of the season but he
didn’t want to talk about it much. She put that down to the recent separation from his wife and daughter. But if Bella sent him away with a flea in his ear, perhaps that explains it.’
‘Did he tell her that he was planning to come back to Shetland?’
‘He went over to Liverpool a few weeks ago. It was about the time that his daughter got in touch with him. Perhaps he was curious to see the girl before he made a commitment to meet her. I can imagine him hanging around the school, waiting to see what she was like.’
What would he have done if he hadn’t liked the look of her? Perez wondered. Made some excuse? Run away again?
Taylor was still sketching out the possible scenario. ‘He went to see Ms Murphy while he was in Merseyside. We’ll probably never know if that’s why he was there, but anyway, they met for lunch in a bar. Rita said Booth was really elated. It sounds as if they had a lot to drink. He told her then that he was taking on a bit of work in Shetland. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll get your ten per cent. But this is a bit of private enterprise.”’
‘Did he say what sort of work it was?’
‘“Promotional street theatre”.’ Perez could hear the quotation marks in Taylor’s voice, thought that might describe the pantomime at the cruise ship and in Lerwick. He wasn’t sure it covered the drama at the Herring House though.
‘Rita thought it was weird that he’d consider doing work like that. She said usually he was a bit picky. He liked real theatre, not the arty stuff. She thought it
would be some sort of conceptual theatre – whatever that is – because he said it was linked to an art gallery. When I told her what was actually involved she said she was surprised he hadn’t just left and come home. It wasn’t acting at all. A kid straight out of school could put on a costume and hand out a few flyers. And Booth could be very arsy when it came to work.’
‘So she thought he’d been hired to do the work by the gallery?’
‘That was the impression he gave at first. Later he said what a great opportunity it was – a chance to get close to a real celebrity. “This could be my big chance, darling. The time to hit the jackpot. My little bit of luck. And if I hadn’t been watching the telly the other night, I’d never have known.”’ He went all mysterious on her after that. She didn’t really take any notice. He was always talking about hitting the big time. All actors do.’
Perez sat for a moment in silence, wondering how this information fitted in with his ideas about the case.
‘Do you have any idea which television programme he was talking about?’
‘Wouldn’t it have been that documentary about Roddy Sinclair?’
Perez didn’t watch much television, but the uncertain theories in his head about how Booth had died suddenly shifted and came into focus.
‘What documentary would that be?’
‘It was one of a series. Sort of a fly-on-the-wall look at contemporary artists. The cameras followed Roddy round for a week.’
‘I think I read about it in the
Shetland Times
,’ Perez said. ‘The BBC came here to film him during the music
festival last year.’ Then he remembered that Kenny had talked about it and been involved in it too.
‘Some of it was set in Glasgow. Him playing at a folk club, meeting up with his friends, talking about his music – but there were a couple of scenes in London and quite a long piece filmed in Shetland. The Herring House featured, I think, and there was an interview with Bella. I remember one part where they followed Roddy into the Biddista shop – there was a bit of banter with the customers – and another of him playing music in the school where he used to go.’
‘The high school?’
‘Nah, these were little kids. It must have been the local primary.’
‘In Lerwick?
‘Out in the wilds somewhere, I thought.’
‘Can we track down a copy of the film?’ Perez asked.
‘If you think it’s important.’
Perez didn’t answer, but he was thinking it would confirm to him who’d killed three people. Proving it, though, would be quite a different matter.
Perez arrived at Middleton School just as the children were leaving. He’d asked Taylor if he’d like to come too, thought Taylor could do with a break from the incident room, some fresh air, cold turkey from the caffeine. And if Perez did the driving he might even catch some sleep in the car. But the conversation with Booth’s agent seemed to have had a strange effect on Taylor. He sat at his desk, frowning, oblivious to the activity around him. He was quite still. The restlessness and
fidgeting seemed finally under control. He didn’t even ask why Perez wanted to go to Middleton. He seemed preoccupied with concerns of his own.
‘Are you OK?’
Taylor turned then, flashed a grin, which immediately disappeared.
‘Yeah, fine. Things on my mind. You know. Nothing to do with this case. Work-related, stuff happening back in Inverness.’
Perez didn’t think he could push it. They’d reestablished a delicate balance in their friendship. He wanted to keep things that way.
It was classic Shetland weather, breezy with flashes of bright sunshine, and as Perez got out of his car a group of children ran out of the school into the wind, arms outstretched, yelling and laughing. He envied their energy. He waited until the playground was empty before he went inside. Dawn Williamson was in the school library, sitting on one of the small chairs in front of a computer. He stood for a moment watching her, but her body blocked his view of the machine so he couldn’t see what was on the screen.
‘Don’t you have a PC at home?’ Everyone did now. Most Shetlanders shopped online. One time, when you went south, people gave you a list of goodies unobtainable in the islands to bring back. Now people bought their CDs, books, clothes and even household items on the internet.
She turned, startled by his voice, then smiled, reassured, when she recognized him.
‘The hard drive’s crashed,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had the bloody thing for six months. It’s a real nuisance.
Martin used it for work. Even Aggie had become a convert – she’s really interested in family history and there’s loads you can do online. I’ve just sent it back to the manufacturer. It was still under warranty and I couldn’t get anyone to come out to fix it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve a few more questions.’
She stood up and leaned against the desk so she was facing him. Something about his expression seemed to panic her.
‘Is anything wrong, inspector? What’s happened now?’
‘There’s nothing new,’ he said. ‘Just questions.’
‘We’re all so jumpy. I heard you’d found another body down the Pit. It’s horrible, unbelievable. What do I tell Alice? I hoped she’d be protected, growing up here.’
Perez thought of the bullying he’d endured when he moved from the small Fair Isle school to the hostel in Lerwick. Kids were cruel wherever they lived. He didn’t think people were so different because they lived in Shetland. Not the children or the grown-ups.
‘It’s about the television documentary on Roddy Sinclair. You remember it?’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ she said. ‘You won’t believe the excitement it caused, the BBC coming to the school. They were here for three days and in the end the scene only lasted for about five minutes. The kids loved it.’
‘Roddy was never a pupil here, though, was he? He lived in Lerwick when he was in the primary.’
‘Dramatic licence, I suppose. Middleton’s a bit more scenic. And I think he did come here for a few weeks when he was very young. It was when his father
was first diagnosed and had to go away to Aberdeen to hospital. His mother went too and Roddy stayed with Bella. He has come in to do some music with the kids since he started recording. They loved him, of course. There was enough of the rascal in him to appeal to them.’
‘How long did the BBC spend filming in Biddista?’
‘Quite a lot longer. More than a week. In the end the documentary was as much about the community as about Roddy himself.’
‘What did the Biddista folk make of that?’
‘Oh, they all pretended to be very cool, but they made sure they were out and about whenever the BBC were filming.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Well, Aggie’s always been a bit shy. She got Martin to stand in for her the day they did the bit in the shop. We persuaded her to pretend to be one of the customers, so the whole community was captured.’
‘Was Willy still living in Biddista then?’
‘He was. He was there on the film. Although it’s not long been shown on the television, they shot it last spring.’
‘So it was before Peter Wilding moved into his house?’
‘Yes, it was. Willy was managing quite well on his own then.’ She looked directly at Perez. ‘What is all this about? You can’t think one of us is a killer.’
He didn’t answer. He stretched and felt the tension in the muscles in his back. I need a bath, he thought. A long hot soak. Real food. Why do I think I enjoy doing this job?
‘I’m really sorry to have troubled you at work again,’ he said.
‘Is that it?’ she demanded. He saw that her nerves were tattered and she was having trouble holding things together. ‘No explanation for all these questions?’
‘Sorry,’ he said again.
He could see she wanted him to leave, but he hesitated, wondering if he could risk one last question. The question that had been in his head since he’d come to the school. ‘Have you any idea who the murderer is, Dawn?’
She stared at him. ‘I can’t believe you asked me that.’ He saw he’d pushed her too far, but couldn’t help continuing.
‘You might have heard something. People talking. I know you weren’t involved. You weren’t living in Shetland when all this started. But someone in Biddista knows.’
‘I can’t talk about this now. I want to get home, spend some time with my daughter. If you have more questions come to Biddista later when she’s asleep. I’d rather have Martin there anyway. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t do this on my own.’
Perez thought how Dawn had been when he’d first met her. A strong and confident woman. This is what violence does, he thought. It makes victims of us all.