Dead Water

Chapter Nine

Jimmy Perez was counting the hours to Sunday night and Cassie’s return. Literally counting the chunks of time, aware of every minute. He hated the empty house and he couldn’t settle to anything. When Cassie was around, there were distractions, obligations. Some days she irritated him so that he wanted to scream, but when she was here he couldn’t give in to the self-pity that was always on the edge of his mind, waiting to take him over. He’d not fallen asleep until the early hours, but on Saturday morning he still woke at six. Radio Shetland news ran a piece about the dead man in the racing yoal at Aith. Still no identification, which was odd. There weren’t many tourists in the islands this early in the season, and Sandy and the team would surely manage to put a name to a local within minutes. Maybe they hadn’t passed on the news to the relatives yet, and that was the reason for the secrecy. Jimmy thought perhaps he’d made a mistake not going with Sandy to Aith the night before. That too would have been a distraction. But everything seemed to take so much effort these days. The doctor said it was depression; Perez saw it more as a kind of idleness.

Reg Gilbert phoned him at around midday. Jimmy had made the bed and washed up last night’s pots, but he hadn’t done much more. The ringing phone shocked him and he looked at it for a couple of seconds before answering.

‘Yes.’ This was progress of a sort. For the first months after Fran’s death he’d just let it ring.

‘What do you think of the Markham murder then, Jimmy?’ No introduction. No need for one. Reg’s nasal Midlands accent was immediately identifiable.

‘I’m not at work this weekend. I can’t help you.’ The words came out as a growl and he was about to replace the phone when a stab of curiosity prevented him. Peter and Maria Markham were friends of a kind. He couldn’t find an emotional response to the news. Nothing much moved him any more. But there was an intellectual interest that prompted a question. ‘Which of them was killed?’

‘It’s not either of the parents,’ Reg said. ‘It’s Jerry, the son. If you remember, he went to London, blagged a job on one of the broadsheets.’ Reg sounded dismissive. In his often-stated opinion, regional reporters were the heroes of journalism, not the glory-boys from London. ‘They’ve sent in a team from Inverness.’

‘Of course,’ Perez said sharply. ‘They would. That always happens in a murder investigation.’ He remembered the excitement of an inquiry, Sandy running around in circles, and the Fiscal watching at a distance for them to make a mistake. The conversations with witnesses and the slow unravelling of the mystery. For an instant he felt regret that he wasn’t with the others at Aith, drinking tea from a flask and passing round the chocolate biscuits. But the moment soon passed. He couldn’t find the energy, and he didn’t want to get involved.

‘They’ve put a woman in charge,’ Reg went on.

‘Then you’re best talking to her.’ Perez refused to give in to the nostalgia that made him think of murder as a kind of entertainment. After all that had happened on Fair Isle, that was sick. ‘Like I said, I’m not working this weekend.’

‘I wonder what the Fiscal will make of a woman heading up the inquiry,’ Reg said. It was as if Perez hadn’t spoken. ‘Our Rhona’s always considered herself Queen Bee.’

Perez was going to say that he didn’t care what the Fiscal thought; instead he just replaced the receiver.

From his kitchen window he looked down towards the Ravenswick Hotel. A sharp squall came in from the south and rain blew slantwise across the glass. He realized that he felt hungry. The sensation was so unusual – he had to force himself to eat these days – that at first he didn’t recognize it. He thought a bowl of home-made soup in the bar of the Ravenswick Hotel wouldn’t go amiss. They always baked their own bread there and served it with Shetland butter. Imported butter never tasted as good. His mouth was watering. He decided that he’d walk down. The shower would pass through quite quickly and, who knows, he might fancy a pint or two while he was in the bar.

By the time he’d put on his shoes and his coat the rain had stopped. The sun had broken through the clouds and shone, like theatre spotlights, on the water. He pulled the door shut behind him and began the walk down the bank.

Stuart Brodie was on duty behind the desk at reception. ‘Peter and Maria say they don’t want to speak to anyone,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure it’s okay for you to go up. You’ll be here about their boy. Shall I ring through to them and tell them you’re in the hotel?’

Perez shook his head.

‘I’ve come for my lunch,’ he said. ‘I’d not mind a bit of a chat with you, if you have time. Do you get a break?’

‘In half an hour.’ Brodie glanced across to the grandfather clock in the hall. ‘We’ve been busy. Lots of journalists from the south phoning to make reservations. Seems Jerry was a big man down there. And we were busy enough before.’

‘Peter and Maria are keeping the place open during the investigation?’ Perez couldn’t imagine how that would be. They’d be living in the flat upstairs, knowing that beneath their feet people would be drinking and laughing and speculating about what had happened to their son.

Brodie shrugged. ‘They’ve not told me otherwise, so I just do my job.’

The bar was quiet. The reporters from London hadn’t made it here yet and the locals were being tactful and keeping their distance. They wouldn’t want to be thought of as prying. The other residents were out at work, except for a couple of pilots still in uniform, drinking coffee. Perez ordered leek-and-tattie soup and a pint of White Wife, which was brewed on Unst. The beer tasted better than he’d imagined it would, and he sipped it as if it was expensive wine. Brodie himself brought the soup. As he came in, the pilots stood up and went out, so they were left with the room to themselves.

‘Annie can take over from me now,’ Brodie said. ‘Or do you want to have your lunch in peace?’

Perez would have preferred that, but he didn’t like to say so. He nodded for the man to sit down, buttered a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. ‘Can I buy you a pint?’

‘Nah,’ Brodie said. ‘I’m working this afternoon.’

‘When did Jerry Markham arrive?’

‘Thursday morning straight from the ferry. He screeched up in that flash car of his and Peter and Maria came down to the dining room to have breakfast with him. The return of the prodigal son. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Chef had a full restaurant and he was none too pleased. Jerry didn’t seem himself, though. Quieter somehow. I wondered if he might be ill.’

‘Was he a prodigal son?’ Perez dipped another bread roll into the soup. He found it strange that the questions came so easily to him.

Brodie shrugged again. He had a good line in expressive shrugs. ‘He left under a bit of a cloud,’ he said. ‘Got one of the chambermaids here pregnant. Not a hanging offence these days, but she was quite an innocent soul. Grew up on Fetlar, to a religious family. She might not have expected him to marry her, but she looked for more support than she got. So did her parents.’

‘What was the name of the lass?’ Perez had never heard this story. But then he’d been living in his house in Lerwick when it had happened. Fran might have known about it, might even have told him. She’d come up with snippets of gossip when he visited, but he’d had his mind on other things then.

‘Evie Watt. She worked here over the summer before she went off to university.’

‘Francis’s daughter?’ Francis Watt was well known in the islands. He did a column in the Shetland Times every week about island traditions. He was probably the only man in Shetland to regret the coming of the oil.

‘Aye.’

‘Did she keep the baby?’

‘I think she intended to, but then she had a miscarriage. Maybe it was for the best, eh?’

Perez thought that an outsider, and especially a man, couldn’t really say what was for the best when a woman had lost a baby. His ex-wife Sarah had suffered a miscarriage and things had never been the same between them afterwards. She had a brood now with her second husband, a Lowland GP, and they lived in an old farmhouse in the Borders.

‘Does Evie still work here?’ Perez asked.

Brodie pulled a face. ‘What do you think? This is the last place she’d want to spend her time. She’d never know when Jerry would appear from the south to catch up with his folks.’

‘She’s not still a student? Perez was thinking another pint would go down well, but decided immediately that he’d stick with coffee. He might go into Lerwick later and see if Sandy was back in the police station. He could pass on this information about the girlfriend. ‘Her course must have finished years ago. What’s she up to now?’

‘I don’t know.’ Brodie seemed uncomfortable. He’d always suffered from acne and the spots seemed more red and livid as the conversation progressed. Perez wondered if the man had fancied Evie Watt himself. ‘I saw her in one of the halls at Up Helly Aa, but she was with a gang of friends and we didn’t chat. I think she might have moved back. Not to Fetlar, but to Shetland. That was the impression I had.’

‘You haven’t been in touch with her since?’ Perez asked.

Brodie shook his head. ‘She was way out of my league,’ he said. ‘Pretty and smart. No point setting yourself up to be disappointed, is there?’

‘Sometimes it’s worth taking a chance.’ But Perez wasn’t sure that was true. He would never take up with another woman.

On his way out of the hotel he decided that he’d call on Peter and Maria after all. Maybe it was the beer giving him a strange sort of confidence. He’d been in their flat a couple of times, invited in after dinner in the restaurant for coffee or a dram. He’d been with Fran on both occasions and had sensed that Peter Markham found her attractive. More than that, that the hotel owner had been obsessed by her. He’d been perfectly civilized and jovial, but he’d seemed almost breathless when he approached her and, even when his wife was talking, his eyes had strayed back to Fran. Perez had teased Fran about it: ‘You’ve got an admirer.’ And she’d laughed back. ‘He’s a very attractive man, Jimmy Perez. And he has much more money than you. You should take care!’ The memory of that conversation brought his lover back to life for him for a moment and he was almost grateful.

He asked Brodie to let the Markhams know he was on his way up. ‘I just want to give my condolences.’ And Brodie nodded as if he suspected Perez had planned the visit from the beginning.

The door at the top of the stairs was open ready for him, and Peter and Maria were in the room beyond. Because it was at the top of the house there were views all the way along the coast and across the Sound, beyond Raven’s Head to Moussa. Briefly Perez’s attention was caught by the view. He’d only been in the room in the dark before.

Peter Markham stood up. ‘Do you have news for us, Jimmy?’

‘I’m not involved in the investigation,’ Perez said. ‘Not officially. I wanted to say how sorry I am.’ He saw that Maria hadn’t moved. She’d glanced round when he came into the room, but remained quite still now, in her seat. He thought she’d aged overnight. Perhaps that was because she wasn’t wearing make-up. Usually her eyes were lined with black. Fran had said once that she’d like to paint Maria. ‘She reminds me of a Flamenco dancer. Experienced and soulful. Don’t you think so?’ And again they’d laughed together, joking that perhaps Jimmy and Maria’s ancestors had come from the same part of Spain. Legend had it that Perez’s forebear was a survivor from the Spanish Armada ship El Gran Grifon, which had been shipwrecked on Fair Isle. No reason why there couldn’t have been other survivors, other relationships between the sailors and local girls.

‘Sit down,’ Peter said. He moved across the room so that he was blocking Perez’s exit. He needed company and conversation and didn’t want the visitor to escape too quickly. ‘I’ll make some coffee. You will have coffee with us, Jimmy?’

Perez nodded and said that he would. He sat with his back to the window so that he wouldn’t be distracted by the view, by all that space.

‘Would you mind if I asked some questions?’ This was directed at Maria. Peter could still hear, but he was in the small kitchen that led off the living room, the door between them wide open.

She looked up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Ask away.’ Showing that she couldn’t care about anything now. Perez knew just how she felt.

‘Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt Jerry?’

‘Of course not. Why would they?’

‘No jilted girlfriends then?’ Perez kept his voice light.

‘He’s talking about Evie.’ Peter shouted from the kitchen before his wife could reply. ‘That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Jimmy?’

‘I heard she was pregnant and her family was none too happy.’

‘They were barbarians.’ Maria’s voice sounded very loud suddenly. ‘They came here and made a scene. The father foaming at the mouth like a rabid beast. As if it was solely Jerry’s responsibility, as if the girl had nothing at all to do with it. But Evie was always the light of the man’s life.’

‘That was years ago.’ Peter Markham came through with a tray of coffee. He set it on a low table. ‘Evie went away to university and Jerry got his job in London. Her parents calmed down. I saw Francis Watt in Lerwick just last week and he was almost civil.’

‘She lost the baby,’ Perez said.

‘Yes, we heard about that.’ Peter stooped over the table to pour coffee, and Perez couldn’t tell what he thought about missing out on the chance to be a grandfather. ‘Not directly from Evie, but through other people, as one does in Shetland. Word always gets out.’

‘She didn’t tell Jerry that she’d had a miscarriage?’ Perez thought it was odd that the news hadn’t come through their son.

‘I don’t think they were communicating much at that stage. She had been very much in love with him, you know. She was young and it hurt her when things didn’t turn out as she’d hoped.’

‘She was stupid,’ Maria said. ‘She should have realized that Jerry would want someone more interesting than her for a long-term relationship. She’d spent all her life on Fetlar. What would he see in her?’

‘Oh.’ Peter stroked the back of his wife’s hand, an attempt perhaps to calm her, to prevent her speaking of the girl so unkindly. ‘She was a pretty little thing. I could definitely see the attraction. But she could have had nothing to do with Jerry’s death. She’d moved on. Francis told me that she’s about to be married. Her husband-to-be is a seaman, older than her. He’s a pilot at Sullom Voe. A good man, according to Francis.’

‘Jerry had moved on too,’ Maria said. ‘He was doing brilliantly in London, Jimmy. His editor said he was the best reporter she’d ever worked with.’

Perez wondered if that was true. ‘Where was Jerry yesterday?’ he asked.

‘I told your sergeant that. He was at the oil terminal, chasing some big story.’

‘And did you know the name of Evie’s fiancé?’ Perez supposed it was a coincidence, Jerry Markham heading off to Sullom Voe, which was close to where the girl’s new man worked, but it would have to be checked.

‘He’s called Henderson,’ Markham said. ‘John Henderson.’

Perez made his apologies for disturbing them and went, leaving his coffee untouched. The other questions could wait. It wasn’t his case, after all. Halfway up the bank towards his house he paused and looked out to the sea. He had reasonable phone reception in this spot. A hundred yards on he’d lose it again. He called Sandy, his hands trembling a little as he hit the buttons. He asked what they’d planned for the afternoon, then wondered if he might join Sandy and the inspector from Inverness at the terminal, just to sit in on interviews. If he wouldn’t be in the way.