Dead Water

Chapter Fifteen

Perez arrived to pick up Cassie from the Haa at six o’clock, just the time they’d agreed. Fran’s ex-husband, Duncan, had her waiting for him and Perez sensed that the man was relieved the weekend was over. Duncan loved his daughter more in the abstract than in reality. He had too many other demands on his time to give her the attention she needed, and now that she had become a solemn and withdrawn child he didn’t know quite what to do with her. He would have been more comfortable with a boy, robust and active. But Duncan’s occasional lover Celia was much older than him and he would have no other children.

Once, Duncan and Perez had been close friends. Perez had spent weekends in the big house when he was a boarder at the Anderson High School, and the Hunter family had introduced him to a different, more relaxed way of living. They’d lost most of their money by then, but they had the confidence that went with generations of owning land and feeling superior. It occurred to Perez that this house was similar in age and size to the Ravenswick Hotel, though there the resemblance ended: the Haa was crumbling from the inside, and most of the rooms were boarded up and never used. Duncan preferred to spend his cash on playboy living rather than the family home. He held on to it through nostalgia and because it gave him a certain position within the islands – it still made him feel like a laird.

Now the men got on only for Cassie’s sake. They had little else in common. It was an odd childcare arrangement – two men, both former partners of Fran, sharing custody of a little girl – and the welfare authorities had taken some persuading that it would work. It did work because Perez was determined that it should. This was what Fran had wanted and he had an obligation to her.

When Perez drove up, Cassie was sitting on the wall outside the house, reading a book. Her bag was on the gravel beside her feet. Duncan was looking at the engine of his jeep. Celia’s car was there too, but there was no sign of her. Cassie was so engrossed in the story that she didn’t hear Perez until he slammed the door shut. Then she smiled Fran’s smile and jumped down to greet him, not making too much fuss in case she hurt Duncan’s feelings. It seemed to Perez that a seven-year-old shouldn’t care so much about hurting adults. It worried him that she was so anxious to please.

‘Had a good weekend?’ He put the bag into the back of his car, eager to get her home. There was school tomorrow, the start of the new term. And if he spent too long in Duncan Hunter’s company he came close to losing his temper.

‘Brilliant! We went fishing and cooked the piltock on a fire on the beach. Celia and I made brownies for pudding.’ And he saw that she had had a good time, she wasn’t just putting on a show for her father.

Duncan wiped his hands on a bit of rag. ‘Everything OK, Jimmy?’ He said the same thing every time they met. In his less generous moods, Perez thought Duncan was afraid that the detective would fall apart, leaving Duncan with sole care of his daughter. Then there would be no exotic business trips to Europe, none of the famous, wild parties at the Haa.

‘Fine.’ Perez opened the back door of the car and shifted the booster seat into its proper place so that he could strap Cassie inside. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with Fran’s ex-husband.

‘I heard there was some trouble at Aith on Friday.’

‘Did you know Jerry Markham?’ Perez straightened. Cassie had opened the book again and was lost in her story.

‘I knew him when he worked on the Shetland Times. And he’s been here to a party occasionally when he’s been home. I haven’t seen him recently.’

‘You don’t know anything about a story he was writing? Haven’t heard any rumours about problems at Sullom Voe?’

‘No.’

Perez thought Duncan probably would have heard rumours if there were any flying around.

Cassie was in bed and asleep early. Perez thought there’d been too many late nights at the Haa, too much sugar and too many treats. He was setting out her clothes for school the next morning when the phone rang.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening, Jimmy. I’ve got Sandy with me and there have been developments. I wonder if we could meet?’ It was Willow Reeves. Perez pictured her and blushed at the memory of the stab of lust he’d felt when he’d followed her into his house in Lerwick.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘My stepdaughter’s in bed. I couldn’t get a sitter at this sort of notice.’ He always called Cassie his stepdaughter to outsiders. It would have seemed an impertinence to claim her as his own.

‘Perhaps we could come to you then? It would be useful to have a chat this evening. Time’s moving on.’ And she made the arrangements, told him what time they would arrive. He would have liked to refuse, but she didn’t give him a chance, and by the end of the conversation it was all fixed up.

She was about to end the call when he broke in. ‘If you want a dram, you’ll have to bring it yourself. I’ve nothing in the house.’

When they arrived Perez put cheese and oatcakes on the table. He found that he was nervous. He’d lost the habit of entertaining and wasn’t quite sure what he should do. And he couldn’t forget how he’d felt about the Uist woman in the Lerwick house. It hadn’t been her fault, he supposed, but he found himself blaming her for what had felt almost like adultery. He realized he’d forgotten small plates for them and saw that his hand was trembling when he lifted the crockery from the cupboard.

Willow Reeves made herself quite at home. He’d lit a fire when he and Cassie had arrived back from her father’s house, because it was still only April and the evenings were cold. Willow sat on a kitchen chair in front of it and stretched out her long legs across the sheepskin. He saw how tired she was, the skin around her eyes looking dark like bruises. Sandy set a bottle of whisky on the table – an obscure island malt that Perez had never tasted. ‘A present from the boss,’ he said.

So, Perez thought, she’s already the boss.

Willow stirred and smiled. ‘I brought it to Shetland with me,’ she said, ‘to remind me of home. And I’m taking it back at the end of the night.’

Perez fetched three small glasses and poured a dram for each of them, but he didn’t speak. She was the boss; let her start the discussion.

The first sip of whisky seemed to revive her. She sat up and leaned forward. ‘I’ll sum up what we have so far, shall I?’ And she continued without waiting for them to reply. ‘Our victim: Jerry Markham, born-and-bred Shetlander, with an English father and ambitions beyond the islands. He went south to escape a shotgun marriage to a local lass.’

‘No,’ Perez said. ‘No, it wasn’t quite like that. I spoke to Evie Watt this morning. Markham had got the place on the London newspaper before he found out she was pregnant. It was very embarrassing for all concerned, but he’d ended the relationship before the pregnancy was made public. He’d seen it as a summer fling, and she was in love for the first time. I’m not sure that provides a motive. She’s getting married on Saturday to a local man.’ He looked at Sandy. ‘John Henderson? Do you know him?’

‘Aye,’ Sandy said. ‘He’s a pilot. Lives up north. Works out of Sullom Voe. Had a wife who died a while back. I don’t know him well, but he’s always seemed kind of boring. I can’t see him committing murder.’

‘But Sullom Voe’s the last place Markham was seen.’ Willow was tense now and Perez thought there was something of the hunting dog about her, her face all sharp angles and points.

‘It is,’ he said. He thought it was up to her to decide how important that fact might be.

‘John Henderson hasn’t had a woman since his wife died. Not as far as I know.’ Sandy was sitting in the corner furthest away from the fire. He never seemed to feel the cold. ‘I can’t see him carrying on with all that nonsense with the yoal. Why would he do that? And what reason would he have for killing Markham anyway?’ He paused for a moment. Perez thought he was rolling through the archives of his memory. Sandy held small details of Shetland gossip in his head better than an old wife with nothing else to do. Finally he spoke again. ‘Henderson was always one for good works. He ran the Youth Club in North Mainland and still helps out with the lads’ football team.’

‘Markham had been trying to contact Evie since he came home,’ Perez said. ‘The first time he’s made any effort to get in touch since he went away, apparently. Could be that Markham had heard about her marriage and decided that she was the one for him after all. A last romantic gesture.’ The thought moved him almost to tears.

‘And you reckon Henderson saw the man as a rival and killed him because of that?’ Sandy made the idea sound like a fairy story.

‘Or perhaps it was to do with work.’ Perez looked up. ‘Jerry’s and Evie’s work. Evie’s involved in developing green energy in the islands, and Jerry’s planned story included details of that. If Andy Belshaw is to be believed.’

‘A small group of activists met at Vatnagarth on Friday night,’ Sandy said. ‘They’re fighting the new tidal-energy scheme at Hvidahus. Worried about the impact on the environment apparently. They were expecting Jerry Markham to be there. They’d invited him, hoping that he’d cover the story.’ Sandy looked around vaguely, and Perez hoped Willow had worked out that Sandy wasn’t very good at detail, that he was easily bored.

There was a moment of silence, but Perez thought he could almost hear Willow Reeves’s thoughts hissing and sparking in her brain.

‘Could Markham have been killed to stop him going to that meeting?’ She looked at them both, demanding a response.

‘I can’t see it was that important.’ Sandy was dismissive. ‘A group of soothmoothers, pissed off because their view might be spoiled.’

‘Everything’s connected,’ Willow said. ‘There are too many links to be coincidental. Andy Belshaw’s wife volunteers in the place where Markham’s car was found, and Markham was expected to attend a meeting there the night he died. Belshaw and Henderson both run a boys’ footie club.’

‘Evie Watt is probably involved in the tidal project,’ Perez said. ‘Sustainable energy comes within her remit.’

‘Does it?’ Willow looked up sharply. ‘Where does Jen Belshaw work?’

‘She’s a school cook,’ Sandy said. ‘In Aith. Nothing to do with the water scheme.’

‘But where Markham’s body was discovered. Another coincidence?’

‘This is a small place.’ Sandy shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘People bump into each other.’

‘So they do.’ She flashed him a smile, but Perez could tell that she was unconvinced. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

‘And is it just chance that a woman looking very like the Fiscal had coffee with Markham the morning he died?’ Willow reached out and took an oatcake from the table and ate it dry. No butter. No cheese. Was she concentrating so hard on the facts of the case that she didn’t notice? ‘Then the body was found on her doorstep when the fog cleared later in the day.’

‘You have Rhona Laing down as a suspect?’ Perez thought she was mad.

‘Not that,’ Willow said. ‘No, maybe not that. But she’s involved. She knows more than she’s telling us.’

There was a moment of silence. Absolute silence. No wind outside. No traffic noise.

‘Anything from James Grieve and the postmortem?’ Perez asked.

‘Nothing helpful. Nothing that we didn’t know already. Markham was killed by a violent blow to the head and placed in the boat postmortem. The pathologist couldn’t pin down time of death more accurately than we already had it – so between Markham leaving Sullom Voe in the afternoon and his body being found by the Fiscal at six-thirty. His last meal was fried fish and chips.’ She paused. ‘We don’t know yet where he ate that.’

‘Any more detail on the murder weapon?’ Perez was finding this discussion easier than he’d expected. After Fran’s death he hadn’t believed he’d be capable of talking about violent death in a dispassionate and professional way again. But this was like a habit, a learned script: the routine questions formed in his mind without too much thought. A performance.

‘Grieve thought a spade or a shovel. Heavy, and wielded with considerable force. We need to find it. Something else for tomorrow.’ She stretched and Perez thought again how tired she looked.

‘Do we think the murder was planned?’ Perez was talking almost to himself. ‘That sort of weapon could be something you’d pick up on the spur of the moment, if there was a fight.’

‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Willow frowned. ‘But there were no other signs that there’d been a scrap. No grazes on Markham’s knuckles and no other injuries. We’ll organize a search for the weapon tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think you’ll find it.’ Perez stared at the fire. ‘Anyone with a peat bank or a croft would have something like that in their house.’ He felt he was being negative and unhelpful. ‘You said there was a briefcase with him in the boat. What was inside?’

‘A couple of postcards with paintings of local musicians. Shetland Arts give them away at the museum and the art gallery. He could have picked them up at the Bonhoga.’

‘Anything written on the postcards?’ Perez thought he’d seen the original of one of those paintings in Lerwick library, and the postcards – publicity for Shetland Arts – in the Bonhoga. The band was called Fiddlers’ Bid.

Willow shook her head. ‘Though he’d have had time to post any he had written. There was nothing else in the case. Markham might have made notes if he was researching a story, but if so, the killer took everything with him or her. Too smart to take the briefcase – it’d be hard to get rid of that.’

Willow’s phone rang. Perez thought it would be a personal call at this time of night. He wondered if she’d want to take it in a different room, but there was only his bedroom, and he was embarrassed to show her in there. He kept the rest of the house clean and tidy for Cassie’s sake, but he never bothered much with his own space. It seemed, though, that the call was work-related and she stayed where she was. They sat watching her, listening, gathering only from her questions and occasional replies that this was someone with whom Markham had worked. When she switched off the phone she was frowning.

‘That was a woman called Amelia Bartlett. Markham’s boss. Seems she’d been away for the weekend. I’d left messages for her, but she’s only just got them.’ Willow looked at them. ‘She doesn’t have any idea what story Jerry was working on. If there was a story. As far as she was aware, Jerry was in Shetland on annual leave. She said he hadn’t been himself lately. He’d been very quiet. She wondered if he’d been ill. Stress maybe. Burnout. And that was why he’d wanted the time out.’