Dead Water

Chapter Five

By the time Sandy arrived at Aith it was fully dark. It had taken longer than he’d expected because there was a hennie bus on the narrow road between Bixter and Aith and it had gone slowly. Once it stopped to let out a lass to be sick on the verge. The girl had her leg tied to her friend’s, as if they were competing in a three-legged race, and it had taken an age for the two of them to get down the steps. Any other time and Sandy would have been amused. Hen parties on the island were always good value. But tonight he was annoyed and leaned on his horn until the bus pulled in and let him past.

In Aith there was a constable at the entrance to the marina, who recognized his car and waved him through. Sandy had expected the Fiscal to be at home, but she was still at the scene, wearing blue jeans and a cagoule, a knitted hat over her immaculate hair. They’d switched on the lights in the marina and everything looked washed out and pale, except the water, which was black and oily. Rhona Laing came up to him as soon as he climbed out of his car.

‘It was good of you to make it, Sergeant.’ Her voice acid, all trace of the earlier compassion gone.

‘I went to see Jimmy Perez,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a courtesy.’ He was proud of the new-found word.

She hesitated. ‘He didn’t want to come along then?’

‘He didn’t feel up to it.’ Sandy paused too. ‘A pity. It could be just what he needs. Something to take his mind off things and get him out of the house.’ The Fiscal didn’t answer and he went on. ‘I spoke to Inverness, and they’re sending a team on the first flight tomorrow. I’ll collect them from the airport and bring them straight here. Morag is sorting out accommodation. There’s a new inspector.’ He was going to add that it was a woman with a strange name, but thought better of it. He knew Rhona Laing wouldn’t consider that relevant. He wondered what the women would make of each other and smiled in the gloom at the possibilities of a power-play. It would be good to have someone else as the target of the Fiscal’s sharp tongue.

‘This way.’ The Fiscal led him along the jetty to one of the moorings. They’d put a screen at the end of the pier to stop prying eyes, and a piece of tarpaulin hid the body in the yoal. Davy Cooper, a uniformed sergeant, lifted one end and shone a torch so that Sandy could see.

‘He’s kind of familiar,’ Davy said. ‘But I can’t put a name to him. I’ve opened the briefcase, but I couldn’t find an ID. I didn’t want to look in his pockets until the CSI gets here tomorrow morning.’

Sandy looked down at a man in his early thirties, who was dressed in jeans that would have cost him a couple of days’ wages. ‘It’s Jerry Markham,’ he said. There was shock to see him dead, though no sense of bereavement. They’d been distant cousins, but never had enough in common to be friends. ‘His folk run the Ravenswick Hotel. He worked as a journalist on The Shetland Times until he went south to make his fortune. I didn’t know he was home.’

‘Of course it’s Markham,’ Cooper said. ‘Now you say, I can see his mother in him.’

But Sandy wasn’t listening. He was looking at the Fiscal, who seemed suddenly even whiter in the unforgiving lights. ‘Did you know him, Ma’am?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know his name of course, but we’ve never met.’ She looked away from the body. ‘It’s getting cold, and I’ve not eaten. If you need me, you can find me at home.’ She began to walk away, but just as she reached a patch of shadow she turned back to them. ‘Will you inform the family?’

Sandy nodded.

‘The press will be here as soon as the news gets out,’ she said. ‘They’re always interested in one of their own. We’ll keep the identity to ourselves for as long as we can, Sergeant, so I’d appreciate a bit of discretion when you arrive at the hotel.’

‘Would you like to tell Peter and Maria yourself?’ The last thing Sandy wanted was a drive back to Ravenswick, and the hotel was the smartest in the islands. He always felt out of place there. He imagined that the Fiscal would be a regular in the restaurant.

‘That’s hardly my role, Sergeant.’ She was already moving away from him, and by the end of the sentence the darkness had swallowed her up.

On the drive back to Ravenswick, Sandy ran through the things he knew about Jerry Markham in his head. Markham was a bit older than Sandy, though he’d still been at the Anderson High while Sandy was there. One of the fashionable boys. Editor of the school magazine. Star of the school play. He’d gone away to university and come back to write on the Shetland Times, got bored and miserable and moved south again. Now he wrote for one of those big London papers that had serious stories, and sport only on the back pages. Sandy’s mother had been full of that when Jerry had got the job, and whenever his name was on an article she clipped it out to wave under Sandy’s nose when he went home.

The parents were Peter and Maria Markham. Maria was a Shetland wife. She’d grown up in Northmavine. Peter was an incomer, what Shetlanders called a soothmoother.

What had Peter Markham worked at before they bought up the Ravenswick Hotel? Sandy couldn’t bring it to mind, but thought it was something to do with oil. Then he remembered that there was a military connection: Markham had been stationed at the air-force base in Unst and that’s when he’d met Maria. When he’d left the services he’d flown helicopters from Scatsta out to the rigs. The Ravenswick had been rundown before the Markhams took it over. It had been a laird’s house, built in the eighteenth century, huge and solid and right on the water. Now it was completely refurbished and called itself Shetland’s only country-house hotel. Fran and Jimmy had taken him for a meal there to celebrate their engagement. Only in the bar, but it still seemed awful expensive to Sandy. The food had been good, though, and if Sandy had a woman that he really wanted to impress, he’d take her there at lunchtime when there was a set menu and it didn’t cost so much.

Sandy realized he’d reached Perez’s house and was on the edge of the settlement of Ravenswick. There were still lights on in the old chapel, but the curtains were drawn. Perhaps Jimmy kept the light on now when he went to sleep. Perhaps, like a bairn, he got nightmares in the dark. Or perhaps he was sitting up awake, staring into the fire.

There was a fire lit in the entrance to the hotel. Peat that you could smell all the way from the car park. Stuart Brodie was on reception. Sandy had been at school with him too. The bar was full of residents drinking coffee or taking a dram after their dinners. The reception was all dark wood, with the smell of beeswax.

‘Are Peter and Maria around?’ Sandy leaned across the polished desk so that he was close to Brodie and didn’t have to shout to make himself heard.

‘They’ve just gone up to the flat.’ Brodie was conscientious. A bit dull; he had no curiosity at all. ‘Is it something I can help with? I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’

‘Point me in the right direction and I’ll find my own way,’ Sandy said. ‘Don’t ring them.’ He took the grand staircase to the first floor and then a smaller staircase until he reached a door marked ‘Private’. He knocked a couple of times, then at last he heard footsteps on the other side and it opened.

Peter Markham was still dressed for work in a suit, though he’d taken off the tie and there was a glass in his hand. His hair was turning grey, but he was still fit. He didn’t come across to Sandy as an old man.

‘Can I help you?’ He seemed a little irritated by the interruption, but he wasn’t rude. Perhaps guests often knocked on his door to complain or ask for help and, given the prices they were paying, Peter Markham couldn’t afford to lose his temper.

Sandy introduced himself and the man stood aside. ‘What is it, Sergeant? Has one of our guests been misbehaving?’ He didn’t recognize Sandy, but then his wife had dozens of distant relatives.

Sandy followed him through to a large sitting room. Once these might have been servants’ quarters, but this end of the attic had been knocked into a large space and painted white. The polished wood floors of the hotel were here too, and there was a blue patterned rug near the wood-burning stove. Sandy thought it would be a bit chilly in the winter. He preferred a carpet. On a shelf near the stove was a sculpture of a gannet, almost life-size, made of driftwood. Sandy found himself staring at it. How had the artist made it look as if it was about to dive?

Maria Markham was slouched in a low armchair. She’d changed into a dressing gown, nothing glamorous, but the sort Sandy’s mother might wear, fleecy and comfortable. She was staring at the television; Sandy suspected it had been switched on to help her relax, not because she was interested in the programme. There was a drink on the table beside her. Maria knew him at once. They were related in the way of the islands, remotely – she was a kind of aunt by marriage – and, growing up, he’d met her occasionally at weddings and funerals. She’d always been on her own; her husband and son had never accompanied her. And since she and Peter had taken on the Ravenswick, Sandy hadn’t seen her at family events at all.

She stood up, pulling her dressing gown around her, a little embarrassed to be caught like this, dressed so informally. ‘Sandy! How lovely!’ It didn’t seem to occur to her that he might be here in a professional capacity. He thought she’d put on weight. Her chin was soft and fleshy. ‘What would you like to drink? You’ll take a dram with us? Were you downstairs earlier? We were so busy that I didn’t see you. The place is full of folk here supervising the new gas terminal up the island. Good for business, but if it lasts, we’ll need to get more staff. And the fog meant that the Edinburgh plane didn’t go, so some of our guests were stranded for an extra night.’

‘I’m here about Jerry,’ he said.

‘He’s not back,’ she replied. ‘He’s working. We’re expecting him at any time. Why don’t you wait? He’ll love to catch up with you.’

Her husband, though, seemed to sense that this wasn’t a social call. He stood behind his wife and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Jerry’s dead.’ Sandy had broken tragic news a few times now and found that it didn’t get any easier. Those words were so brutal that he felt as if he was killing the man again, but there was no gentle way to do it. Best that there was no doubt, no room for hope.

The couple stared at him. It was as if they were frozen. ‘What do you mean?’ Maria said at last. ‘He’s here in Shetland. He’ll be back any minute.’

‘No.’ Sandy wished he was better with words. With people. ‘His body was found in Aith. I saw it for myself.’

‘Was it that bloody car?’ Markham said. ‘He drove it like a maniac.’

‘No.’ Sandy’s brain scrambled to understand the implication of the words. Of course Jerry would have brought a car to the island. They’d have to trace it. He should already have started a search – Perez would have done that. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘There wasn’t a car accident.’

‘What then?’

Sandy looked at Maria. Tears were running down her cheeks, but still she didn’t move and she made no noise.

‘We think he was murdered,’ Sandy said. ‘His body was found at Aith Marina and there was a head-wound. We’ll know more tomorrow, when a team comes up from Inverness.’

There was an explosion of sound then. Maria was shouting and crying. Sandy wasn’t given to fancies, but he thought there was the pain of labour in it. It was as if she were giving birth to her son again, screaming her way through the agony. Markham stood in front of her and held her tight until she was quiet.

‘Jerry was our only one,’ he said, looking over his wife’s head at Sandy. ‘After him Maria could have no more children.’

Sandy wanted to get out of there, to give them some time to grieve alone. He hated sitting in the big clean space, watching the woman he remembered as strong and full of laughter falling apart. But in the morning the new inspector from North Uist would fly in on the plane and she’d want to know what he’d found out. This was the only chance he’d have to ask his questions before she took over the investigation.

‘What car did Jerry drive?’ he asked.

‘An Alfa Romeo.’ Markham was still holding his wife to his chest, rocking slightly as if he were comforting a fretful baby. ‘One of the small, sporty ones. Red, of course. A ridiculous thing. Old now. He bought it when he first moved to London.’

‘Maria said Jerry was here to work.’ Sandy couldn’t imagine what a fancy reporter from a London paper was doing in Shetland. How could what was happening here be of interest there?

‘Jerry said there was a story.’ Markham spoke quietly. Maria was so still now that Sandy wondered if she’d passed out, if she’d worn herself out with her sobbing. Markham stroked her hair. ‘He’d persuaded his boss it was worth following up and that he’d be the best person to do it, because of his local connections. So he’d get a few days home, all expenses paid, and the chance of a scoop too.’

‘What was the story about?’ Outside there was a sudden burst of laughter. Local diners were making their way to their cars and home.

Markham shrugged. ‘He’d asked if I could get him into Sullom Voe. Did I still have any contacts there? I thought there’d be nothing at the terminal that would interest the paper. The oil’s running out, after all. That place is old news. But I arranged for him to visit the press officer.’

‘And that was where he was today?’

‘Yes,’ Markham said. ‘That was where he was today. We were expecting him back for dinner; when he didn’t turn up, we thought he’d bumped into old friends. You know how it is here, coming back. I tried to phone, but there was no answer. No reception, we thought. It never occurred to me that anything would have happened to him. We worried about him sometimes in London. But not here. Here we expect everyone to be safe.’

He was still talking when Sandy stood up. Sandy thought Markham was reluctant now to let the detective go. His face was tight with the effort of holding himself together. With just Maria for company, he’d not manage it.

Sandy drove north again. The windows were still lit in Jimmy’s house. He wanted to stop and ask advice. What should I do first? Tell me how I should run things. But he drove past and went to the office, got onto the computer to check the registration number of Jerry Markham’s car, phoned Davy Cooper, who was on watch at the marina, and asked him to wander round the car park and see if it was there. Sandy hadn’t noticed it, and he thought he would have noticed such a flash car. Morag had left a note that she’d fixed accommodation for the Inverness team in Lerwick.

Sandy returned to his flat in the early hours of the morning. He switched on the television, with the sound very low – a young family lived underneath him and he didn’t want to wake them. He drank a can of Tennent’s without bothering to get a glass, then set his alarm clock and went to bed. He slept immediately. Even when he was worried, Sandy Wilson had no trouble sleeping. Jimmy Perez had always said that was a gift. Sandy thought it was one of the few he possessed.