Thin Air

Chapter Thirty

Perez recognized the song after the first few bars. Cassie had learned it at school and had come home singing it, over and over, to rehearse for the end-of-term show, until he and Fran had wanted to scream. And although Fran was still alive then, still a real presence in her own house, warm and strong and argumentative, he’d thought it wrong to teach Peerie Lizzie’s song to the children. He’d understood the need for the bairns to be aware of their cultural heritage, the folk traditions, but this song had only been written twenty years ago, by Marty Thomson up in Northmavine, and it celebrated the death of a real child who had died. But when he’d voiced his concerns to Fran she’d laughed at him and told him he was being daft and he’d spent too long as a cop. ‘Kids love spooky stories. And most of them don’t even listen to the words.’

His sense of her was so real that for a moment he imagined it was Fran sitting on the other side of the desk in the big house in Unst, and not Willow Reeves.

On hearing Willow’s voice he was jolted back to the present, and felt the loss of his woman all over again. He felt he had to explain his reaction to the song, and as he did so his memory of Fran’s laughter at his anxiety – at his notion that Cassie might be frightened – melted away. He’d wanted to focus on the memory, the sound that Fran’s voice had made and the shape of her body with her head thrown back.

‘A well-known local musician wrote it. It’s a kind of ballad, using the story of Elizabeth Geldard’s death. The children learn it in school – it’s seen as part of their heritage, but the teachers also use it as a warning that the shore can be dangerous and the children have to be aware of the incoming tides.’ As he spoke he was thinking there was something different about the song on the tape. It wasn’t quite as Cassie had sung it. He considered asking Willow to play it once more, but was worried about the way he might respond. Perhaps he’d get emotional again, break down even, and he’d promised Willow that he was well now and perfectly fit for work.

‘So why is it on Eleanor’s recorder? Did Vaila Arthur sing it? More background to her story of seeing the ghost?’

‘That wasn’t a woman’s voice,’ Perez said. ‘It was a child.’ It was the one thing of which he was certain.

‘So if we find out who the singer was we might know who else Eleanor met on the day of the party. Vaila only has a baby. It couldn’t have been her.’

Perez didn’t answer.

‘We should ask Vaila,’ Willow said. ‘Come on, Jimmy. No time like the present.’

Perez felt her looking at him strangely and tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but he was thinking of the song and what was different about the recording from the version he knew. At last he got to his feet and followed her out of the house. They walked into the yard to pick up their car and found David sitting outside the walled garden, smoking.

‘I gave up years ago.’ He nodded towards the cigarettes on the bench beside him. ‘These were Charlie’s. He thought I didn’t know that he’d started smoking again. I pretended not to, because I didn’t want to nag. All these pretences and small lies. It seems ridiculous now. Why couldn’t we just be honest with each other?’ He sucked in the nicotine as if he hoped it would kill him immediately.

Vaila let them in to her smart new bungalow. She had the baby over one shoulder and was patting her back. ‘She’s been crying all morning,’ she said. ‘Wind or colic. I’m not sure I’d know the difference, though.’ And she looked at them hopefully as if they might be expert in the ways of small children.

Willow ignored her. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got a few more questions.’

Vaila put the kettle on, still holding the child. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ she said. ‘My man’s working away again and we all need adult company, don’t we?’ But her voice was cheerful; there was no evidence here of post-natal depression.

‘I’ll do this.’ Perez nodded towards the cups and the teapot. ‘You go and sit down.’ He wondered what it might be like to hold a very small baby against your skin, how it might smell, and then thought again that he needed to pull himself together. With Fran gone, that was never going to happen.

In the lounge he poured the tea and offered milk and sugar as if it was his place. Willow and Vaila were already talking.

‘We’ve found Eleanor Longstaff’s digital recorder,’ Willow said.

‘You heard my piece then. What do you think it sounded like?’ She looked at them, demanding their approval.

‘Very good.’ Willow smiled. ‘Brilliant in fact.’

‘So do you think they might still use it for the telly?’

‘That’s nothing to do with us.’

Perez could tell that Willow was starting to lose patience with the young mother. Eventually she’d come out with a sarcastic comment that would alienate their witness. ‘There was something else on the recorder,’ he said gently. ‘A piece of music. Can you tell us anything about that?’

Vaila looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Eleanor didn’t play any music to me.’

‘Did she ask you about Peerie Lizzie’s song?’

‘Marty Thomson’s tune? No, nothing like that. Just about my story.’

‘We’re interested in the children who live in Meoness,’ he said. He thought she would ask why they wanted to know, but she seemed strangely incurious about anything other than the possibility of appearing on television. ‘Are there any kids aged between seven and twelve here?’

‘There are bairns from the north of the island who come to the school, but nobody of that age living just around here.’ She frowned with concentration as if she wished she could conjure them from thin air just to please him.

‘You’ve got a climbing frame in your garden,’ he said. ‘Your Vaila’s a bit young for that just now. Are you thinking ahead?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Kind of. Every day there’s a change in her, and you know she won’t be tiny for very long. But nah, we got that for Neil’s boys. He was married before and they come to stay with us every other weekend.’

Perez thought about that. He’d assumed that a girl had been singing on the recorder, but young boys’ voices sounded very similar. Willow was looking at him, impatient for him to continue.

‘When were they last here?’ he asked. ‘Were they here for Lowrie’s hamefarin’?’

Vaila shook her head. ‘Neil’s a Yell man and he’s no relation to Lowrie or his family. Grusche invited the boys out of politeness, but it wasn’t their weekend for staying and they’re kind of wild. I didn’t need the added complication of keeping them under control. Neil’s bringing them back for the weekend tonight with a peerie friend. That’s the end of my peace for a few days.’

So it hadn’t been either of her stepsons singing for Eleanor.

Willow stood up, eager to move on. Perez thought she’d been restless all day, anxious to have positive information to pass on to her boss to justify their staying in Springfield House. They stood in the front porch, ready to leave. The baby was asleep now and, on impulse, Perez reached out to touch her hair. It was as fine as down and he could hardly feel it. Her mother smiled at him – it was quite natural to her that he’d want to stroke her baby.

‘Do you want a cuddle?’

‘No!’ He felt himself blushing. ‘I wouldn’t want to wake her.’

‘Ah, once she gets off she sleeps like the dead.’

Vaila held out the sleeping baby as if she was a gift. Perez took her in his arms, felt for a moment how smooth and fragile she was and then handed her quickly back. He was worried that he might cry in front of Willow. He’d always thought he and Fran might have a child, though it had never been discussed.

Outside Willow stared at him. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I’ve always been soft about tiny bairns.’

‘Jimmy Perez, you never fail to surprise me.’

They left the car where it was and walked towards the old croft house. It was mid-afternoon and suddenly still and humid, with the smell of flowers from the in-bye land that was no longer grazed or cultivated. He was reminded of Fair Isle and wondered when he’d be brave enough to take Cassie to see where her mother had died. He’d promised they’d go before the end of the school summer holidays and he hadn’t yet broken a promise to her. He’d wait for a still day like this, and they’d sail in from Grutness with his father at the helm of the Good Shepherd, so that Cassie could sit out on deck and watch the island get closer.

Willow was walking ahead of him and waited for him by the door. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What brought Charles Hillier to this place the day that he died?’

‘Money.’ Once the word was spoken it was obvious to him. ‘He and David might not have had a conversation about how hard up they were, but both must have known that the business was failing. And they were desperate.’ He imagined the men skirting around the subject, not wanting to face the difficult decisions that would have to be made, trying to be kind and not to blame the other.

‘You think he might have tried his hand at blackmail?’

‘Maybe.’ But Perez had other ideas swirling around in his head.

‘The English people all had the money to pay up,’ Willow said. ‘But what could Charles have that might hold them to ransom? Eleanor’s digital recorder? All it tells us is that Vaila Arthur was telling the truth about being interviewed. And that a child sang a song about Lizzie Geldard to Eleanor Longstaff before she died.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t the recorder at all.’ Out at sea a flock of gulls followed a small fishing boat. ‘Perhaps it was information. Perhaps he knew who’d committed the murder of Eleanor Longstaff.’

‘He saw her being killed, you mean?’

‘Or saw enough to guess.’ Perez still wasn’t sure how that might work out.

‘So you think Charles had arranged to meet someone here?’ Willow opened the door of the old house, but remained outside. Perez smelled damp stone and peaty soil. ‘And Polly and Ian disturbed him?’

‘It’s possible.’ In his mind he was running through a theory that seemed at once too elaborate and too simple.

‘Shall we bring Vicki Hewitt back? See if we have evidence of a fourth person in the place?’

He was about to speak when there was a noise inside, something scrabbling and clawing, and a cry, piercing like a child’s. Willow was about to go in, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her, and a creature shot past them.

‘Feral cat,’ he said. ‘There are colonies on the cliffs throughout the islands. It probably got in down the chimney and couldn’t get out. Trapped.’

His hand was still on her arm, which was downy like the baby’s head. He could feel her shaking from the shock. A little embarrassed, he took his hand away.