White Nights

Chapter Fourteen

When Jimmy Perez woke the next morning it was still to thick fog. His house was in Lerwick, close to the pier. It backed on to the sea and the outside walls were green to the high-tide mark. The fog made the light different. There was no reflection from the water; it was like waking in winter. His first thought was of Fran and the second was of the investigation.

He’d wanted to visit Fran the night before, but it had been late by the time he’d finished work. He’d phoned to explain, had been too eager in his apologies, he realized now, had assumed too much. Perhaps she’d had no expectations of a visit. She was from the south, sophisticated. There, they would do things differently. He looked at the clock by the bed. Seven: she would be awake now. Her daughter was an early riser. Fran had laughed about that, said she had fond memories of life before motherhood, long lie-ins with the Sunday papers, coffee and croissants which left crumbs in the bed. The memories of his youth had been very different. His parents had always found work for him on the Fair Isle croft. He thought it would be good to lie in with Fran on the Sunday mornings when Cassie was with her father. He would like to take her breakfast in bed.

He put the kettle on for coffee and went into the shower. Back in the kitchen, which was as narrow as a ship’s galley, he switched on the radio. A blast of music from SIBC, then a five-minute news slot and the first report of the stranger’s death.

‘A tourist was found dead in suspicious circumstances yesterday in Biddista. The police are anxious to identify him.’ Then a brief description and a request that anyone who might recognize the dead man should phone the incident room.

It struck him that the tone would be very different if the dead man were a Shetlander. The fact that he was described immediately as a tourist took any sense of panic from the news. It was as if the reporter was describing an incident that had occurred elsewhere. A visitor’s death was almost a source of entertainment.

While he made coffee and stuck two slices of bread into the toaster he listened for the weather forecast. The fog should clear around midday. Perhaps Taylor and his team from Inverness would get in after all today on the plane. Taylor would be pleased. Thirteen hours on the ferry would be purgatory to him. He would be like a tiger caged for transport. Perez imagined him, lying straight and stiff on the bunk in the dark cabin, trying to relax and to sleep. When they’d worked together previously he’d thought Taylor the most restless man he’d ever met.

As he left home, he saw that the cruise ship was still moored at the dock. Usually the huge liners spent very little time in Lerwick. The passengers disembarked, caught the complimentary bus to the town centre, had a trip round the tourist and information centre, the Shetland Times bookshop and the gift shops, then went back to the luxury of the ship. Sometimes he would bump into a group of them in Commercial Street. Most were from the United States. They stared around them at the tiny shops, the passing people. He felt like an animal in a zoo.

In his office he phoned the harbourmaster. When was the Island Belle due to sail? Could Patrick arrange a visit for him before she left?

‘You’ll have to be quick. She’s scheduled to leave on the midday tide.’

‘I’ll go now,’ Perez said. ‘As soon as you can fix it.’

He drove down to Morrison’s Dock, parked facing the water and was distracted for a moment by a seal lifting its soft face out of the water. When he was a boy he’d used the Fair Isle seals for target practice with his father’s shotgun until his mother had found out.

‘What harm did they ever do to you?’

‘William says they take fish and that’s why the catch is so poor now.’ William was an older lad, at that time the fount of all wisdom and knowledge.

‘Nonsense. The catch is so poor because we’ve been over-fishing the North Sea for years.’ His mother, who had been a member of Greenpeace when she was a student, still had theories about the environment that his father found dangerous and extreme.

To be honest, Jimmy had been glad of an excuse not to shoot the seals any more. He’d hated the slick of blood which floated on the water when he’d hit the target. Sometimes he’d tried to miss, but William’s ridicule had been hard to face too.

Patrick must have warned the cruise ship that he was coming because it seemed they were expecting him. He was shown at once into the purser’s office. After The Good Shepherd, the mail boat which ran from Grutness to Fair Isle, the NorthLink ferries had seemed enormous. But this was monstrous, a towering white skyscraper of a ship, taller than any of the buildings in Lerwick. The purser was a lowland Scot. It seemed Shetland wasn’t his favourite stop on the tour.

‘You’ll have heard that a tourist was killed yesterday in Biddista?’ Perez asked him.

‘No.’ Implying, Why would I care?

‘Have any of your passengers explored the island that far west?’

‘Look, inspector, we don’t usually spend this long in Lerwick. It’s a bit of a dead loss. They come expecting something scenic and it’s not exactly pretty, is it? Grey little houses. We do the seabird tour and the silverworks then everyone heaves a sigh of relief and we’re off to Orkney. St Magnus’ Cathedral – now that is a building worth taking a photo of. And the Highland Park distillery.’ The thought of malt whisky seemed to cheer him immediately.

Perez had an urge to defend Shetland, to say it had a beauty of its own, that there were visitors who loved the low horizons and big skies, the huge bare hills, but he could tell that the purser would never be a convert. ‘Why are you here so long this trip?’

‘A problem with one of the engines. It’s fixed now, thank the Lord, and we can be on our way.’

‘You’re not missing any of your passengers then?’

‘No one’s reported one missing. Have you any evidence to suggest your dead man is one of ours?’

‘There was nothing to identify him at all.’

The purser seemed relieved. He stood up.

‘They could leave the ship if they wanted to?’ Perez said. ‘I mean you don’t lock them in?’

‘Of course not. But most of our passengers are elderly. They prefer to stick to the organized trips.’ He sat down again. ‘Look, if they wanted adventure they wouldn’t choose a cruise with a bunch of geriatrics.’

‘Where did you take your passengers the day before yesterday?’

‘They had a free morning to look round the town and in the afternoon we took them on a bus trip, down to the RSPB reserve at Sumburgh Head for puffins. Tea in Scalloway.’

‘I’m surprised the exhibition at the Herring House wasn’t on the schedule. Bella Sinclair’s a big name. I’d have thought some of your customers would have enjoyed meeting the artist.’

‘A couple of them mentioned it. When we had to stay the extra night I considered fixing up transport for them to go, but in the end it was cancelled, wasn’t it?’ He gave the impression he was pleased he’d avoided the bother.

‘Who told you it was cancelled?’

‘Nobody told me. Not the people organizing the exhibition, at least. But there was a guy handing out flyers at the gangplank when they went down for the trip into town.’

‘Did you see him?’ Perez demanded.

‘No, I wasn’t on duty just then.’

‘Could I get to talk to someone who did?’

The purser looked at his watch and sighed.

Perez sat where he was and said nothing.

The purser stood up and gestured for Perez to follow him. An elderly couple leaned against the rail on the upper deck looking out at the town. The mist was already starting to clear, so at least there was something to look at. They were thin and brown and they were holding hands.

‘Honeymooners,’ the purser said as they approached. ‘You’d think at their age they’d have more sense.’ His tone changed when they were within earshot. ‘Come and meet Dr and Mrs Halliday, inspector. I think they might be able to help you.’ For the first time since Perez had entered his office he smiled.

Perez found the sudden transformation in his attitude and body language disturbing. But this was the man doing his job. It was all about playing a role.

The Hallidays were from Phoenix, Arizona. They were collectors of contemporary art. They even owned a small Bella Sinclair. ‘We were so disappointed that the exhibition opening was cancelled, inspector. George here had fixed up a taxi to take us and bring us back.’

‘Can you describe the man who gave you the flyer?’

The couple looked at each other. ‘It would be helpful,’ Perez said. He wondered why they hesitated.

‘I guess it’s hard to say,’ the man said, ‘because of the fancy dress. That was all I noticed.’

‘Fancy dress?’

‘Well, yes. He was dressed like a clown. Not the sort with a red nose and bright clothes. This one was all in black and white. Classy, you know. Like something from the commedia dell’arte.’

‘Was he wearing a mask?’

‘That’s right. A mask. I remember because our kids always used to find them kind of scary.’

By the time Perez reached the police station, the sun was shining. Taylor had been on the telephone to say that they were already at the airport at Dyce and scheduled on the first available flight out. ‘You’ll meet me and take me straight to the scene.’ No question.

In his office Perez looked at his watch. He only had half an hour before he’d have to set off for Sumburgh. He wandered into the incident room. Sandy was on the phone and didn’t notice him. It was clear that this was a personal conversation with one of Sandy’s Whalsay friends. There were arrangements to meet for drinks, gossip about some woman. Perez reached over and cut the connection. Sandy began to splutter indignantly, then stopped.

‘Not enough work, Sandy? That’s fine then, because there’s something I’d like you to do for me. A guy dressed as a clown was handing out flyers at Morrison’s Dock the day before yesterday to all the passengers coming off the cruise ship. Someone else must have seen him. Go and talk to anyone who was working there. Did anyone chat to him? Find out who he was and where he was staying.’

‘You think he’s our victim?’

‘Two strange men dressed as clowns in Shetland on the same day? A bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you think?’

Sandy looked sheepish and grinned. ‘Someone phoned for you,’ he said. ‘Kenny Thomson.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t speak to me. Nothing that won’t wait. He said it wasn’t urgent.’

So Perez left without phoning Kenny back, allowing more time than he needed for the drive south, thinking he could make the call from his mobile while he was hanging round at the airport. He had to drive right past Fran’s house on the way to Sumburgh. He saw her silhouette in the window of the bedroom she used as a studio. She was working. He imagined her standing in front of her easel, frowning, oblivious of everything going on around her. She said her work was all about concentration. Sometimes she spent all day on a piece, not even stopping to eat. He admired her passion, but he didn’t quite understand it. He couldn’t concentrate for more than twenty minutes at a time without wanting coffee, contact, the feedback of other people.

He speeded up and carried on down the road. Sumburgh was crowded with people who’d been trapped in Shetland by the fog. There was competition for places on the first plane south and some of the passengers were irritable. There was an English family: a man and a woman, a toddler in a buggy, a baby in a sling. ‘What sort of place is this?’ the woman said. Her voice was too loud, she needed other people to hear her. ‘A bit of mist and everything grinds to a stop. If this is your idea of an adventurous holiday, Charles, you can keep it. Next year we’re going back to Tuscany.’

As she set down a piece of charcoal, Fran caught a glimpse of Perez’s car driving past. She paused for a moment, half expecting him to stop, but he drove on. She watched with relief as he continued down the hill. The thought of him had been at the back of her mind all morning, but she didn’t want to dwell on it now. She had so little time to work. The school day was short and there were only a few more hours before she would need to collect Cassie from class. She turned back to the sketch, an idea for a larger piece, her head full of colour and shape. Perez was forgotten.