Shetland 05: Dead Water (27 page)

Andy Belshaw had said that Henderson had been excited about Markham’s death and had wanted to talk about it. Was the discrepancy significant? Or was it the result of two witnesses with different perspectives? Perez wasn’t sure.

‘You worked with Evie on the tidal-power project?’

‘Aye. And that was kind of a favour to John. She wanted some local folk to support her and reckoned I’d know something about the tides. I asked John why he didn’t do it himself, but he’d never been one for committees. The Fiscal was there too that morning.’

‘And does she know about tides?’

Sinclair allowed himself a little smile. ‘More than you’d think! She’s a fine sailor. That Contessa of hers is a big yacht for one woman to manage, and she’s a natural. She also has a sense of the next big thing politically. It’s not the good of the planet that she has on her mind, but the good of Ms Rhona Laing.’

‘How did they seem?’ Willow asked. It appeared that she’d been following the conversation after all. ‘The two women, I mean.’

Sinclair shrugged. ‘They sniped at each other. Nothing rude. All very polite. But cats in a bag, you know. It was Evie’s project, but the Fiscal’s never been one to play a subordinate role. I let them get on with it.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’m sorry – I’ve got to go. Yet another meeting. This one in Lerwick.’ He walked with them from the office towards their car.

Willow suddenly asked, ‘What do you make of her? Of the Fiscal?’

If the question surprised him, Sinclair didn’t let it show. ‘She’s good at her job. A tad officious at times. Folk have taken a time to get used to her ways.’

‘Has she ever visited you here?’

‘No! What reason would she have to do that?’

The harbour master stood watching them get into the car. Driving away, Perez saw him stoop to pick up the piece of paper that had been flying around the yard and stuff it into a bin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Fiscal was back at work. She left her office, walked past the whitewashed police station and crossed the road to the Gothic town hall. Gusts of wind tugged at her skirt and made her eyes water. She hoped her mascara hadn’t run, and in the lobby stopped for a moment to check her reflection in the glass door. She’d considered sending her apologies to this meeting, but had known all along that the only response to these murders was to behave as usual. That was the message she’d send to the forum. And pretending that she was perfectly in control was her way of holding things together personally too.

The Shetland Community Forum met once a month to consider matters of importance to the islands. It had been the brainwave of the police superintendent in Inverness as a response to increased drug abuse in the islands. Community engagement, he’d said, was the answer. Rhona Laing thought he must have recently attended a course on the subject. Something put together by sociologists. Naturally
he
never ventured north to attend these gatherings. A number of prominent Shetlanders, leaders of trusts and social organizations, councillors and politicians had been invited to join. Most months half a dozen people turned up, sat round a table and decided very little. Rhona was usually there, as a matter of principle: she’d agreed to join and so she should attend. After a particular long-winded meeting she’d agreed to act as chair. Today she expected a bigger turnout than usual and was regretting that decision. She wasn’t sure she could go through with it, that she
could
hold herself together.

And at the top of the stairs she saw that there was a queue forming as people waited to filter into the meeting room. She saw Joe Sinclair waiting patiently in line and he gave her a little wave. Like her, he was a regular forum member. They served together on a number of island committees. She’d asked him once if he had ambitions to become a councillor – she couldn’t imagine why else he might agree to all these time-consuming meetings – and he’d smiled knowingly. ‘Not now,’ he’d said. ‘There’s enough in my life at present. But I can’t imagine retiring and having nothing to do.’

‘You’ve got your boat,’ she’d said. ‘Your fishing.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t think that would be enough for me. I like to feel I have influence. So it’s not bad practice turning out at this sort of event.’

It took longer than usual to provide everyone with tea and coffee. The urn ran out and a woman scurried away to boil a kettle. Outside it had started to rain steadily and water ran down the windowpane. Soon condensation made it impossible to see out. The main agenda item was the impact of the gas development at Sullom, but that was abandoned almost from the start. A tall, dark man stood up. He had an educated English accent.

‘My name’s Mark Walsh and I run a guest house in Hvidahus. I must say I’m surprised the police aren’t present today to explain their lack of progress in the North Mainland killings. The murders have already had an effect on business. I had two cancellations yesterday.’

Without getting to his feet Joe Sinclair said, in an aside, but loud enough for the whole room to hear, ‘I dare say the police have got better things to do with their time just now.’

The Fiscal was about to reply when the man continued. ‘I hope these deaths will put an end to the proposed Power of Water scheme in our community. It seems rather more than a coincidence that Jerry Markham was killed on his way to attending a meeting objecting to the plans.’

There was a murmur of astonishment in the room. Rhona got to her feet. She saw Reg Gilbert, the editor of the
Shetland Times
, sitting in a corner at the back scribbling in a notebook. For a moment her mind went blank and she had a sudden and overwhelming impulse to run away. To walk out of the room, drive to Sumburgh and get on the first plane south. She imagined the sound of her heels clicking on the wooden floor and could picture her feet as she ran down the stone steps outside the building. After a couple of hours she would arrive in a city where nobody knew her. She would drink chilled white wine in a smart bar as the street lights were switched on, and the nightmare of the previous week would be over.

She became aware that they were staring at her. An awkward silence had fallen. She realized that of course there could be no escape. Running away wasn’t an option.

‘We all know your views on tidal energy, Mr Walsh, and as far as I know, they have nothing to do with the tragedy of two men losing their lives. Perhaps now we can proceed to the items on the agenda.’

When the meeting finally ended it was still raining. Rhona looked at her watch and decided that there was no point going back to the office. She’d already handed over responsibility for the North Mainland killings to her assistant and there was little else that required her urgent attention. She waited until the room was empty, gathering papers in an attempt to look busy, before leaving, and was surprised to see Joe Sinclair still in the corridor. Had he been waiting for her? He fell into step beside her as they walked down the stairs.

‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I could really use a drink after that. A few hours on the water is what’s really needed to clear my head, but a drink would be the next best thing. What about you?’ The invitation surprised her, but she found herself agreeing to go along with him. Not because the idea of a drink was so enticing, but because she couldn’t face returning immediately to an empty house, because the evening stretched ahead of her. Because, left alone, she would panic again and might even end up crying.

He suggested the bar of the Mareel, the new arts centre. She was surprised. She wouldn’t have had him down as a man who liked the theatre or art-house cinema. Waiting at the table while he went to the bar, she trawled her memory for what she knew of him.

He lived in Brae and was married, with two grown-up daughters. Happily married, she supposed. She’d never heard rumours to the contrary. The bar was empty. It was still early. Perhaps this was where he brought his other women, his secret lovers. The thought made her smile for the first time that day.

He returned with two glasses of red wine. ‘I’d have got a bottle, but we’re both driving.’ So it was unlikely then that he was trying to proposition her. There was a small prick of disappointment. Had it come to this, that she couldn’t even attract an overweight Shetlander in late middle age?

‘What do you make of this place?’ she asked. ‘Will they make a go of it?’ The arts centre had been controversial from its inception. Too expensive, some people had said. Too grandiose and flashy. Not needed in a place like Lerwick.

‘I hope so.’ He tasted the wine and seemed satisfied. ‘It’s here now. We need to support it.’ He paused. ‘The police were at my office this afternoon. Jimmy Perez and that woman.’ And she thought that was why he’d brought her here. Not for sex or romance, but for information. Was he just an old gossip after all? Or was his motive more sinister?

‘I suppose they were asking about John Henderson.’ She kept her voice even. She couldn’t let him know that she was as eager for information as he was. ‘He worked for you, didn’t he?’

Sinclair leaned forward across the table towards her. ‘He was such a good man,’ he said. ‘I can’t think why anyone would wish him harm.’

For a moment she thought she picked up a subtext to the words – another request for information? She shrugged her shoulders a little. ‘You know I can’t talk about the investigation. And, even if I wanted to, I know nothing about it. I’m too closely involved because I found Markham’s body. I’ve handed the supervision over to somebody else.’

‘That would be right,’ he said. Outside, the light had almost gone. He looked up at her. ‘What do you think Walsh is playing at?’

‘That nonsense about Markham and the Power of Water? It’s quite ridiculous to link the two.’

She’d expected him to agree with her immediately, but instead he came up with another question. ‘When do you think it’ll all be over? Did the police give you any idea at all?’

She shook her head. They talked about sailing until the wine was gone and then walked together out to their vehicles. He drove off very quickly and by the time Rhona reached the main road there was no sign of his car.

When Rhona arrived back in Aith it was completely dark. The council had put up a couple of street lights the year before and, while she’d complained at the time about light pollution, tonight she was glad of them as she parked her Volvo and opened her door. The rain had blown through and she paused for a moment, enjoying the smell of damp earth and salt from the voe. The drink with Joe Sinclair had lifted her spirits. Perhaps after all she would survive this. By the time the summer came, the drama would be finished and forgotten. She’d return to her old life of weekends on the water, trips south for shopping and civilization, rowing practice and regattas. Things would never be quite the same, but change was inevitable. A car, which had been parked further along the road, started its engine and drove away.

On the floor inside the house she found her mail. She carried it into the kitchen and set it on the table. Before checking it she opened a bottle of Rioja and poured herself a glass, then started wondering what she might eat for supper. The drink in the Mareel had given her a taste for strong, red wine and she realized she was hungry. It was a long time since she’d had a proper meal.

The letters were boring: bank statements, a renewal reminder for her house insurance. There was an invitation to speak at a conference in Copenhagen, which she set to one side. She’d check her diary later. Then, at the bottom of the pile, a postcard. A picture of three men playing fiddles. The back was blank. No writing and no stamp. She supposed it had been delivered by hand. Looking at the image again, she realized it was familiar. She’d seen it when Jerry Markham’s body had been found. The first police officer to arrive at the marina had opened Markham’s briefcase, looking for something to identify him. Glancing over his shoulder as he looked through the contents of the case, she’d seen an identical postcard.

She reached out for her wine and realized that her hand was shaking.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Waiting for Annabel Grey and her father at their hotel, Sandy Wilson felt jittery and nervous. Willow Reeves had given him a list of questions to ask the couple as they were driving south towards the airport. He was worried that he might forget something important. Or that he’d say something so stupid that the father and daughter would refuse to talk to him at all. And underlying the specific fears was a vague anxiety that he always experienced in the presence of people who were more confident and more educated than he was: a suspicion that he made a fool of himself every time he opened his mouth.

Annabel and Richard appeared in the lobby dead on time, the father carrying both the bags. Annabel looked as if she hadn’t slept, and her face was gaunt and drawn. This morning she was wearing very skinny jeans, a long black top and the same grey jacket. But still she smiled at Sandy when she saw him, a smile that lit up her face and made his stomach flip. ‘This is so kind,’ she said. ‘There was no need to give us a lift. We could have got a taxi, couldn’t we, Dad?’

‘Of course.’ The man seemed rested, perfectly relaxed, his only concern being that for his daughter.

‘There was no problem about you getting the time off work, Mr Grey, to come north at such short notice?’ Sandy opened the boot and put the bags inside.

‘I’m not needed in court today, and being a senior partner has certain benefits. Besides, Annabel will always come first for me. My colleagues all know that.’ Grey climbed into the passenger seat. Sandy held open the back door for Annabel.

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient, Sergeant. I spoke to Jerry’s mother on the telephone last night and asked if we might meet. It seemed crazy to come all this way and not introduce myself to Peter and Maria. She invited us to call in to see them. I wasn’t sure how long we’d be, so Dad phoned up to change our flights. That is all right? Of course we wouldn’t expect you to wait for us. I’m sure one of them would give us a lift to the airport.’