Thin Air: (Shetland book 6) (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Sandy Wilson was still waiting in the holiday house when the call came through from Jimmy Perez. He was hungry and wondering what they might do about lunch. And he was uncomfortable. These people had turned Sletts into a little piece of London, with their ground coffee and their English voices, the fancy food on the cupboard shelves.
He
was the Shetlander and yet he felt like a stranger. He went outside to take the call.

‘Meet us there, will you, Sandy, once you’ve found someone to sit in with the witnesses?’ Then a list of directions that Sandy jotted on the back of his hand, because he remembered nothing when he was flustered. ‘And while you’re waiting for someone to relieve you, see if you can track down James Grieve and Vicki Hewitt. This is a suspicious death and we want the pathologist and crime scene manager here. I know it’s Sunday, but work your charm, eh? It’d be great if we could get them in today. If not, first thing in the morning.’

‘What should I tell the folk in the house?’

‘Tell Eleanor’s man that she’s dead. He deserves that. He can decide whether or not to tell the rest of them. If Mary Lomax is back on the island, get her to sit in with them.’ Mary was the North Isles community police officer, middle-aged, motherly and perfect for the job. She’d grown up in Glasgow, but had taken to island life immediately. Apart from the accent, you’d have her down as a native Shetlander.

Sandy phoned Mary. She said she was back in Unst and that she’d be at Sletts in half an hour. Then he turned his mobile to silent and hesitated, rehearsing in his mind the words that he would use to tell the Englishman with his square face and his hard eyes that his wife was dead. When he walked through the door they all stared at him and his mouth went dry.

‘Could I have a word outside, please, Mr Longstaff?’ Speaking slowly so the man would understand his accent. Knapping.

He expected questions, a refusal to comply, but Longstaff stood up and followed him onto the deck. As they left the house the other couple continued to stare at him in silence.

‘They’ve found her.’ It wasn’t a question. Sandy nodded. ‘Is she dead?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Sandy was about to offer his condolences, say those words that always sounded false to him, even though he meant them, but Longstaff interrupted. ‘I knew she must be. She wouldn’t have gone like that. Not all night without a word. She’d know that I’d be worried. It’s been a difficult time, but we loved each other. In a way that other people can’t understand.’ He looked up. ‘Can I see her?’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Sandy said. ‘But maybe just not yet.’

There was a sound of a car coming down the track. Mary Lomax climbed out. She hadn’t taken time to change into her uniform, was wearing tracksuit bottoms and an elderly fleece that smelled of her collie. She’d taken on a small croft to work in her spare time. Sandy waved at her, felt the kind of relief that had always marked the end of the school term for him.

‘I’m sure that you’ve urgent things to be doing, Sandy. I can look after things here now.’ She put her arm around Ian Longstaff’s shoulder. Sandy expected him to push her away, but he curved his head towards her and clung onto her as she led him inside.

Perez was waiting on the hill, a good distance from the body with his back to it. He’d sent everyone else away and was looking south. The land sloped down towards Springfield, the old laird’s house that had been turned into a hotel. Sandy knew better than to approach the crime scene and stayed where he was, by the fence. He thought this must be hard for his boss. Another dead woman, much the same age as Fran had been. He never knew what to say to Jimmy Perez these days, or whether he
could
say anything to make him feel better.

‘James Grieve will fly in on the last flight from Aberdeen.’ The words shouted because he was still a distance away. And that seemed to work, because Perez gave him a smile and walked towards him.

‘I’m hoping to get the Chief Inspector in this evening too.’

‘Who have you asked?’

‘Willow Reeves.’

Sandy gave a little smile at the name. ‘Would you like me to stay here to keep the walkers and gawpers away?’ He didn’t mind dead people. He couldn’t offend them.

‘Nah, I’ll do it – I’ve called in reinforcements from Lerwick.’ Sandy thought Perez liked the idea of a silent vigil. He had turned in the other direction now and was staring out over the water. Maybe he needed the time on his own. ‘Find us some accommodation, would you, Sandy? We can’t be traipsing back to Lerwick every night. See if you can find somewhere big enough for us all. Didn’t I read that Springfield House has new owners? It might be worth trying there.’

So Sandy was back in his car driving away from Meoness and the few miles to the big house further south. Springfield had been empty for years until an English couple had turned up to renovate it. The house had a special place in Shetland mythology because it was where Peerie Lizzie had been living when she drowned.

When Sandy arrived one of the owners was showing a family into his car. He was still standing at the door, the keys in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’ He was in late middle age and a shock of grey hair stuck up at the front, like the crest of a bird, giving him a comical, cartoonish appearance.

Sandy explained who he was and that he needed as many rooms as the hotel could provide.

‘I’m just about to drop these people at the ferry. Is that OK? Call into the bar and ask Billy to make you a coffee or a sandwich and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. My partner’s out for the afternoon.’ His voice was deep and somehow familiar.

The bar was reached from a courtyard at the back of the house. Once it had been a stable or a garage. Sandy had seen pictures in the museum of the house in Peerie Lizzie’s day – grand men and women in fancy clothes, arrived from the south for a week of fishing and shooting. Perhaps this was where they kept the rods and the guns. Inside the bar Billy Jamieson was polishing glasses. Sandy had done him for drunk driving about a year before, but the man didn’t seem to bear a grudge. ‘Sandy, what can I do for you? Is this work or pleasure?’

‘Work.’ No details, though news would get out soon enough. Had probably got out already and Billy was just fishing for more information. ‘I’m here to book some accommodation, but your boss is away to the ferry with some guests. He said to give me a coffee and a sandwich while I wait.’

Billy nodded, played with the coffee machine and disappeared into a small kitchen at the back, only sticking his head round briefly to ask if ham would do because they didn’t have much else left.

‘I’m starving,’ Sandy said. ‘I’d eat you in a sandwich, if there was enough mustard to go with it.’ He sat at the bar with his coffee. The room was empty apart from a couple of foreign tourists in a corner and a local man nursing a pint. ‘What are they like to work for then?’

Billy understood what the question was about. A couple of gay men taking over the place had been a topic of conversation all over the islands. Nothing too unpleasant – Shetlanders considered themselves above prejudice these days. But a lot of interest and a few unfunny jokes. He shrugged. ‘Fine enough. David’s a good cook and he does most of the work. Charlie’s the front man.’

And on cue the owner appeared at the door, a silhouette against the sunlight outside. He walked in smiling, his hand outstretched. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Charles Hillier.’ As if the name was important, as if Sandy should recognize it. And something did stir in his memory: Saturday-night television in his grandmother Mima’s house in Whalsay. He and his brother there for a sleepover because his parents were away. Some variety theatre or game show, and the three of them laughing because the humour was the sort that bairns could enjoy too. Now he felt awkward because the memory was so sketchy, but the man obviously thought he was still famous. Sandy decided it was best to stick to the business in hand. He’d look the hotelier up on Google later.

‘We’ll have a team based in Unst for a few days at least. Could you provide some rooms for us? Bedrooms and maybe a meeting room.’

If Hillier was disappointed not to be recognized he didn’t show it now, but switched into professional mode, leading Sandy into the main house and showing him into bedrooms, throwing open doors with the air of a conjuror. He was flamboyant, a showman. In his head Sandy was counting up what all this would cost and was wondering what Jimmy Perez would say. ‘Would there be a discount? As we’ll be taking so many of your rooms?’

Hillier laughed. ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we? We’d want to do all we can to help our friends in the police.’ He took Sandy into a small lounge and brought a tray of tea, with little home-made shortbread biscuits.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked. His head bobbed forward and Sandy was reminded again of a bird, a parrot maybe. His eyes were beady and bright. ‘Are you allowed to say?’

Sandy thought that by now there’d be no point in keeping secrets. ‘A visitor to the island died,’ he said. ‘It’s a possible suspicious death.’ He was expecting more questions, but the man dipped his head again towards his tea and said nothing.

Chapter Eight

Willow Reeves was at her parents’ place in North Uist when the call came from Jimmy Perez. The commune had come together for a working lunch and they were sitting round the long table in the old barn. Time had snapped like elastic released from tension and she was a kid again. Everything was the same – the taste of home-made bread and vegetable stew, the murmured voices that hid dissent and frustration under a veneer of politeness. Except that there were no children at the table. The individuals she remembered as being strong and flexible now had grey hair and arthritic joints. No new members had joined since she’d signed up for the police service. There were no families to boost numbers for the island school. The communal ideal of shared ownership and shared beliefs seemed to be unappealing to Thatcher’s children.

She muttered an apology and went outside to take the call. Her mother, Lottie, had been delighted to see her and Willow had enjoyed her time here, felt better for the mindless physical exercise and the organic food. And she’d banished the guilt that had bothered her every time she’d phoned them and heard her mother’s wistful but undemanding enquiry about when she might be planning a visit. Her relationship with her father had always been more problematic and now, after a fortnight, she was ready to leave. The unexpected contact with the outside world came as a relief.

‘I’m sorry to bother you.’ Perez’s voice sounded distant. ‘I know that you were spending some time with your folks.’

‘Is it work, Jimmy?’

‘We’ve got a suspicious death. A woman from the south here for a hamefarin’ in Unst. No obvious cause of death, but she’s kind of posed, so I don’t see it as natural causes. James Grieve is booked onto this evening’s flight.’

James was the pathologist, based in Aberdeen. She’d met him in Shetland on a previous case. Another investigation featuring a posed body.

‘I know that you’re on leave,’ Perez said, ‘but I thought I’d contact you first.’ A pause. ‘I thought that you’d want to know.’

There was a moment of pleasure because she could tell that he wanted her there; she was his first choice. She was already calculating flight times and possibilities. She should get the next plane from Benbecula if she left in ten minutes. ‘Can you book me onto the last flight from Glasgow, Jimmy?’

‘For today?’

‘If that’s all right with you, Inspector.’ Mock-stern because, in theory, she was his boss when it came to serious crime in the Highlands and Islands.

‘I won’t get to meet you from Sumburgh,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking that I should stay here in Unst tonight. You know what a trek it is back to the mainland. I’ll arrange for a hire car to be waiting for you at the airport and book you onto the last ferries up. Will you bring James? I’ll sort out accommodation for you both too.’

When she told her parents that she’d been called back to work they said they were disappointed, but she thought they were as relieved as she was to see her go. She reminded them of the time when the commune was thriving, when there was the noise and clutter of children running through the yard. They saw how supple she was when she worked in the field, and they saw themselves thirty years before. Her father waited at the airport until her plane took off. She saw him, still and impassive as it taxied along the runway.

James Grieve was short and smart, and every time she saw him she was reminded that once he’d been a medic in the army. His plane had arrived into Sumburgh before hers and he was waiting for her, a leather holdall at his feet and his coat folded over one arm. His shoes were so highly polished that they glinted in the sunlight.

He gave a tight little smile. ‘Chief Inspector, we meet again.’

She drove north over smooth roads, past the places that reminded her of her previous visit to Shetland. Jimmy Perez had been on sick leave then, unbearable at times, angry and uncommunicative. He’d sounded better on the phone. She thought they’d work well together and was aware of another emotion too, a kind of anticipation, but knew better than to think in that way. She was always disappointed in her relationships with men and it was best to remember that this visit was just about work. Perez could have contacted her sooner if he’d had a more personal reason; besides, he was still grieving. They bypassed Lerwick and continued north, had ten minutes’ wait for the ferry at Toft and were the last car aboard the boat from Gutcher to Unst. She’d looked at the map in the plane and knew where she was going.

Perez was waiting for them at the side of the road by a telephone kiosk. She’d phoned him when they’d arrived in Unst. He was dark and untidy, his hair just a little too long. When she pulled in he directed her to park beside the community hall. ‘We can walk from here.’

They climbed out of the car and there was a moment’s awkwardness. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here we are again.’

Then James Grieve began asking questions about the dead woman and the scene, and Perez was leading them across sheep-cropped grass and she had to pay attention to his detailed description of what had happened. Willow found that she’d lost all track of time. Midsummer in the Uists was light enough, but here they were much further north and although it was already evening there was a clarity that made it feel like early afternoon. Sandy Wilson was waiting by a stile in a gap in a drystone wall. He’d caught the sun and his face was freckled like a schoolboy’s. He grinned at her and she thought that he, at least, was pleased to see her.