White Nights (17 page)

She stood poised, torn between calling the names of the children and considering his question.

‘I think I did see him. He was getting out of a car.’

‘Was he driving?’

‘No. Someone dropped him off.’

‘Anyone you recognized?’

‘No. It was a young man. The car was pretty old and battered. And no, I didn’t see the number and I don’t know what kind it was. It was white, I think. But mucky.’

She saw he wanted to ask her more, but cut him off. ‘I’m sorry. There’s really nothing else I can tell you. And I have to get on with my work.’

From the corridor he watched her. She smiled at each child as she called out his or her name. Further down the hall other classes were already gathering for assembly. The bearded man was playing the piano. By the time he reached his car the children had begun to sing the first song.

Perez drove back to Biddista. The evening before, Taylor had arranged for a sketch of the murdered man’s face to be released to the national press. Until they had identification, he said, they couldn’t move forward. Perez had taken the comment as a statement of his own incompetence. He should have focused on tracing the victim, not spent two days drinking tea in croft kitchens. Yet now, Taylor was keen to get to know the people in the community too.

Driving west, the sun was behind him and made the driving easy. At least he had something to offer Taylor. A battered white car, which had dropped the
victim off. He’d get Sandy on to finding that. If he didn’t know already who it belonged to he would by the end of the day.

The land tilted slightly and Perez had a view down towards the main road from the south and Biddista beyond. He could see all the houses. The three small ones at the jetty, the Manse and Skoles. Already he knew more about these people than he did about his own neighbours. He realized then that he hadn’t yet talked to Kenny’s wife, Edith. She’d been at work when the body had been found and would probably be at work today. It would be something else for Taylor to pull him up about.

Martha lived in a flat over a launderette in a leafy suburb of Huddersfield not far from the Royal Infirmary. She’d lived alone since leaving university, and enjoyed it, but now she wished there was someone at home to share her worries with. Someone to tell her not to be foolish, or to sit with her while she phoned police stations and hospitals. It was Thursday and there was still no word from Jeremy. Tomorrow would be the last day of rehearsals. Tomorrow night – or afternoon if they got their way – the cast would go home for a weekend’s break and on Monday the tour would begin.

There had never been a production that had had no input from Jeremy. He always supervised the last run-through and gave notes. Even the actors had begun to comment about his absence. There was a middle-aged woman, Liz, who was a regular. She did the Interact gigs for fun and pin money. Her kids had left for university and it seemed that her husband bored her to tears. Martha thought the work made her feel young and irresponsible again. Liz was already starting to ask questions.

‘Where on earth has he disappeared to, darling? We are all going to get paid, aren’t we?’

Money was another problem. Jeremy had left a couple of hundred pounds cash in the office as a float, but with diesel for the van to buy and subsistence while the troupe was on the road, that wouldn’t go far.

Martha took the Penistone line train from Huddersfield to Denby Dale. She owned a car, but she tried not to use it if she was going to the office: there was always a possibility that it would break down on the way home. The train went through a wooded valley. The small stations were strewn with hanging baskets full of garish flowers. Liz was already in the Mill, waiting outside the Interact door. She followed Martha into the office.

‘Is there anything you’re not telling us, darling? Jeremy’s not done a bunk, has he? I don’t think it would be the first time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As I understand it he had a perfectly respectable life until he was in his mid-twenties. Marriage, a kid. Then he left them one morning to try his hand in the theatre. Vanished without a word. He’d joined an amateur dramatic society and got bitten by the bug, apparently. I always said those am-dram groups should come with a health warning.’

‘When was this?’ Martha was thinking that there was no sign of the family in Jeremy’s house. No photos that could relate to them. Unless he’d ended up marrying the woman on the beach. Surely he’d have kept a picture of his own child? Bloody actors, she thought. This will be one of Liz’s stories. They’re all liars and self-dramatists.

‘Oh, yonks ago,’ Liz said airily. It was obvious that her knowledge was sketchy. ‘And you wouldn’t know
now. He never sees them. Not even the child – who must be quite grown-up. Jeremy could even be a grandfather. Now there’s a scary thought.’

‘He never mentioned any of this to me.’

‘He never mentions it to anyone unless he’s maudlin drunk, and then it all comes out. Or most of it. Even then I think there’s stuff he’s not telling.’ Liz had been leaning against the door. ‘So what do you think? Has the stress been too much for him again? Has he pissed off to start a new life somewhere else?’

‘Of course not. He owns that house. It’s a major asset. And he wouldn’t go away and leave all his stuff.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the house isn’t mortgaged to the rafters,’ Liz said.

‘Nonsense.’ But Martha wasn’t as sure as she sounded. She’d seen the books, seen what schools were prepared to pay a theatre group in order to tick a few boxes for the Ofsted inspectors, but actors and premises and the minibus didn’t come cheap. ‘This is a profitable business. And Jeremy likes money. I’m sure he’ll be back.’

Late in the afternoon when they’d all gone, Martha sat in the office alone. She’d fended off the actors’ questions all day, even giving the impression that she’d heard from Jeremy, that he was out pitching for work and he’d be back early next week with plans for a new project. She could see that Liz hadn’t believed a word, but she’d not said anything and the others had been taken in.

Now the strain of putting on a brave face was too much for her. She picked up the phone – strictly work calls only, according to Jeremy’s instructions, but
where was fucking Jeremy now? – and talked to her best mate Kate.

‘Do you fancy a drink in town? Early before it gets busy. Straight after work?’

Kate was a trainee reporter on the
Huddersfield Examiner
. She liked gossip. No one else might be interested in the disappearance of a middle-aged actor, but Kate would surely listen to her concerns. There’d be a relief just in talking it through.

‘Have you seen the papers today?’ Kate had ambitions beyond a local daily in West Yorkshire. She took the qualities and read them every day.

‘No.’ I’ve been too busy, Martha thought, suddenly sorry for herself. Keeping this bloody show on the road.

‘There’s some guy they’re trying to identify. They found the body up north somewhere. “
Suspicious cir cumstances
”. That means murder. There’s a drawing of him. It looks just like your boss.’

There was a giggle in her voice. Like she was saying,
Weird coincidence, huh?
, but not believing that it really could be Jeremy. Martha couldn’t speak, found she could hardly breathe.

Kate must have sensed something was wrong. ‘Martha, what is it?’

‘My boss, Jeremy. He seems to have disappeared.’

‘My God! Don’t move. I’m coming to get you now.’ Martha knew this wasn’t just about Kate coming to support a friend. It was Kate smelling a story a mile off and wanting to be on it before anyone else found out.

It was the apparent lack of urgency around the investigation that got under Roy Taylor’s skin, made him fidget and itch. There was so much to do and these local guys seemed to think there was all the time in the world. In his own patch he’d have shouted and ranted and soon got his staff moving. And he’d have felt better for letting off steam. Here he knew he had to contain his temper, and that added to the tension and the impatience.

He arrived at Biddista a quarter of an hour before he’d arranged to meet Perez, but still he felt irritated because the man wasn’t there. At the jetty the scene tape had been removed and any of the locals could get in now to fetch out their gear for fishing. Waiting for Perez to arrive, Taylor thought fishing would be like torture to him. Being on the sea in a small boat. Not being able to move. Having to remain quiet. Wanting to throw up as soon as they left dry land. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He’d end up diving into the water to escape, just to be moving. Then he realized that Perez’s car had pulled up beside him. Five minutes early. He had a moment of disappointment; he would have liked an excuse to criticize, even inside his head. He had to be so pleasant to Perez that it hurt.

They sat for a moment on the low wall that bordered the road.

‘Got anything for me?’ Again, as Taylor asked the question he hoped, in a perverse way, that there was nothing. Every relationship for him was a sort of competition and he liked winning, even here when it was part of the job to be cooperative. The last Shetland case had ended with Perez as a local hero. Taylor would never let it show, but it still rankled. That wasn’t how events should have played out. He should have been the one to make the difference, to reach the conclusion. The stranger coming in to clean up town, like in all those cowboy films he watched on the telly when he was a lad. He knew it was pathetic and childish, but he couldn’t help it. The fact that his work had been recognized more widely within the force helped, but each case was a challenge. He needed to succeed every time.

‘A couple of things,’ Perez said.

‘Great,’ Taylor said, shaking his head up and down to prove how pleased he was. ‘Great.’

‘I’ve found a witness who thinks she might have seen the victim being dropped off here. I’ve got Sandy tracing the driver. And the same woman says that the plastic mask over the victim’s face could have been bought at the Middleton Sunday teas last week.’

‘Sunday teas?’

Perez considered. ‘I suppose the English equivalent would be a village fête.’

‘We didn’t have many of those in Liverpool.’ Taylor wasn’t sure where he’d feel more alien – here, miles from anywhere, surrounded by sea, or in an English village with a vicarage, spinsters on bicycles, duck
ponds. He thought he didn’t really feel at home anywhere. Perhaps he should go back to Merseyside. Just for a long weekend. See how it felt. He still wasn’t sure he could contemplate a permanent move.

‘How do you want to play it today?’ he said. He had to ask. Whatever he felt about being the boss, this was always going to be Perez’s show. His patch. Besides, by now Taylor didn’t really care who they saw first, he just wanted to make something happen.

Perez hesitated and Taylor made the decision for him, couldn’t help himself.

‘Let’s go and see the artist. Bella Sinclair.’ From everything he’d heard, Taylor saw her right at the centre of the case, a fat spider in her web. The victim had been at her party just before he’d died. He’d been involved in some sort of campaign to persuade people not to turn up. Taylor couldn’t believe the dead man was really a stranger to her.

He looked at Perez, wanting some sort of response. Maybe his approval. That’s what he expected from his own team.
Great idea, boss
. But again, he thought, you could never really tell what Perez was thinking. In the end the Shetlander looked at his watch and smiled. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘She should just about be out of her bed by now. Another hour or so and you might be able to speak to the boy too.’

If he’d been on his own Taylor would have taken the car, just to get there faster, but Perez started walking up the road and he followed. Perez gave a slow running commentary as they moved.

‘This is the post office and shop. Run by Aggie Williamson. She was a Watt before she was married, grew up in Biddista. Her son Martin was working at
the Herring House the night of the party. It was his wife Dawn who thinks she might have seen the victim climb out of a car.’

Taylor listened intently, tried to fix the details in his head. This was the stuff he had to digest if he was to have any chance of getting on top of what was going on here. He’d make notes later, but the concentration needed to memorize them made the players in this game seem more real to him. He needed to know these people better than he knew his own friends and family. They had to become a part of his life. Perez had the advantage of understanding them already.

The commentary continued. ‘The end house has been rented by an English writer called Wilding. Peter Wilding. He was at the party too. I spoke to him. He claims not to have seen or heard anything, though he seems to spend most of his life staring out of the window.’

Perez paused.

‘You don’t believe him?’ Taylor asked.

‘I don’t know. There was something weird about him. Maybe I just didn’t take to the man. He’s sort of intense.’

‘What sort of stuff does he write?’

‘Fantasy, he says.’

‘Stories, then. Made-up stuff.’ Taylor had never seen the point of stories. When he read, it was history or biography. He liked to feel he was learning. It wasn’t just time wasted. As he walked past he turned his head up to the window and saw the upper body and face of a man. The man, dark and good-looking if you were into thin and moody, was sitting at the desk which faced the view, but he wasn’t looking out. He
seemed lost in concentration. Taylor realized that he hadn’t noticed them. Hardly an ideal witness, then. He wondered if the same point had occurred to Perez and turned his head surreptitiously to check. But Perez was looking the other way, out to the sea.

‘That’s Kenny Thomson’s boat,’ he said. ‘You’ll not be able to talk to him until later.’