Ann Cleeves - Red Bones

‘I saw you through the window. You looked upset. I didn’t want to disturb you. What time did you get there?’

‘I don’t know. After my tea.’

‘Did you go outside? Down to the dig?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anything? Hear anything?’ Perez looked at Sandy’s father. In the gloom of the barn it was hard to tell what he was thinking.

‘No,’ Joseph said. ‘I just go there some nights to drink and forget. I didn’t hear a thing.’

Sandy arrived at Heathrow at the height of the rush hour. He’d never liked the idea of the Underground, even before the bombings were all over the television. It seemed unnatural being shut in a tunnel, not being able to see where you were going. Anyway, he’d had a look at the map on the back of the A-Z Perez had loaned him and it all seemed too complicated for him to work out. He couldn’t make sense of the different-coloured lines. Instead he got the direct bus to King’s Cross. That was where it terminated, so there should be no danger of getting out at the wrong place. Perez had asked Morag to book him into a Travel Inn in the Euston Road. Sandy would check in and collect his thoughts before he went to speak to Gwen James. He was still astonished that his boss had trusted him to do the interview, felt extreme pride and extreme fear in the space of a minute.

The bus was full of people. Sandy looked to catch someone’s eye and start up a conversation with a local, a person who would be able to reassure him when he reached his destination. But they all seemed exhausted after their flights; they sat with their eyes closed. Those who did talk weren’t speaking English. Whenever he went to Edinburgh or Aberdeen, Sandy had the same reaction of claustrophobia for the first couple of days. It was being surrounded by tall buildings, the sense of being shut in, of not being able to see the sky or the horizon. This was just the same but the buildings were even taller and closer together and there was a feeling that the city was endless; there would be no escape from it.

Coming into the city centre, he had the odd flash of excitement when they passed a street name he recognized, a signpost to a famous monument, but it didn’t last. He was here for work. This was one interview he couldn’t get wrong. He peered out into the streets looking at the people who were walking past. Perez’s woman, Fran Hunter, was in London at the minute. He’d feel happier if he could glimpse just one familiar face. Of course he knew it was impossible. What was the chance of seeing her among all those thousands of people? But it didn’t stop him looking.

Walking to his hotel he had to push against the flow of people hurrying to King’s Cross and St Pancras Stations. He felt he couldn’t breathe. If he stood still for a moment they would flatten him, walk right over him without hesitating, without stopping to find out what was wrong.

In the hotel the receptionist struggled to understand his accent, but the room was booked and he was given a plastic card instead of a key. It seemed a very grand room. There was a big double bed and a bathroom. He looked out over the Euston Road at the line of traffic and the pavements heaving with people. He was so high up that the only noise was a dull hum, a background roar like waves on the shore on a stormy day, the sound Mima had called ‘the hush’. He turned on the television so he couldn’t hear it. He had a shower and changed into the shirt his mother had ironed for him. She’d folded it carefully in his overnight bag and it was hardly creased at all. I should be nicer to her , he thought. She’s looked after me so well. Why can’t I like her more?

It took him a while to find the kettle hidden away in a drawer, but then he made himself a cup of tea and ate the little packet of biscuits. He didn’t feel like eating a proper meal. Perez had said he could get something on expenses, but he’d wait until after the interview. He wanted to phone Perez to tell him that he’d arrived safely, then decided that would be pathetic. He’d wait until he had something to report.

The road was less busy when he went out to find Gwen James’s place. He decided he’d risk the Underground. It was only a few stops and Perez had marked the route from the Underground station on the map. He didn’t have change for the ticket machine and had to queue at the office; he was ridiculously pleased with himself when he found the right platform for his train.

He arrived at Gwen James’s flat far too early and walked about the streets waiting for time to pass. It was dark and the streetlights had come on. Some of the basement flats had lit windows so he could see inside. In one, a beautiful young woman dressed in black was cooking dinner. It seemed unbelievably glamorous to Sandy, the sight of the slender young woman with her shiny hair down her back, a glass of wine on the table beside her, cooking a meal in the city flat. There were trees down each side of the street; the leaves were new and green in the artificial light. On the corner of the road music was spilling out of a pub. The door opened as a man in a suit came out and Sandy heard snatches of laughter.

He stood outside Gwen James’s flat and took a deep breath. There were two bells. Beside hers was a handwritten label – James . The writing was in thick black ink and italic. He rang it and waited. There were footsteps and the door opened. She was tall and dark. If you were into older women – and Sandy wasn’t really – she was attractive. High cheekbones and a good body. She carried sophistication about her and seemed completely at home in this city. It occurred to Sandy that in twenty years’ time the young woman he’d seen in the basement flat would look like this.

He introduced himself, trying to speak slowly so she’d understand him first time and he wouldn’t be forced to repeat himself. Perez always said he had a tendency to gabble, and she wouldn’t be used to the accent.

‘I was expecting Inspector Perez.’

‘I’m afraid he couldn’t leave the islands.’

She shrugged to show it was of no real consequence and led him into a living room that was as big as the whole of Sandy’s flat. The colours were deep, rich browns and chestnuts with splashes of red. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply.

‘I gave up when I joined the Department of Health,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think anyone would criticize me now.’

‘Don’t you want someone with you?’ If there was a death in Whalsay, folk gathered round the relatives. This seemed an unnatural way to grieve.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I really don’t want to become a spectator sport.’ She looked at him through the cigarette smoke. ‘Did you know my daughter?’

‘Yes, my mother Evelyn was involved in the archaeological project. My grandmother lived at Setter, the croft where they were digging.’

‘Mima? The old woman who died?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She got on very well with Hattie.’

‘Hattie wrote to me about her. I was pleased she was making friends on Whalsay, but jealous too in a way. My daughter and I always had a very strained relationship. It seemed sad that she was closer to a stranger than she was to me.’

‘I don’t think that was true.’ Sandy knew families were tricky. Look at his relationship with his mother. ‘My grandmother got on with all the young folk in the place.’ He paused. ‘Did Hattie write to you often?’

‘Once a week. It was a habit she developed after she left home. A duty. I think she found it easier than talking to me on the phone. She started when she went to university and continued even when she was quite ill in hospital. She kept it up ever since. We got on quite well by letter. Things only became difficult when we met in person.’