Ann Cleeves - White Nights

‘Ms Hunter. I hope you don’t mind…’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’

He sat beside her. ‘I wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed your work.’ There was an element of self-mockery in his voice. I know this is unsophisticated. To be so obvious in one’s admiration .

‘You’re very kind, Mr Wilding.’

‘Peter, please.’

Then she remembered how she knew the name. She’d read an article about him in the Observer . Something about contemporary genre fiction. ‘A writer of fantasy for intellectuals’, hadn’t that been how Wilding had been described? ‘You’re a writer.’

‘Yes.’ He was clearly delighted that she’d recognized him at last.

‘Are you staying in Biddista?’

‘Yes, I’m renting a house here. Just temporary. But I love Shetland. I’m hoping to make a more permanent arrangement. I’ve vague ideas of writing a fantasy series based around Viking mythology. It might work, don’t you think? And it would be wonderful to have the landscape to set it in.’

She was pleased that he seemed to value her opinion. He waited for her to answer, as if it really mattered to him.

‘It would be fascinating,’ she said. There were times when she missed the old London life. The talk of books and theatre and film. She thought he would be an interesting person to have around, entertaining, full of new ideas.

‘I wonder if you’d agree to have a meal with me sometime,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much scope for cooking where I am, but perhaps we could go out.’

The invitation shocked her. After Perez’s diffidence, there was something daring about the way Wilding simply asked for what he wanted. And she couldn’t help being flattered. It sounded like an invitation to a date, but she could hardly say she was unavailable for romance. Perhaps he just wanted to discuss her art, to commission a work from her.

‘Yes,’ she found herself saying. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

He gave a quick nod. ‘Good. Are you in the phone book? Then I’ll give you a ring.’ He turned and walked quickly the way he’d come. Later it seemed strange to her that neither of them had mentioned the dead man who was still hanging in the hut on the jetty, the police officers and the cars. Because she was sure Wilding would have known what had happened there. He was the sort of man who would know.

Perez took Roddy outside. ‘Shall we just take a bit of a walk? I could do with the fresh air.’ He didn’t want a conversation in front of the two women. Roddy revelled in an audience. He would make things up to provide a decent story, feel an obligation to entertain them. Roddy pulled a face, as if fresh air was the last thing he needed, but followed Perez out anyway. It was in his nature to please, even if there was no immediate payback. He made a good living because he was charming.

As they left the house, Perez heard Fran tell Bella that she would leave too. He supposed she had to pick Cassie up from school, imagined her waiting at the school gate and swinging Cassie into her arms as the girl ran to her out of the yard. He loved watching the two of them together.

Roddy walked ahead of him out of the garden between the big stone gateposts. He had a long, bouncing stride and Perez had to step out to keep up. ‘What were you doing in the Herring House last night?’ he said. ‘I thought you only played fancy gigs these days.’

‘Bella asked. I was in Orkney anyway for the St Magnus Festival. It didn’t seem such a big deal to come on up.’ He paused. ‘My aunt doesn’t really take no for an answer.’

‘How long are you planning to stay?’

‘A few days. Then there’s a tour of Australia. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never done Oz before.’

‘Do you always stay with Bella while you’re in Shetland?’

‘Usually. She’s the only family I have here now.’ He didn’t need to explain. This was another myth and he would assume that Perez would know. How his dad had died when he was a boy and his mother had fallen for an American oilman, gone back to Houston with him. How Roddy had refused to leave. Aged thirteen he’d stood up to them all, said he couldn’t leave the islands. He was a Shetlander. It was the story that had appeared on CD covers and had been told to chat-show hosts. ‘I’m a Shetlander.’ And didn’t the islands love him for it! Bella had provided a home for him. Spoiled him rotten, according to Kenny Thomson. Turned him into a performer. Encouraged his ambition. Funded the first CD. Designed the cover and sent it off to all her arty friends in the south. That story didn’t appear so much in the papers. The official version had it that he was discovered by a producer who happened to be in Lerwick on holiday and heard Roddy play at the Lounge, the bar in town. In that version Roddy was an overnight success.

‘You don’t mind her wheeling you out to support her openings?’

‘Why should I? I owe her. Besides, her events are always a bit of a laugh.’ He was walking beside Perez along a path which led over Skoles land. It climbed steeply. Eventually they would end up at the top of the cliff, next to the great hole that was known as the Pit o’ Biddista. Perez planned to have the conversation finished by then. The boy stopped abruptly and turned to Perez. ‘What’s this about? They were looking so serious in there. Is it my mother? Is she ill?’

‘No,’ Perez said. ‘Nothing like that.’

There was a moment’s silence and Perez wondered if Roddy was going over in his mind other possible explanations for the police to be calling. The cannabis or cocaine which Perez was pretty sure they’d find in his room if they looked. A hotel prepared to press charges after a particularly rowdy party.

‘Did you think there were fewer people at the opening last night than Bella was expecting?’

‘Yeah, I was surprised. She usually gets a good turnout.’

‘Someone was spreading these all over Lerwick and Scalloway yesterday.’

Perez had slipped the flyer into a transparent plastic bag and he gave it to Roddy to read. Roddy stopped, leaning against an outcrop of rock in the hill.

‘You don’t think I had anything to do with this?’

‘It might have been someone’s idea of a joke.’

‘But not mine. I told you. Bella took me in when I wanted to carry on living here. If it wasn’t for her I’d be speaking with a Texas accent and playing country and western. I owe her.’

‘Any idea who might have thought it funny?’

‘No. There doesn’t seem much to laugh about. That bit about a death in the family, it’s just sick.’

‘There has been a death,’ Perez said. ‘That’s what I’m doing here.’

‘Who?’

‘There was a stranger at the party last night. He made a scene just after you finished playing. Got on to his knees and starting crying.’

‘Guy in black. Shaved head?’

‘Yes.’

They’d started walking again and Perez could smell the bird shit and the salt in the air. The grass was cropped short here. There were patches of thrift and tiny blue dots of spring squill. They’d almost reached the top of the cliff. He slowed his pace.

‘Had you ever seen him before?’ Perez asked. ‘Before he lost it the man seemed really interested in the paintings. I don’t know, not just idle curiosity. As if he knew something about art. You don’t remember coming across him at one of Bella’s other events?’

‘What does Bella say?’

‘She was reluctant to commit herself either way. He could have been an acquaintance, but she couldn’t be sure. Her memory’s not as good as it was.’

‘Bollocks.’ Roddy still had breath to give a choking laugh. Perez was starting to pant. ‘Bella’s as sharp as she always was. Sharper, if it comes to business. If your guy was a dealer or critic she’d have recognized him the minute he came into the room.’