Ann Cleeves: White Nights

‘Why don’t you empty out your pockets?’ Perez said. ‘There’ll be a driving licence, credit cards. We can give you a name at least, track down some relatives, some explanation of what might have happened.’

The Englishman stood up, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘That’s where I always keep my wallet.’

‘You remember that, then?’

The man faltered. ‘I thought I did. How can I be sure of anything?’ He began in a slow, meticulous way to search the other pockets. There was nothing. He took his jacket off and handed it to Perez. ‘You check.’

Perez did, knowing as he did that there would be nothing to find. ‘What about your trousers?’

The man pulled out the pocket linings, stood there looking terrified and faintly ridiculous, the white cloth hanging against the black trousers.

‘You had nothing with you?’ Perez asked. ‘A bag? A briefcase?’ He realized he was sounding desperate. His fantasy of a night spent with Fran was fast disappearing.

‘How would I know?’ It came out almost as a scream.

‘I’ll go and look.’

‘No,’ the man said. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘Has someone hurt you? What are you frightened of?’

He thought for a moment. Had some trace of memory returned? ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Come with me if you like.’

‘No. I can’t face those people.’

‘You remember seeing them?’

‘I told you. I remember everything after the painting.’

‘Was there something specific about the picture to disturb you?’

‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’

Perez stood up. Now they faced each other across the table. The chef had left the kitchen and Roddy Sinclair had stopped playing. From the gallery came the quiet murmur of voices. ‘I’m going to find out if you had a bag with you,’ Perez said. ‘And if anyone knows you, saw you arrive. You’ll be safe here.’

‘Yes,’ he said. But his voice was uncertain. He sounded like a child trying to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

In the gallery Fran was deep in conversation with a large woman wearing a flowered tent. Fran was a little flushed. As he walked past he gathered from the conversation that the woman had bought one of the paintings and they were discussing how to ship it south. A tourist, he thought. It was that time of year. Obviously a wealthy tourist. She was saying how much she admired Fran’s work and asking if perhaps they could discuss a commission. He felt suddenly very proud of Fran.

Bella came up to him, having walked straight past an elderly man who was trying to catch her attention. With her grey hair cropped very short, long silver earrings and a grey silk shirt, Perez thought she looked like a large silvery fish. Something about her mouth, too, the wide pale eyes. But she was attractive still. She’d been known as a beauty when she was younger, a legend, and something about her still demanded attention. ‘Thank you for dealing with that poor man, Jimmy. What was wrong with him?’ She fixed him with her grey, unblinking eyes.

‘I’m not sure.’ Perez never gave away any information unless it was necessary. It was a habit learned from childhood. There was so little privacy in the small community where he’d grown up that he’d cherished every scrap. And now, at work, information was valuable currency, which could be leaked out too easily. In other, more anonymous places, it didn’t matter if a policeman was a little indiscreet. A word to a spouse over dinner, a funny story in a bar. Nobody ever knew. Here, the stories had a way of coming back to haunt the teller. ‘Do you know him, Bella? Is he a dealer? A journalist? He’s English.’

‘No. I thought perhaps Fran had invited him.’

‘He seemed very taken with your self-portrait.’

She shrugged, implying that interest in her work was only natural.

‘Did you see him come in?’

‘He walked in just before Roddy started playing. I’ve seen him perform dozens of times so my attention wasn’t as fixed as everyone else’s.’

‘Was the chap on his own?’

‘I’m sure he was.’

‘You didn’t notice if he had a bag with him when he came in?’

She shut her eyes briefly, trying to visualize the scene. Her memory would be reliable. She was a painter.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No bag. His hands were in his pockets. He seemed quite relaxed at that point. He stood at the back of the crowd, just watching until Roddy stopped playing. Then he walked over to my painting, before moving on to the drawing of Cassie. He seemed very moved by it, didn’t you think?’ She stood waiting for a response.

‘He seems a bit confused,’ Perez said at last. ‘I don’t know. A breakdown perhaps. I might try to get him to a doctor.’

But by then Bella seemed to have stopped listening. She was looking around her, trying to gauge the interest in the art.

‘That’s Peter Wilding talking to Fran,’ she said. ‘I hope she’s being nice to him. He’s a buyer.’

The woman in the flowery dress had left Fran and her place had been taken by an intense middle-aged man in a white shirt, with very dark hair. Fran was talking and he was bending towards her, head slightly on one side, as if he couldn’t bear to miss a word.

Bella gave a little laugh and walked away. Deliberately Perez walked past the couple on his way into the kitchen. Wilding was talking now. His voice was low and Perez could tell he was gushing about the work, even though the individual words merged into the background noise. Fran didn’t even notice Perez.

At the kitchen door he stopped. Martin Williamson had his back to him; he was rinsing out pans at the sink. The mystery man had gone.

Kenny Thomson looked down at the Herring House. He kept a boat on the beach beyond. It had been pulled up above the tideline, and the weather was so still that it was fine where it was. Later in the year, he’d get it on to a trolley and tow it up on to the grass, covered with a tarpaulin, so the high tides and the storms wouldn’t drag it back into the sea. But for now it was easier to leave it on the beach. He was thinking that it might be a good night to go out and try for some piltock, but knew he probably wouldn’t go. He enjoyed the fishing but not so much as when he’d been a boy and a young man. Willy, one of the old Biddista folk, had taken him and his brother out in his boat when they were children. And when they’d grown up the two of them still liked fishing together. A fine night and he’d be on the phone to Lawrence: ‘Do you fancy a couple of hours on the water?’ But now Lawrence had left Shetland for good and it wasn’t quite the same. There were other men who could make up a party and would be keen enough to be asked. But Kenny knew he would have to make an effort to be pleasant to them. He would have to pretend to be interested in their lives – their work, their wives. With Lawrence there had been no pretence at all.

He was aware of the party going on at the Herring House. He hadn’t been invited, but he knew just the same. At one time Bella had always invited him. She’d drive up the track in that smart four-wheel-drive – although why she needed a car like that when she only went these days to Lerwick or to Sumburgh to get the plane south, he couldn’t say – and come into his house, not waiting to be asked.

‘You will come, Kenny, won’t you? You and Edith. I’d like you to be there. We wouldn’t have the Herring House if it hadn’t been for all the hard work you and Lawrence put in.’

And that was true too. Once she’d taken it into her head to buy the place and do it up, they’d been there most nights after he’d finished with the sheep or in the fields, working on the building. Most of the labouring work had been theirs. A labour of love, Lawrence had called it. And it was true they’d been paid very little. But it had been hard to make any sort of living from crofting then and with the children growing up the extra money had been useful. Bella had probably thought she was doing them a favour. Those days all the men could turn their hands to anything.