Ann Cleeves - White Nights

That night he stayed at Fran’s place again. While she prepared supper he sat on Cassie’s bed and read her a story. She was asleep by the time it was finished and he stayed for a moment, thinking how it must be for her, having a new man in her mother’s life. And how it would work for him, sharing her with Duncan Hunter, her father, a man he didn’t much care for, though once they had been best friends.

Back in the kitchen Fran was draining rice. Her face was flushed. She’d taken off her jacket and was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt. He could see the lacy pattern of her bra in relief through the fabric. Distracted, he returned to the subject of her ex-husband.

‘What will Duncan make of us seeing so much of each other?’

She tipped the rice into a brown earthenware bowl.

‘I like everything I’ve seen of you. If you’re talking literally…’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘You’re way too serious. It’s my mission to get you to lighten up. Anyway, who cares what Duncan thinks? It’s none of his business.’

‘Cassie’s his business.’

‘I’d never stop him seeing Cassie and neither would you.’

He could tell she thought he was making difficulties where none existed. In London she’d been surrounded by unconventional families. She’d told him about close lesbian friends who’d fostered a son; many of her colleagues were divorced and remarried, and for them weekends had been a time of shared parenting, the entertainment of visiting stepchildren. He was used to more traditional ways, but didn’t want to question her judgement. He didn’t want her to think him narrow-minded.

The subject must have been on her mind throughout the evening, because at the end of the meal she returned to it. She reached across the table and took his hand.

‘It was because of Cassie I didn’t rush into this. We come as a package. You understand that, don’t you? If you want me, you take her on too.’

He said that of course he understood. He wanted to tell her that he wanted above all things to make a family with her and Cassie, but he thought that would have sounded sentimental. She hated it when he was soppy.

He left early the next morning to go into Lerwick, to his narrow house on the waterfront. Despite the weather, he could smell the damp as soon as he unlocked the door. It was as if he’d been away for weeks. He loved the house, which was just as well, because no one else would be foolish enough to pay good money for it. He opened all the windows to let in the salt air, and checked his answer machine. There was a message from his mother, easy and chatty with news of Fair Isle. He wondered when he should take Fran home to meet his folks and what they would make of her. They didn’t have much experience of people who’d grown up in the city. He made a jug of coffee and sat by the open window, watching the terns diving into the shallow water.

Later he went into the station to check if they’d had any report back on the bag belonging to Jeremy Booth, which had been recovered with Roddy Sinclair’s body from the Pit o’ Biddista. Sandy was on his way out, scrubbed and smart. Every week he went home to Whalsay to take Sunday lunch with his parents.

‘Have you seen the TV news?’ he said. ‘Roddy Sinclair was all over it.’

‘No.’ Perez didn’t keep him. He knew Sandy would be on his way to Vidlin for the ferry, and anyway he wasn’t the best person to ask about the bag. He was never brilliant at detail.

The incident room was quiet, flooded with midday sunshine. Taylor was at his desk in a corner, drinking coffee, looking as if he’d been there all night.

‘Good night?’

Perez couldn’t quite tell if he was really interested or if that was a sneer. ‘Sorry, to leave you in Biddista. Like I said, it was something I couldn’t get out of. How did you get on with Bella?’

‘She was pissed. Talking about old times. Lost loves.’

‘Oh?’

‘Kenny’s brother, Lawrence.’

‘The way I heard it, he loved her, not the other way round.’

‘Not according to Bella Sinclair.’ Taylor crushed the polystyrene cup in his fist and hurled it across the room into a waste basket. It hit with such force that it bounced out. ‘According to her, she’d have married him like a shot if he’d asked. But he never did.’ He got up and retrieved the cup. ‘I finally met Kenny’s wife. Edith. She seemed surprised by the new twist on the old story too. Hardly bosom pals, those two, are they?’

‘Those sorts of communities, people come together if there’s a tragedy.’ Perez spoke without really thinking about it.

‘Nobody seemed much concerned about Booth.’

‘He was an outsider. A bit different.’

‘That stuff about the past doesn’t help much anyway,’ Taylor said. ‘If any of them met Jeremy Booth when he was here on The Motley Crew all those years ago, they’re not saying.’

‘Maybe they don’t remember. People change in fifteen years.’ Perez still thought there was a history to this case.

‘Perhaps.’ But Taylor sounded sceptical.

‘Anything on the contents of Booth’s bag?’

‘I’ve just had the report. It gives us a definite confirmation that he was the person handing out the flyers cancelling the art exhibition. The found the costume and the sequinned bag some of the witnesses described. Nothing else of much use. Just a few clothes and toilet things. No letters, no address book. No mobile.’

‘Booth didn’t have a mobile with him when he staged that scene at the Herring House,’ Perez said. ‘I checked his pockets for ID.’

‘Could it have been thrown separately down the hole?’ Taylor asked.

‘Maybe. Then sucked into the tunnel. Or washed out to sea.’

‘Worth getting a search team down to take a look? Even if the phone’s damaged, there’s a chance the SIM card is still intact. Might be quicker than trying to track down his account with the phone companies, especially if he had one of the pay-as-you-go deals.’

‘I know a couple of climbers,’ Perez said. ‘I’ll ask them to go down for us. I could scramble to the bottom of the grass slope myself, but I’d not be confident to go through the tunnel, and it could be wedged on a ledge in the rockface.’ He knew he should have thought of the phone himself. His head was too full of personal stuff. He was losing concentration.

Before he could forget, he went through to his office and called a friend who volunteered with the Cliff Rescue. She couldn’t make the climb that day, but said she’d sort something out for Monday if that would do. The tides were low now, so if the phone was down there it wouldn’t be shifting anywhere.

Back in the incident room, Taylor was still at his desk, staring at the computer screen as if he could force it to provide answers just through the effort of his will.

‘We need to find a link between Booth and someone at Biddista,’ he said. ‘That’s all it’ll take.’ He swivelled round in his chair so he was facing Perez. ‘Fancy a pint? I’m going crazy sitting here.’

Perez hesitated. In the previous case they’d worked on together, he’d enjoyed the informal contact, Taylor’s relentless energy. But Fran would be waiting for him. ‘I thought I’d take a run out to the Sunday teas in Middleton, see if I can find the lass who sold the masks. Maybe it’s not so important now, but it’d tie up a loose end.’

He waited for Taylor to ask if he could come too. He was like a hyperactive boy who needed constant stimulation. But the Sunday teas were too tame for him and he turned back to the computer screen.

The hall in Middleton had been the school before the new smart place was built. Perez parked in what had once been the playground, next to a row of trestle tables where a big woman was selling plants. Fran was with him. Cassie was spending the afternoon with Duncan.