Ann Cleeves - Blue Lightning

‘That isn’t quite what I asked you.’ But Perez saw now that Ben would talk to him. The strain had come through pretending he didn’t care too much what had happened to the woman. ‘Tell me about your relationship with Angela.’

‘I worshipped her.’

And suddenly Perez saw himself as a schoolboy, intense and passionate, following his German student around the island, declaring his devotion. ‘What did Angela make of that?’

‘I expect she thought I was pathetic, ridiculous, but I didn’t care.’

‘Did she say you were pathetic?’

‘No, she called me sweet.’ Ben spat out the word.

‘You had sex with her?’

Ben flushed suddenly and dramatically. ‘Yes!’ Then, forcing himself to be honest: ‘Though not so often recently.’

‘She had sex with other men in the field centre too. And not just in the centre. Visitors, islanders even.’

The assistant warden didn’t answer.

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘I didn’t have the right to feel anything,’ Ben said. He seemed to have composed himself. Perez thought he had been through the same argument in his head many times. ‘I didn’t own her, I couldn’t dictate how she behaved with other men.’

‘That’s very rational,’ Perez said.

‘I’m a scientist. I am rational.’

Perez wanted to laugh out loud. There was nothing rational in this infatuation.

‘When did it start?’

There was a beat of hesitation. ‘My first season. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never met anyone like her.’

‘You hadn’t met her before you started work at the field centre?’

Ben stared directly at him. ‘No. Where would I have met her?’

‘Is she the reason you keep coming back?’

‘No!’

‘Where did you get together? It must have been hard in the lighthouse, with other staff and visitors about.’

‘In the Pund. That was our place.’

Perez nodded. The Pund was a ruined croft house. Once it had been set up as a bothy for campers, with a loft bed. Aristocratic naturalists had stayed there before the war but it had fallen into disrepair and was no longer used. It would be a romantic place for an illicit meeting and he could see how the young man would love the excitement of hiding away there, the sun slanting through the gaps in the roof, the charge of expectation when he heard Angela approaching.

‘You do know she was sleeping with Hugh too?’ he said.

‘He dropped hints.’ Ben kept his voice unemotional. ‘There have been other visitors and Hugh was her type.’

‘You didn’t discuss it with him?’

‘Of course not! None of my business.’

Perez had a picture of life in the North Light in the week running up to Angela’s death. The wind and rain making people feel trapped inside the building. Angela manipulating events for her own amusement, playing the young men off against each other, fuelling Poppy’s resentment, suggesting that Jane wouldn’t be welcome to return to the isle the following year. And Maurice? How would he have reacted to the mounting tension, to Angela’s games? Would he have welcomed them as one way of relieving her boredom, of ensuring that she would stay married to him? Perez thought the situation must have been intolerable.

‘Do you know which of the islanders was her lover?’

‘No!’ Ben was shocked. ‘It wasn’t something we discussed. She would have hated me prying.’ He paused. ‘If I’d asked about anything like that, she would never have seen me again.’

‘Was Angela undertaking a particular study at the moment?’

‘She was writing up the summer seabird census. I don’t think there was anything else.’ Ben frowned. How was this relevant? He seemed almost to resent the conversation moving away from his affair with Angela. He longed for the opportunity to talk about her.

‘Anything involving the collection of feathers?’ Perez asked.

‘You’re thinking about the feathers in her hair?’

‘I wondered if they’d have been in the bird room already.’ Otherwise the murderer must have brought them with him , Perez thought. And why would anyone do that? What sort of point was being made?

‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember seeing them. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Angela was quite private about her own research. She was paranoid about people stealing her ideas, getting into publication before her.’

‘What could she hope to prove through a study of feathers?’

Ben shrugged. His interest was only marginally engaged. He was still more concerned about his own feelings. Perez thought how self-absorbed some people were. How they liked to create dramas with themselves playing the leading role.

‘An analysis would prove identification,’ Ben said. ‘Through DNA. You can also get an idea where a bird might have come from. That’s to do with trace elements found in the environment.’

There was a moment of silence. Perez found his concentration slipping. He looked around him. The hall was the place for wedding parties. He imagined bringing Fran back here as his wife for the traditional ‘hame-farin’. She’d be wearing the dress she’d worn for the marriage ceremony – that was the custom. The place would be decorated with flowers and balloons, a big banner across the stage: ‘ Jimmy and Fran ’. There’d be music and dancing. I wanted to marry her from the minute I saw her. That idea was new to him and the sudden realization took his breath away. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to say the words to Fran. She’d laugh at him. Shallow and sentimental, he thought. That’s me.

‘Why were you so scared to talk to me?’ he asked. ‘You were scared?’

Ben shrugged again. ‘It was the waiting. It felt like waiting for an exam to start. I’ve never been good at exams. I nearly passed out before my viva.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I thought you must have found out about us. About her men. I suppose I have a motive for murder.’

‘Jealousy?’ Perez asked. ‘Were you jealous?’

‘Horribly.’ Ben’s initial fear had quite gone. He was almost cheerful. Have I missed something? Perez wondered. What was making him so worried, so guilty? Ben went on: ‘I’d have killed Hugh Shaw if I’d thought I could get away with it. But not Angela. I’d never have harmed her.’

Perez remained in the hall after Ben Catchpole had walked away; he was thinking about Angela. Her mischief, her games, her meddling with the emotions of the men in the field centre, all these could explain the outburst of violence that had led to her death.

What am I saying? That she asked for it? The idea shocked him. He’d always been dismayed when colleagues suggested that victims, especially women, had contributed to the crimes against them. But he was curious about Angela Moore and he wanted to understand her better. He tried to picture the woman he’d met at island functions. He’d never had the sense that she was flirting with him. Although she’d been lively and confident, he’d never been attracted to her, and he found it difficult to explain Ben Catchpole’s infatuation or to see how she caused such chaos in the lives of the men in the lighthouse.

Perhaps I wasn’t her type. Too old. Too boring. Despite himself he felt a sting of envy.

After a couple of calls he tracked down the home number of Bryn Pritchard, the officer who’d notified Angela’s father about her death.

‘He’s the community plod,’ the station sergeant in Newtown had said. ‘Been there for years. No ambition. But he knows the place like the back of his hand.’

The phone was answered by a woman. She put her hand over the receiver, but still Perez could hear her shouting. ‘Bryn, it’s for you. Work. Sounds like a foreigner.’ A voice like a foghorn.