Ann Cleeves - Blue Lightning

‘I wondered if you were there yesterday. Someone was out on the hill and you might have seen something.’

‘I was on the hill in the morning. Jane was still in the lighthouse then.’ Ben stood up and walked out, almost flouncing, tossing his red hair like a young girl. Poppy had gone but it seemed Ben had taken her place as token petulant teenager.

‘We’re all rather short-tempered, I’m afraid,’ John Fowler said. ‘It’s the stress. You mustn’t take it personally.’

On the table beside him lay a notebook, the top page covered in squiggles of shorthand. Again Perez suspected his motives. Would all this become an article in a grand Sunday newspaper? It would make a good story, he could see that. The group of witnesses gathered together in the same building on a windswept isle, wondering which of their number was a murderer.

The journalist muttered something about helping his wife and wandered into the kitchen. Hugh said he’d go to Golden Water; it would be a good chance to catch up with his friends and he might as well make the most of his moment of glory. Perez and Maurice were left alone.

‘She was gay, you know,’ Maurice said suddenly. Then, when Perez didn’t respond immediately: ‘Jane Latimer. She was gay. Probably not relevant and it didn’t make any difference to me, but I thought I should tell you.’

‘Was it something she discussed?’

‘She didn’t make a big deal of it, but it wasn’t a secret. She talked occasionally about her partner – her former partner. She works in the media: television, film. Something like that.’

‘Did she form any relationships while she was here?’

‘Not to my knowledge, but then I might not have known. She would have been discreet. It seems unlikely though. We don’t get many single women staying at the North Light.’

Perez thought Sandy would be excited by this revelation. He would find it significant. But Perez didn’t believe that Jane was the primary victim in this case. She was killed for what she knew or what she had guessed, not for who she was.

Outside, there was the sound of an engine and through the long window he saw the helicopter arriving to take the dead woman back to the mainland. There would be no dramatic send-off for her, but he thought she would have preferred it that way.

Dougie looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes and he’d have to get this last load of birders back to the airstrip. One lot had already gone. They were all experiencing the post-tick high, not really looking at the bird any more – they’d been concentrated enough when they’d first arrived, staring through telescopes, taking notes, drawing sketches. Then, everyone had been whispering. Now, they’d turned up the volume: they were laughing, catching up on the news, sending texts and photos to friends not lucky enough to be there, gripping them off. Hugh was in the centre of them. You’d have thought it had been him and not Dougie who’d found the swan and because he’d been the second to see it, his name would be in the British Birds rarity report too. Dougie resented that.

Soon the plane would be in. In the distance he thought he could hear Tammy’s car on the return trip to collect them. That was a relief. He felt responsible for getting the newcomers down the island on time. It was all very well Hugh holding court with his stories – everyone wanted to hear about the murder and Hugh was happy enough to oblige – but it would be Dougie who’d get the blame if they weren’t on the airstrip when the plane landed. If Angela had been here she would have laughed at him. For fuck’s sake, Dougie boy, lighten up a bit. She’d laughed at him a lot – about his obsession with being on time, the boring nature of his job, taking himself too seriously. But she’d taken herself seriously, Dougie thought. At least, when it came to her work.

The gold Capri driven by Sally Jamieson appeared round the corner and a sort of cheer went up. There were comments about the rust and the smell but none of them would have wanted to walk. The group started to move away from the edge of the pool towards the road. The Shetland birders would be glad to get back to Lerwick, to lunch in a bar and a few beers to celebrate. The rest had to make their way south. Dougie walked behind them. He turned for a last look at the swan. It stretched its wings, ran over the water to take off and sailed into the air. He expected it to circle and return to the water. It had done that a number of times since it had settled on Golden Water. But it flew high into the air and disappeared to the north. The birders fell silent and watched it until it was out of sight. They knew it wouldn’t return now.

The hall was very warm. Rhona must have arranged for the heating to be turned on and the sunlight was flooding in through the windows, reflecting on the camera lenses, picking up a swirl of dust in one corner. Chairs had been unstacked and set out in rows. The Fiscal stood with Perez at the front of the room. He was still distracted by the thought that he should confront his father. The Good Shepherd had arrived back into Fair Isle and he couldn’t put it off much longer. But Perez was already having doubts. What if Sandy was right and he was misreading the whole situation? What if he accused his father of adultery only to find he’d made a huge mistake? The man would never speak to him again.

Rhona took the press conference. She read out the statement she’d prepared in the lighthouse while they were eating lunch. The news of the second murder came as a surprise to most of the reporters. The helicopter had come in and out with Jane’s body before they’d arrived. There was a gasp, almost of glee, when she gave the facts in her dry, measured voice. Perez supposed he couldn’t condemn the press for enjoying the drama of the story. Many of the Fair Isle folk had reacted in the same way. It was as if the little community at the North Light were a living soap opera, being played out for the audience’s enjoyment.

The Fiscal looked around the room, squinting a little against the sunlight. ‘Are there any questions?’

A big man wearing an old Barbour jacket raised his hand. Perez didn’t recognize him. He must have come in from the south. ‘Two women dead on an island this size. I’d not have thought it’d be hard to track down the killer. Why has it taken so long to make an arrest?’

The Fiscal stared at him icily. ‘I’ve explained about the unusual situation here. The weather prevented the usual forensic support. We have every expectation that an arrest will be made shortly.’

‘Will you be calling in the Serious Crime Squad from Inverness?’

‘I have every confidence in the local officers, assisted by the specialist search team that arrived from the mainland today. Of course, should it become necessary we’ll ask for additional support.’

No pressure then , Perez thought. He understood the subtext of her words. Sort this quickly or we’ll take the case away from you. Two days ago that wouldn’t have bothered him. He’d have been glad to hand it over and take Fran away from the Isle. Now his father seemed to be involved. If it came to light that he’d had a relationship with Angela Moore, the press would make his family’s life a misery.

A dark-haired young woman stood up. ‘Angela Moore was a celebrity. Do we know if she’d received unusual attention from any individual?’

Again the Fiscal took the question. Perez had only spoken to clarify a few points of fact.

‘Are you talking a stalker? No, we have no evidence of that.’

‘Have Mrs Moore’s relatives been informed of all the circumstances surrounding the case?’ A slight man, with prominent front teeth that made him look like a rat. Perez supposed the national press were already tracking down Archie Moore. Were they camping outside the run-down bungalow Bryn Pritchard had described? Perez imagined the old man sitting in the pub, taking drinks from reporters, talking about his famous, ungrateful daughter.