Ann Cleeves - Blue Lightning

‘No, they all claim to have assumed it would be locked.’

So all it would take, Perez thought, would be one piece of forensic evidence linking a field centre resident to the lens room and we’d have our murderer.

‘What do your drinking pals say about Angela Moore?’ Perez wondered if the three men had considered themselves rivals. They’d all been bewitched by the woman. Had the spell been broken now she was dead?

‘That she was a cruel and wonderful woman.’

‘Specifics would be good, Sandy.’

‘I have the feeling that they’re all relieved she’s dead. Like, they say how fantastic she was, but I think they were a wee bit scared of her. They didn’t know how to stand up to her.’

‘Did they all feel like that?’

‘Maybe Dougie, the fat one, a bit less than the others.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Sandy shrugged. ‘I think he enjoyed her company. He wasn’t so intimidated.’

‘He wasn’t having sex with her,’ Perez said. ‘It was more about the shared interest. The birds.’

‘But occasionally she got things wrong.’ Sandy had brought his beer with him and took a swig from the can. ‘That’s what Dougie told me. “She was a great birder, but not quite as great as she thought.”’

‘He didn’t tell me that.’

‘Well, he’d not have wanted to look disloyal. He said it wasn’t unknown for her to take credit for identifying a bird found by someone else. And the others agreed. Not really a motive for murder but you said you wanted the detail.’

Perez considered, tried to imagine this flawed, driven woman. She wouldn’t bear being wrong. She would hate it. Perhaps that was a motive for murder after all.

‘What did they make of Jane Latimer?’

‘That she was a brilliant cook. Nothing else about her mattered to them.’

‘Angela Moore was pregnant,’ Perez said. ‘Which of those boys would you put down as the father?’

There was a moment of silence while Sandy considered. He was much better these days at keeping his mouth shut until he had something worth saying. ‘Hugh,’ he said at last. ‘I mean, she wasn’t looking for a man to stand by her, was she? She had that already with Maurice. If it was just the sperm she was after, Hugh would make less of a fuss.’

‘It couldn’t be him,’ Perez said. ‘He’s only been here for a few weeks and Angela was two months’ pregnant. Unless he’s telling us lies and he’d known her before. I suppose she could have met him on one of her trips south.’

‘Couldn’t we get them to do a blood test? That way we’d know for sure.’

Perez supposed they could but he wasn’t sure it would help them discover who had stabbed the women. He always thought of the victims as women in the plural. Because, despite his warning that they should all keep an open mind, he was convinced there was just one killer.

When Perez arrived home, Fran had gone to bed but his mother was still up, on the computer in the office that had once been a small bedroom. Recently, she’d become a demon Internet freak. She emailed friends all over the world and had even started her own blog: Notes from a Fair Isle . James had at first felt threatened, then become resigned. He was happy for Mary to save the croft accounts on the PC and to order in feed and seeds online. He still resented the time Mary spent on the computer though, the notion that she had an exciting life in which he played no part. Perez sensed it had caused arguments.

Perez pushed open the office door. Mary’s glasses had slid down her nose and there was a mug of tea, cold on the desk beside her.

‘Mother, you’re obsessed,’ he said, only half joking. ‘Go to bed.’

‘I thought you might be interested in this…’

He pulled up a kitchen stool, ready to indulge her. He knew she enjoyed the times they had alone together. The two of them had always been close. He was grateful she’d taken so easily to Fran. Some mothers would become petty and jealous. He was tempted to ask her about James. How could his mother be so generous about his encounter with Angela? But she wouldn’t want it discussed and would hate to think that Perez knew about it. Better to leave it to his parents to deal with in their own way.

‘What is it?’ He thought his voice sounded forced, unnaturally cheerful.

‘An article about Ben Catchpole.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘I Googled him.’ She blushed. ‘I tried it with all the folk staying at the North Light. Just out of interest, you know. You can’t blame me for that.’

‘Did you come across anything else?’

‘Some bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised you’ve not tried it yourself. But this seemed the most important.’ She pushed her chair out of the way so Perez could read the screen. The article was in the Scottish edition of The Times online and had been written six years before. The piece ran:

Green Activist Arrested in Braer Protest

To commemorate the environmental disaster caused by the running aground of oil tanker the Braer in southern Shetland ten years ago, Benjamin Catch-pole, research student and green activist, broke into the oil terminal in Sullom Voe and caused tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of criminal damage. He received a suspended custodial sentence when he appeared in court earlier this week. Police sources say they believe Catchpole had help within Shetland to carry out the crime, and it seems likely that other charges will be brought.

‘I know about the conviction, Mother. It’s one of the first things we do: check the criminal records of suspects.’ He hadn’t known that Ben had received a suspended sentence though. Or if he had known, he’d forgotten. He remembered the case, even though he’d been working in the south when the offence was big news in Shetland. The protesters had had some support locally, the effect of the Braer still fresh in people’s memories. He read on to the end of the article and couldn’t prevent a small gasp when he saw the byline. John Fowler . So all these apparent strangers, turning up in the North Light for the same week in late autumn, had been in contact in the past. Catchpole was quoted in the article, so Fowler must have spoken to him at least over the phone. Coincidence? Birdwatching was a small world. Or had the autumn gathering in the Fair Isle field centre not been random at all, but planned? For the purpose of murder?

Monday. Fran’s last day on Fair Isle. She found herself looking forward to being back in the small house in Ravenswick. Her own space and her own rituals: working in the early morning while she was still in pyjamas, catching up with her friends over more than the one glass of wine she felt she could take in front of Jimmy’s parents, cooking for herself and for Cassie. And being free to swear when the mood took her. They’d decided they would sell Perez’s place and the Ravenswick house and buy somewhere bigger before they got married. Fran had enjoyed driving around Shetland mainland looking at prospective homes. The west side was so pretty, she thought, but if they moved somewhere like Walls, it would be a long trek into work for Jimmy and to school for Cassie when she started at the Anderson. Now she wondered if she could bear to leave Ravenswick. Maybe they could build on to the small house there. She imagined something wonderful, very light and spacious to contrast with the original space, new and old Shetland together. And a purpose-built studio. Would that be too much of an indulgence? It would be a project and she loved projects. She’d discuss it with Jimmy when this case was over. Now it would be pointless; he’d never concentrate.

He’d been back late the night before and when she’d asked how things were in the centre he’d been noncommittal, not uncommunicative, but not sure himself what to make of events surrounding the case. It seemed to her that he brooded about it all night. She woke to find him already up and dressed, a shadow in the room, though it was dark still outside.