Ann Cleeves - Blue Lightning

‘Just an ordinary kitchen knife,’ Perez said.

‘I suppose it could have been here for years.’ Sandy pulled up his collar to stop the rain dripping down his neck. They stood under the only real trees on the island. ‘Did you know they take school kids to that copse that they’ve planted in North Mainland? To give them a feel of what it’s like to be in woodland. In the summer they had a teddy bears’ picnic. It was in the Shetland Times. ’

Perez didn’t answer the last point. Sometimes Sandy’s brain worked that way: he opened his mouth and let out the words without realizing they weren’t relevant to the matter in hand.

‘The knife hasn’t been here for very long. There’s no rust. The blade’s still sharp.’ He squatted to look at it better, smelled the damp earth and the pine, thought it wasn’t such a daft idea to give Shetland kids the experience of a forest.

‘I suppose any blood on it will be Dougie Barr’s. It’s typical that the search team has just gone out. We could have got them down here to do a fingertip through the trees.’ Sandy had an almost religious faith in forensic science. Fibres. DNA. Perez thought he watched CSI on the quiet. ‘Do you think it came from the centre’s kitchen?’

Perez straightened. ‘I think Jane Latimer would be the only person to tell you that. But probably. If it came from anywhere else on the Isle it’d likely have been missed. And everyone here knew we were looking for a murder weapon.’

He scooped it into an evidence bag, taking care to include some of the soil and debris from the plantation floor. It could go out on the boat the following morning; he’d get Morag to meet the Shepherd and send the knife south to forensics.

Perez got the call about the discovery just after the afternoon plane had taken off. Stella Monkton had thanked him in her quiet, polite way, before taking her place behind the pilot, but he hadn’t known what she was thinking. On the drive from the North Light to the airstrip she hadn’t spoken. After the birdwatchers had come across the knife, Ben had driven back to the centre to find Sandy, leaving Dougie to stand guard. Now the two detectives were on their own. The light was fading and a steady drizzle had set in.

‘Why did the murderer leave it here?’ Perez said. He was quite certain that this was the weapon that had killed Jane. ‘As you said, it would have been easy enough to throw it over a cliff. Then probably, it would never have been found.’

‘Does it matter? I mean, if it came from the centre they’d all have had access to it. If they manage to get a fingerprint it’ll be: Yeah, I touched it. I helped with the washing-up.’

‘But it was removed from the scene. Not like at the first murder.’ Perez was still haunted by the second murder scene, saw it again, as clearly as a photograph: the body, the stained sheepskins, the tiny white feathers. He’d missed something. Perhaps it was simple – the killer had removed the knife to replace it in the centre kitchen, not sure if its absence would be noticed, if its loss would be traced back to him. Perez tried to picture the route the murderer would take from the Pund to the North Light. The most direct way would be over the hill, but that was heavy going: a steep climb and bog and heather moorland. Much easier to walk to the road past the house at Setter and go north that way.

‘He was scared,’ Perez said. ‘He heard someone coming along the road and didn’t want to be seen. He wouldn’t want anyone to know he’d been so close to the Pund once Jane’s body was discovered. It would be easy enough to hide in the plantation. Then perhaps he lost his nerve. Jittery. The state he was in, he couldn’t imagine walking into the kitchen, rinsing the knife under the tap, putting it back in the drawer. That was his plan but he didn’t have the nerve to carry it out. Though he still had the pillowcase in his pocket. Did he forget about that in his panic?’

‘Or she.’ Sandy was already walking back towards the road. Perez could tell he wasn’t comfortable here in the trees. He wasn’t used to them. Maybe he felt claustrophobic. ‘It could have been a woman. You’re the one who said to keep an open mind.’

Perez knew Sandy was right, but he thought the murderer was a man. The victims were women. But perhaps he just didn’t want to believe in a female killer. He followed Sandy away from the trap.

‘There was a bit of a ruckus at lunchtime.’ Sandy stepped across the ditch and on to the road, then began to walk back to the car. ‘Ben and Hugh. I thought it might come to blows.’ He opened the passenger door and got in.

‘What was it about?’

Sandy shrugged. Perez could see the droplets of rain on his jacket, smelled wet wool. ‘Something and nothing. Hugh had left the bird room in a mess and Ben had a go. He’s an arrogant bastard though, that Hugh. None of them seem to like him much.’

‘A scapegoat, maybe,’ Perez said. ‘They all want someone to hate and he’s starting to get on their nerves.’

Sandy turned his head quickly. ‘Like The Lord of the Flies ?’

Sandy could always surprise him. ‘Aye, something like that.’

‘We did it for English Highers,’ Sandy said. He paused, while Perez started the engine. ‘Everyone staying in the North Light knows that one of them is a murderer. They’d like it to be Hugh. He’s the loner really, isn’t he? I mean, he puts on the charm, but he hasn’t got any real friends there.’

Perez supposed that was true. The Fowlers had each other, John’s calm and Sarah’s anxiety meeting the other’s need. Dougie had been coming to the field centre for so many years that he was something of an institution. Maurice and Ben had worked together all season. Nobody knew Hugh. All they had were the stories he told about himself and now his humour was probably wearing a bit thin. And all I have is the stories he’s told about himself. Perez pictured Fran as he’d last seen her, sitting in the centre kitchen chatting to Hugh. It was time to get her away from the lighthouse and back to the safety of Springfield. He thought he should spend some time at home this evening. His mother would have prepared a special supper. They might even get an early night.

Am I like the other field centre residents? Would I prefer Hugh Shaw to be the murderer? Because Perez realized that he too disliked Shaw; the dislike hit him now with a surprising intensity.

They’d just started the drive north when Sandy’s mobile rang. Perez pulled into the side of the road, so he could take the call without risk of losing reception. He couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation but he could tell Sandy was excited. ‘Sure? Yeah, thanks. You’re brilliant. I definitely owe you a few drinks next time we’re in town. But keep it to yourself, yeah?’

‘What was all that about?’ Perez played the game. Let Sandy prolong his moment of triumph.

‘I know what happened to the money Angela withdrew from her bank.’

‘Well?’ It wouldn’t do to show impatience. That only made Sandy worse.

‘She didn’t have another account in her own name; she paid the cash into a third person’s. She had the number and the sort code.’ He paused. ‘You’re really going to like this! It was Hugh Shaw’s account. For some reason she paid him two thousand five hundred quid.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Perez didn’t expect a useful answer. Again he was musing to himself.

‘Could it be something to do with the baby?’

‘You mean she bought Hugh’s sperm?’ Perez looked up. He found himself faintly disgusted by the idea. ‘But we have no evidence that they knew each other before he came to the North Light.’