Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

‘You’d have pushed for more information, though.’ Through the rain-spattered windows Sandy saw a police car arrive and Vicki Hewitt get out of the passenger door. ‘You’d have tried to find out what he’d heard. You wouldn’t want a story like that on your doorstep and not be part of it.’

‘Of course I wanted more.’ Reg Gilbert sniffed. ‘I wanted to know what he was doing here, snooping around on my patch.’

Sandy thought Willow Reeves would have liked to know that too. He felt as if he’d let her down by getting so little out of the interview.

Jimmy Perez was counting the hours to Sunday night and Cassie’s return. Literally counting the chunks of time, aware of every minute. He hated the empty house and he couldn’t settle to anything. When Cassie was around, there were distractions, obligations. Some days she irritated him so that he wanted to scream, but when she was here he couldn’t give in to the self-pity that was always on the edge of his mind, waiting to take him over. He’d not fallen asleep until the early hours, but on Saturday morning he still woke at six. Radio Shetland news ran a piece about the dead man in the racing yoal at Aith. Still no identification, which was odd. There weren’t many tourists in the islands this early in the season, and Sandy and the team would surely manage to put a name to a local within minutes. Maybe they hadn’t passed on the news to the relatives yet, and that was the reason for the secrecy. Jimmy thought perhaps he’d made a mistake not going with Sandy to Aith the night before. That too would have been a distraction. But everything seemed to take so much effort these days. The doctor said it was depression; Perez saw it more as a kind of idleness.

Reg Gilbert phoned him at around midday. Jimmy had made the bed and washed up last night’s pots, but he hadn’t done much more. The ringing phone shocked him and he looked at it for a couple of seconds before answering.

‘Yes.’ This was progress of a sort. For the first months after Fran’s death he’d just let it ring.

‘What do you think of the Markham murder then, Jimmy?’ No introduction. No need for one. Reg’s nasal Midlands accent was immediately identifiable.

‘I’m not at work this weekend. I can’t help you.’ The words came out as a growl and he was about to replace the phone when a stab of curiosity prevented him. Peter and Maria Markham were friends of a kind. He couldn’t find an emotional response to the news. Nothing much moved him any more. But there was an intellectual interest that prompted a question. ‘Which of them was killed?’

‘It’s not either of the parents,’ Reg said. ‘It’s Jerry, the son. If you remember, he went to London, blagged a job on one of the broadsheets.’ Reg sounded dismissive. In his often-stated opinion, regional reporters were the heroes of journalism, not the glory-boys from London. ‘They’ve sent in a team from Inverness.’

‘Of course,’ Perez said sharply. ‘They would. That always happens in a murder investigation.’ He remembered the excitement of an inquiry, Sandy running around in circles, and the Fiscal watching at a distance for them to make a mistake. The conversations with witnesses and the slow unravelling of the mystery. For an instant he felt regret that he wasn’t with the others at Aith, drinking tea from a flask and passing round the chocolate biscuits. But the moment soon passed. He couldn’t find the energy, and he didn’t want to get involved.

‘They’ve put a woman in charge,’ Reg went on.

‘Then you’re best talking to her.’ Perez refused to give in to the nostalgia that made him think of murder as a kind of entertainment. After all that had happened on Fair Isle, that was sick. ‘Like I said, I’m not working this weekend.’

‘I wonder what the Fiscal will make of a woman heading up the inquiry,’ Reg said. It was as if Perez hadn’t spoken. ‘Our Rhona’s always considered herself Queen Bee.’

Perez was going to say that he didn’t care what the Fiscal thought; instead he just replaced the receiver.

From his kitchen window he looked down towards the Ravenswick Hotel. A sharp squall came in from the south and rain blew slantwise across the glass. He realized that he felt hungry. The sensation was so unusual – he had to force himself to eat these days – that at first he didn’t recognize it. He thought a bowl of home-made soup in the bar of the Ravenswick Hotel wouldn’t go amiss. They always baked their own bread there and served it with Shetland butter. Imported butter never tasted as good. His mouth was watering. He decided that he’d walk down. The shower would pass through quite quickly and, who knows, he might fancy a pint or two while he was in the bar.

By the time he’d put on his shoes and his coat the rain had stopped. The sun had broken through the clouds and shone, like theatre spotlights, on the water. He pulled the door shut behind him and began the walk down the bank.

Stuart Brodie was on duty behind the desk at reception. ‘Peter and Maria say they don’t want to speak to anyone,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure it’s okay for you to go up. You’ll be here about their boy. Shall I ring through to them and tell them you’re in the hotel?’

Perez shook his head.

‘I’ve come for my lunch,’ he said. ‘I’d not mind a bit of a chat with you, if you have time. Do you get a break?’

‘In half an hour.’ Brodie glanced across to the grandfather clock in the hall. ‘We’ve been busy. Lots of journalists from the south phoning to make reservations. Seems Jerry was a big man down there. And we were busy enough before.’

‘Peter and Maria are keeping the place open during the investigation?’ Perez couldn’t imagine how that would be. They’d be living in the flat upstairs, knowing that beneath their feet people would be drinking and laughing and speculating about what had happened to their son.

Brodie shrugged. ‘They’ve not told me otherwise, so I just do my job.’

The bar was quiet. The reporters from London hadn’t made it here yet and the locals were being tactful and keeping their distance. They wouldn’t want to be thought of as prying. The other residents were out at work, except for a couple of pilots still in uniform, drinking coffee. Perez ordered leek-and-tattie soup and a pint of White Wife, which was brewed on Unst. The beer tasted better than he’d imagined it would, and he sipped it as if it was expensive wine. Brodie himself brought the soup. As he came in, the pilots stood up and went out, so they were left with the room to themselves.

‘Annie can take over from me now,’ Brodie said. ‘Or do you want to have your lunch in peace?’

Perez would have preferred that, but he didn’t like to say so. He nodded for the man to sit down, buttered a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. ‘Can I buy you a pint?’

‘Nah,’ Brodie said. ‘I’m working this afternoon.’

‘When did Jerry Markham arrive?’

‘Thursday morning straight from the ferry. He screeched up in that flash car of his and Peter and Maria came down to the dining room to have breakfast with him. The return of the prodigal son. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Chef had a full restaurant and he was none too pleased. Jerry didn’t seem himself, though. Quieter somehow. I wondered if he might be ill.’

‘Was he a prodigal son?’ Perez dipped another bread roll into the soup. He found it strange that the questions came so easily to him.

Brodie shrugged again. He had a good line in expressive shrugs. ‘He left under a bit of a cloud,’ he said. ‘Got one of the chambermaids here pregnant. Not a hanging offence these days, but she was quite an innocent soul. Grew up on Fetlar, to a religious family. She might not have expected him to marry her, but she looked for more support than she got. So did her parents.’