Ann Cleeves: Dead Water

‘Jerry had moved on too,’ Maria said. ‘He was doing brilliantly in London, Jimmy. His editor said he was the best reporter she’d ever worked with.’

Perez wondered if that was true. ‘Where was Jerry yesterday?’ he asked.

‘I told your sergeant that. He was at the oil terminal, chasing some big story.’

‘And did you know the name of Evie’s fiancé?’ Perez supposed it was a coincidence, Jerry Markham heading off to Sullom Voe, which was close to where the girl’s new man worked, but it would have to be checked.

‘He’s called Henderson,’ Markham said. ‘John Henderson.’

Perez made his apologies for disturbing them and went, leaving his coffee untouched. The other questions could wait. It wasn’t his case, after all. Halfway up the bank towards his house he paused and looked out to the sea. He had reasonable phone reception in this spot. A hundred yards on he’d lose it again. He called Sandy, his hands trembling a little as he hit the buttons. He asked what they’d planned for the afternoon, then wondered if he might join Sandy and the inspector from Inverness at the terminal, just to sit in on interviews. If he wouldn’t be in the way.

When Sandy told her that Jimmy Perez would join them at the oil terminal at Sullom Voe, Willow wasn’t sure what she made of it. She supposed she should be pleased that Perez was well enough to be part of the investigation. He’d been at this business for longer than she had and she could do with his local knowledge. Sandy was willing, but not sufficiently confident or skilled to make the intellectual leap that would bring a case to a conclusion. However, her experience was that male officers took over the decision-making and when that happened she became resentful, ending up sounding either shrill or defensive. A pre-menstrual harpy. And this was her first investigation as SIO. She didn’t particularly want to share the glory.

The rain showers had blown away altogether now, though there was still a breeze. They took the road that ran north-east through the hills towards Sullom Voe.

‘What’s he like then, this Jimmy Perez?’ she asked.

A sheep wandered onto the road and Sandy didn’t answer for a moment. At last he said, ‘He’s a good man.’ Another pause. ‘A fine detective.’

That didn’t seem much of an answer, but it was clear it was the only one she was likely to get. They came upon the oil terminal quite suddenly. It was hidden by the peat bog until the road came round the hill, and the tanks and the power station looked alien there. It was like a set from an old science-fiction movie. She thought tourists could spend a fortnight in Shetland and have no sight or knowledge of the oil that had changed the islands so profoundly.

They stopped at the main gate. A security guard came to the car. ‘You can’t go in. You need clearance to get any further.’

‘We have clearance.’ Sandy had to explain who they were and what they were doing there. ‘I spoke to your press officer this morning.’

The gate swung open and the concrete barrier beyond sank into the ground to allow the car through. ‘Wait here. Andy will come for you.’ The guard spoke through the car window. ‘I heard about the murder on the radio.’ He was a big man. Ex-services, Willow guessed. He seemed comfortable in the uniform.

‘Were you on duty yesterday?’

He seemed surprised that she was the one asking the questions, speaking across Sandy through the open car window, but he answered anyway. ‘I was on a late. Two till ten.’

‘You’ll have seen Jerry Markham here then? He visited the terminal in the afternoon.’

‘I signed him in and then I signed him out again.’ The man looked at her sharply. ‘He was alive when he drove his fancy car out of that gate.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘Four, four-thirty.’

‘And who was he here to see?’ Willow sensed the man’s antagonism, but couldn’t work out why he was so hostile. He must realize that they’d have to ask questions about a suspicious death. She felt herself grow tense in response, but made an effort to keep her voice pleasant. No point losing it.

‘Andy Belshaw, the press officer. I was expecting Markham. Andy had told me he was likely to turn up.’ The guard shifted his feet. A raven croaked above their heads. ‘I sent him along to the office. You can ask Andy what it was all about.’ It was clear he wanted to get rid of them. Maybe he just didn’t like the police. Willow was about to get out of the car so that they could continue the conversation properly when another vehicle came down the road behind them. It pulled into a space on the other side of the fence and a dark man got out and walked towards them.

‘That’s Jimmy Perez,’ Sandy said. He shouted to the guard, ‘You can let him in. He’s with us.’ Then he bounded out of the car. Willow followed more slowly. She thought Perez’s appearance suited his name; he was dark-haired and dark-eyed and his skin was olive. She thought he’d pass unnoticed in southern Spain, but he stood out here. She wondered how he’d got on at school. She knew what it was like to be different in a small community. Sandy was bouncing around him, but Perez took no notice and walked towards her, his hand outstretched.

‘You’ll be the inspector from Inverness,’ he said. ‘You’re very welcome.’ And he smiled as if it took a great effort. ‘You don’t mind if I sit in? I’m supposed to be easing myself back gently. You’ll have heard about that. Sandy will have told you.’

She nodded.

‘Should we get on?’ he said. She realized that she was staring at him and that they were all expecting her to speak.

She pulled herself together and nodded again. ‘Of course.’

Everything about Belshaw was big: his hands, his head, his teeth, his voice. He was another incomer from England. Willow wondered how that worked. Did all these folk from the south lead an ex-pat existence, socializing only with each other? She had a brief image of colonial Africa, the white men with their exclusive clubs and their cocktail parties and their delicate wives. But surely, she thought, Shetland could be nothing like that.

Belshaw was welcoming. He offered them tea and sent his assistant off to make it. All the time there was that beam with the big white teeth, the jovial voice that sounded as if he was laughing, even when he was saying how sorry he was about Jerry Markham. ‘He was a good journalist,’ he said. ‘One of the best of his generation.’

Belshaw’s office was in a concrete block that looked as if it had been put up in a hurry and still had a temporary air. Out of the window a view of bare hillside and sheep. Perez had tucked himself into a corner and took no part in the conversation. He sat very still and Willow wondered if he’d always been like that or if he’d become half-frozen after the death of his lover. Had guilt and self-pity chilled him and made him sluggish? Was it a weird form of hibernation?

‘You knew Jerry Markham?’ Willow asked. ‘Before he came here yesterday, I mean.’

‘I’ve lived in Shetland for fifteen years,’ Belshaw said. ‘I came here on temporary contract straight out of university, an admin post in the press office. But I got hooked. Married a local girl. I knew Jerry when he worked at the Shetland Times .’

‘You were friends?’

‘He was younger than me, but we had a few beers together. You had to be careful, though. He was always after a story. No off-the-record with Jerry.’

‘Did Jerry phone up to make an appointment?’ Willow asked. ‘Or turn up on the off-chance that you’d be free to see him?’

‘Peter fixed it up,’ Belshaw said. ‘His father.’