Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

Sandy didn’t ask Walsh to explain further. He thought anything that would provide Shetland with cheaper fuel would be a good thing. ‘Did either of you see a red Alfa Romeo in the car park when you left?’

‘No, and we would certainly have noticed. There were only six of us and the place was empty when we left.’

‘What time was that?’ Sandy stirred more sugar into his coffee.

‘Early. About eight o’clock. There didn’t seem much point continuing, when Jerry Markham didn’t turn up.’ Walsh looked up. ‘I was furious at the time, but of course I realize now that he was dead.’

‘You were expecting Jerry Markham to be at your meeting?’ Sandy tried not to sound too surprised.

‘Of course. I thought that was why you were here this morning.’ Walsh continued talking very slowly, as if to a small child or a foreigner. Sandy, who had already taken an intense dislike to the man, felt like hitting him. ‘I wrote to Markham, suggesting that this was a story worth investigating. As he was a Shetlander. He said he was planning to visit his parents anyway, so he’d come along to the meeting. Of course he didn’t show.’

‘I saw Jerry Markham on Friday,’ Sue Walsh interrupted. ‘At about eleven in the morning.’ She looked at her husband. ‘You’d looked him up on the Internet, so I recognized him from his photo.’

‘You didn’t tell me you’d seen him.’ Mark sounded affronted.

‘No? It must have slipped my mind.’

‘Where did you see Markham?’ Sandy sensed the beginning of an argument.

‘In the coffee shop of the Bonhoga Gallery. We’d like original Shetland art in the guest bedrooms and there was an exhibition of student work. I thought I might pick up one or two pieces cheaply.’

Sandy thought about that. The Bonhoga Gallery was in Weisdale on the west side of the island. What had Markham been doing there?

‘He was with someone,’ Sue went on. ‘The place was quiet. The sun appeared briefly and I took my coffee to one of the tables outside, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But it looked as if they were having an argument. Or if not an argument, then a disagreement.’

‘Can you describe his companion?’ Sandy asked.

‘It was a woman. Slim. Well dressed. I’d guess she was middle-aged, but she had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face.’

‘A local?’

‘I didn’t hear her speak.’ Sue stood up and stared out of the window.

‘Would you know her if I showed you a photo?’

‘I don’t think I would. As I said, I only saw her from behind.’

Sandy called into the Bonhoga Gallery on his way to Lerwick. It was a bit of a detour, but a pretty drive and he could get a bowl of soup and a sandwich there. The coffee shop was busier than the exhibition space above and he had to wait in a queue. A toddler in a high chair was screaming, so it was hard to think straight. Two lasses were serving. He thought he might have seen them about, but they were too young for them to be in his circle of friends. Then the family with the noisy child left and there was space for him to sit down. The soup was thick and good, and by the time he’d finished his meal and ordered a pot of tea the place was quieter.

He walked up to the counter. ‘Were you here on Friday?’

But it turned out that the girls were still at school and only worked there at weekends. ‘It’s Brian here during the week,’ one said. ‘He runs the place and he does all the baking on Friday.’

Sandy nodded. He knew Brian and he’d catch up with him later.

The first regatta of the season was at St Ninian’s Isle. They’d borrowed the yoal from the Weisdale team because their boat had been taken away for forensic examination. Rhona Laing wasn’t sure where it would be now, or even if it was still in Shetland. She imagined scientists at the university at Aberdeen examining it, scraping tiny pieces of wood from the seats where Jerry Markham’s body had lain. But she didn’t like to ask too many questions about this investigation. She was already involved because she’d found the dead man. Now, she saw, it was best to keep a professional distance.

It was fine rowing weather, without too much of a breeze to cause a swell on the water. Later in the season they’d pick up a good speed, but today they wouldn’t have the rhythm, the instinctive sense of pulling together that came after months of practice. It was mild for spring and there was no sign of rain. Down on the beach someone had already got a barbecue going and there was the smell of charcoal and charred meat. Cans of lager appeared from open car boots. Children were running along the tideline. St Ninian’s was the view that appeared on all the tourist postcards. Not a real island at all, but a geological oddity, a tombolo, attached to Shetland mainland by a spit of sand. The sand was white and fine and the water very clear and blue. An image of paradise for the visitors.

A hoard of Pictish treasure had been found there and, though the originals were in Edinburgh, replicas were on show at the museum in Lerwick. Occasionally Rhona went to look at the brooches, the feasting bowls and the ornamental weapons, when she was in the museum for lunch and found herself lusting after the originals with an intensity that took her breath away. She longed to drink wine from the bowl and to feel the old silver against her lips, to pin a jewelled brooch onto a plain black dress and know that it had last been worn hundreds of years before.

Liz, the crofter from Bixter, had towed the yoal and the trailer behind her old Land Rover. It had been launched earlier and tied to a temporary pontoon. The team stood looking at it. A different boat. How would they cope with that? All around the talk was of the murder. ‘Fancy you finding the body!’ Liz said. ‘What chance would there be of that? A strange kind of coincidence.’

The Fiscal was about to protest that of course it was a coincidence, what else could it be? She felt suddenly scared and flushed. But Liz continued before she could speak. ‘I mean, you’re the Procurator Fiscal. It’s your job to supervise a murder investigation. It’s like someone’s saying, “Here’s the body, get on with the job.”’

And Rhona laughed at the idea with the others, and rolled up her jeans ready for the start. Theirs was the last race of the day. In the yoal she pulled on her gloves and started to row. She loved the sensation of skimming over the water, losing herself in the task of rowing and the strange clarity of the light. No space for thought. That smell of salt and tar and damp wood. They finished halfway down the field. If it had been any other race, Rhona would have been disappointed by that, but today it seemed unimportant. It had been enough to escape her anxieties for a while. The other competitors commiserated. It was hardly surprising, they said, when the team had to get used to a borrowed yoal. The Aith vets had been cheered across the finishing line by a sympathetic crowd.

Rhona had helped the others load the boat onto the trailer and was about to drive home when she saw the detective from Inverness among the crowd. The inspector had bought a veggie-burger from the barbecue and was drinking black tea from a paper cup. She could have been a tourist come to watch a local event, or a relative up from the south. Relaxed and informal, she fitted in.

She’s dangerous , the Fiscal thought suddenly. That woman could ruin my life here . Rhona left the rest of the team and walked over the sand to Willow. Her feet were still bare and sandy from pulling the yoal out of the water, and her clothes were damp from the splashes from the oars. She felt at a disadvantage.

‘Are you here to see me, Inspector?’