Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

There was no sign from the road to show where Francis Watt had his boat-building business. Perez found it in a big shed beside a low white croft-house. The shed had windows at one end to let in the natural light and the view of a sweep of white sand, curving so that the bay formed the best part of a circle. It was a beautiful spot and he could see why Evie would be attracted to stay on the islands after growing up here. Perez had left his car on the road and walked up the track, buffeted by the wind and enjoying the exercise. In a small field beyond the house someone was working, bent double, planting tatties, but too far away to hear when Perez shouted, so he’d knocked at the door of the house and, when there was no reply, he’d wandered across the yard to the shed.

He heard the sound before he reached it. Metal on metal, regular and explosive. Through the open door Perez saw a yoal, almost finished, its keel held in a clamp, the curved sides regular and perfectly symmetrical. A work of art. A sculpture. The floor was scattered with wood shavings and sawdust and the smell of wood filled the place. At the far end of the shed stood a pile of planks, stacked so that the air could move through them. A middle-aged man, dressed in a fisherman’s smock, was hammering grooved copper nails into the overlapping planks, the fit so tight that they’d be watertight. He was bending into the hull and it looked like awkward, back-breaking work. Perez waited until the man straightened. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He felt that Francis Watt was like an artist who needed to concentrate on his craft.

Watt squinted against the light. ‘How can I help?’

‘Jimmy Perez. I’m here about Jerry Markham.’

‘Ah, Jimmy.’ The voice serious. The man was remembering that Jimmy had been bereaved, and for the second time that day Perez hoped there would be no mention of Fran.

‘Sorry about the noise,’ Francis said. ‘The clinking. Jessie hates it. She says she can hear the vibration even inside the house.’

‘Worth it,’ Perez said, ‘to make a boat like that.’

Watt nodded to acknowledge the compliment and smiled. ‘Come away into the kitchen. I’m ready for tea, and Jessie will be in soon too.’

The kitchen was cluttered and comfortable. A Rayburn with a basket of peat beside it, a scrubbed table under the window and a battered sofa against one wall. Francis cleared a pile of plans and drawings from the sofa so that his visitor could sit down.

‘I’ve read your column in the Shetland Times ,’ Perez said. ‘You have very strong views.’

‘I think we’ve become too used to an easy life,’ Francis said. ‘It’s made us greedy. Uncaring.’ He gave a quick grin. ‘I’m not popular for saying those things.’

He put a kettle on the range and took a cake tin from a shelf. Inside home-made date slices. No shop-bought biscuits here.

‘Do you have strong views about tidal power?’

‘It’s one of the few things my daughter Evie and I argue about,’ he said. ‘It’s fine to make Shetland self-sufficient in energy, but I have no interest in exporting it. I abhor that big new wind farm, hate driving past it on my way to Lerwick. There are too many people with vested interests here who hope to make their fortunes. There hasn’t been a development in Shetland that hasn’t had corruption at the heart of it. My Evie’s honest as the day is long, but I’m worried that the taint of greed will stick to her too.’

‘Jerry Markham was planning a story about the new energies,’ Perez said. ‘He’d arranged to go to a meeting of the Hvidahus action group the evening he died.’

Francis looked up, startled. ‘I know nothing about that. I support the aims of the action group, but I don’t get too involved. After all, Power of Water is Evie’s big project, so I have divided loyalties.’

‘Do you have other children?’ Perez wondered where that question had come from. Sandy would see it as a waste of time. But not the new inspector. Perez thought she would work in the same way as him. She’d want to dig under the surface of a family too.

‘A son,’ Francis said. ‘Magnus. He’s away at university in Stirling. Computer science.’ The man smiled. ‘He’ll not come back to the islands to stay. Evie’s my last hope of keeping the family traditions alive.’

‘Will she take on the boat-building?’ Perez asked.

‘Aye, she might at that, and bring John Henderson with her, once he’s had enough of the oil work. That’s what I’m hoping. Evie grew up with it and she has a feeling for working with wood.’

The door opened and a woman came in. Perez had seen her working in the field, planting potatoes. She was small and slender, round-faced, smiling. In twenty years Evie would look like her. She took off her boots at the door and went to the sink to wash her hands. Under her jacket she wore a smock just like her husband’s, on top of faded cord trousers.

‘This is Jimmy Perez,’ Francis said. ‘He’s come to ask us questions about Jerry Markham.’

‘Evie said you’d spoken to her.’ The woman was polite, but prickly. ‘You can’t expect her to have anything to do with his death. All that happened years ago. She was hardly more than a child. Our fault maybe, for sheltering her too much. She’s getting married on Saturday. You mustn’t spoil this week for her.’

‘Had you seen Markham since he was home this time?’

‘No,’ Watt said. ‘We don’t leave the isle much. It’s a busy time of year and we have all that we need here.’

‘When was the last time that you left Fetlar?’

The couple looked at each other, trying to work it out, to give an accurate answer. ‘Maybe six weeks ago,’ Francis said. ‘Evie had a problem with the boiler in her house. John was on shift at Sullom and couldn’t help. We went and stayed over, made a night of it.’

Perez thought it would be easy enough to check with the boys on the boat. They’d know if anyone on this small island had taken the ferry out.

‘Why would anyone want to kill Markham?’ he said. ‘Why now?’

There was a pause. Jessie Watt poured herself tea.

‘I knew him a bit when he worked on the Shetland Times ,’ Francis said. ‘Before there was all that trouble with Evie. He was good at making enemies.’

Out of the window Perez saw a child running across the beach, chasing a dog. ‘This story he was writing about the new energies. Might that have made him enemies too?’

‘You’re talking politicians taking backhanders? Playing fast and loose with the planning laws?’

Perez hadn’t been thinking that way, but he could see that it might be a possibility.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Francis went on. ‘People get obsessed with money. But I’ve heard nothing of that sort. Nothing serious enough to kill a man for.’

‘Anything at all?’ Perez persisted.

Francis shook his head.

On the way out of the house, through an open door, Perez saw a small office. Clean and uncluttered, quite in contrast to the kitchen. A filing cabinet and a desk with a PC. It seemed the Watts were happy enough to use the new technologies when it came to promoting their business. Walking down the track to the car, he felt that he’d missed an opportunity and left the important questions unasked.

Rhona Laing woke early. It was still dark. Since the discovery of Markham’s body her sleep had been fitful. Over the weekend she’d stayed up drinking late, but even the alcohol hadn’t knocked her out properly. For the first time in her life she felt that things were running out of her control. And for the first time in years she longed for companionship, someone to talk to and someone she could trust. A body in her bed for the whole night.