Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

‘Should we wait for Vicki Hewitt?’ Perez asked.

‘Probably.’ But Willow went back to her car and pulled out a couple of scene-suits. ‘I came prepared this time.’ She kitted up, tucking her long hair into the back of her jersey. She put up the paper hood, adjusting the mask around her face, but lifted it for a moment to speak to him. ‘Come on, Jimmy. Are you letting me go in there on my own?’ She thought he seemed half-asleep.

Inside, she looked round. There was an integral dishwasher, but still Henderson had washed his breakfast plates by hand. A mug, bowl and plate stood on the draining board with a small pile of cutlery. The table had been wiped clean of crumbs. The tiled floor was spotless. On the workbench a kettle and microwave. A breadbin containing a loaf of sliced wholemeal from the Walls Bakery. No clutter. Nothing to indicate the personality of the man who’d lived there, except for a small cross, formed from a dried palm leaf, propped on the window ledge, evidence that he’d been at church on Palm Sunday.

Willow walked through to the living room. A leather sofa, a carpet the colour of oatmeal, plain brown curtains. All good-quality, all bland. A blank canvas. Willow thought Evie would have brought colour, art and books to the house. Pot plants. Hand-knitting and felting. Did Henderson not care about how things looked, or had he made a deliberate decision not to impose his taste on his new wife?

‘No sign of a struggle,’ she said. ‘No blood.’

Perez remained silent.

She continued to the bedrooms. The largest looked like a hotel bedroom: large double bed, matching chest of drawers and wardrobe. It smelled of new carpet and fresh linen. Willow opened the wardrobe and wondered if Henderson had kept anything belonging to his wife – a special frock to remind him of their meeting, her wedding dress. She was sure Evie would have understood that and wouldn’t have minded, but there was nothing belonging to the woman. Inside hung one man’s suit, new, still in its polythene wrapper, and a couple of shirts. Bought for the wedding? She opened the top drawer. It was empty except for a small jewellery box, and at last there was some indication of Agnes Henderson: a plain gold wedding ring, a modest engagement ring with a small diamond, a string of pearls and a silver brooch shaped like a raven’s head. Willow was aware of Perez, like a shadow, looking over her shoulder, but still he said nothing. She moved on.

The bathroom was spotless and functional. No candles, no perfume. Only one toothbrush. Evie Watt never slept here, Willow thought. She never stayed over. Then it came to her, almost as a revelation, that the two engaged people had never had sex. They were religious and had decided to wait until they were married. She felt tears in the corner of her eyes and wiped them away with her sleeve, hoping that Perez hadn’t noticed.

It was clear that Henderson had slept in the smaller bedroom. It was at the back of the house. No view, except of a bare hillside. A single bed, made up the old-fashioned way with sheets, blankets and a quilt. On the bedside chest a Bible and a pamphlet of suggested religious readings and thoughts. A photograph on the wall of a group of men in uniform next to a sparkling new boat. One of the Sullom Voe tugs? Willow recognized John Henderson standing in the middle. Still there was no indication that anyone had broken into the house and stabbed him to death.

Willow turned back to Perez. ‘What do you think?’ His silence was beginning to irritate her.

He shrugged and moved back to the hall. Here the floor was laminate, and a steep wooden staircase, almost a ladder, led up into the loft. This time he went ahead of her. Perez clambered inside, then moved away from the top of the steps so that Willow could follow. The loft covered the whole house, and dormer windows let in light and gave a view right along the coast. There were no straight walls and Perez could only stand upright in the middle of the room. It was as if she’d walked into a different universe. The walls were painted red. A double mattress on the floor was covered with an Indian cotton cloth in patterned reds and gold. Posters advertising concerts, a festival called Wordplay and the Tall Ships Race were fixed to the slanting walls.

‘What is this place?’ Willow said. ‘Evie’s space, do you think? Is this like the polytunnel and the wind turbine? Henderson’s attempt to woo her? To show that she wouldn’t have to change for him?’

‘Maybe.’ At last Perez did speak. ‘Or somewhere for Agnes to relax… ’

‘Would she have been able to climb the steps?’

‘Not at the end,’ he said. ‘But when they first moved here she wasn’t so ill. And she was a lively woman. Full of laughter. She was an art teacher. Taught me for a while at the Anderson High. My last year at school. She was very young then. Very bonny.’

‘And Henderson kept the room like a kind of shrine.’

‘I don’t know,’ Perez said. It was as if he found the question ridiculous. ‘It was just an idea I had. I could be wrong.’

‘No blood, in any event,’ Willow said. ‘This isn’t our murder scene.’ She thought the room told them more about John Henderson than it did about the killing.

Perez had fallen silent again. There was no answer. He went before her down the steps and, when she’d gone down herself, she found him in the kitchen, apparently lost in thought.

‘That bread knife,’ he said, nodding towards the draining board.

‘What about it? Maybe Henderson had toast for his breakfast.’ She was losing patience.

‘But no need to cut the bread.’ He pointed towards the open breadbin and the sliced loaf.

‘So he used it last night!’ But Willow knew that wouldn’t do. Henderson had washed and dried up the night before. Everything had been put away. Only the breakfast dishes had been left on the draining board.

Perez shook his head and went outside. Quickly and directly, like a dog chasing a scent, he walked round the side of the bungalow to a small garage. Still wearing the latex gloves, he lifted the garage door. Again everything was neat and ordered. There were shelves with tins of paint, boxes of nails and screws. Hooks on the wall for garden tools. At one end a lawn mower. And, in the middle of the floor, a dark stain that must have been blood.

Sandy found Evie in her office in a smart new building on the water close to the museum in Lerwick. By the time he arrived there it was mid-afternoon. The bairns were on their way home from school in the streets outside and in the open-plan office the staff were drinking tea. Evie was sitting at her desk peering at a computer screen, a mug by her side. It took her a moment to place him and then she frowned. ‘Is this about Markham again? I spoke to that woman from the Western Isles at lunchtime.’

He didn’t answer. It occurred to him that he’d had to bring news of both violent deaths in this investigation, and he had the childish thought that someone else should have taken a turn.

‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

Something about his voice must have alerted her. She stood up quickly and led him to a small interview room, flicked the sign on the door to Engaged. ‘What is it, Sandy? An accident? Something at Sullom?’

‘It’s John.’ Again he thought this was kinder done quickly. ‘He’s dead. I’m so sorry.’

‘But not an accident?’ Her voice flinty-sharp, and not what he’d been expecting. It had been easier to cope with Maria’s tears.

‘No,’ he said. ‘He was murdered.’

‘Like Jerry Markham.’ Not a question.

They sat for a moment in silence. She was rigid, her hands flat on the desk in front of her. Sandy didn’t know what to say or do. I’m crap at this job. Jimmy would have persuaded her to talk. ‘Morag’s been in touch with your parents,’ he said at last. ‘They’re on their way. They’ll come here for you. I’ll wait with you until they get here.’