Ann Cleeves: Dead Water

‘Is Cassie in bed?’ Sandy didn’t want to start talking about bodies and murder if the girl was listening in.

‘She’s staying with her father,’ Perez said.

Duncan Hunter, who’d been the wild boy of the islands, living in his huge inherited house on the voe at Brae. Duncan Hunter, ex-husband of Fran. Ex-best friend of Jimmy Perez.

Perez went on. ‘It’s the last weekend of the school holidays. She’ll not have much chance to spend time with him for a few months. And you know what Duncan’s like. He’s always away south on some money-making scheme. I thought it best to catch him while he’s here. Cassie should know her father.’

‘And it’ll give you a bit of time to yourself.’ Sandy wondered if Perez would invite him in and offer him a dram or a beer. Jimmy had never been much of a drinker, but when Fran had been alive there’d always been beer in the fridge.

‘I miss her,’ Perez said. ‘Desperately.’ And Sandy wasn’t sure if he was talking about Cassie or Fran now. He shuffled his feet and looked out at the sea. ‘What do you want?’ Perez said. ‘I’m not really up for entertaining. I’m not the best sort of company these days.’

Sandy thought there was a hint of self-pity in his voice and perhaps work was the best thing for him at the moment. ‘This isn’t a social call,’ he said and was surprised at how sharply the words came out.

Perez stared at him. Sandy had always been his most sympathetic colleague. Perez had always stood up for Sandy, and now it was Sandy’s turn to defend him. ‘You’d best come in then.’

The house was much as it had been in Fran’s day. There were her paintings on the wall alongside Cassie’s. A big photo of the three of them hung over the fire. The woman was laughing in it, her head thrown back, and Sandy felt tears come to his eyes. Fran Hunter had always been kind to him.

‘Tea?’ Perez asked. ‘I don’t keep alcohol in the house. I don’t trust myself with it.’

‘Tea’s fine.’ Sandy watched Perez reach for the mug and fetch milk from the fridge. ‘There’s been a murder,’ he said. ‘The Fiscal found a body in one of the racing yoals in Aith Marina. You know she rows with the older women.’ He waited for a response. The old Jimmy would have raised his eyebrows at that and made a crack about the Fiscal and the time she spent on the water.

But today Perez set the mug of tea carefully on the table and turned to face Sandy.

‘I’m on the sick,’ he said. ‘Not fit for that kind of work.’

‘No point wasting your time then.’ Sandy got out of his seat and made for the door. ‘The Iron Maiden wants me in Aith, in the hope I can make an identification. You know what she’s like if you make her wait. I thought you should know, that’s all. I thought it would be…’ he struggled to find the right word ‘… courteous to tell you.’

Again Perez seemed surprised, though not angry or annoyed. Sandy didn’t usually stand up to him. Sandy didn’t usually stand up to anyone. And these days anger seemed to be Jimmy’s default emotion.

‘I’m sorry.’ Perez shook his head. An attempt to think more clearly? Or an expression of a kind of despair? Then, after a moment, ‘It was good of you to come and let me know.’

Sandy hovered for a moment on the doorstep. The lighthouse at Raven’s Head had been lit and the beam swung across his head. He wondered if at the last moment Perez would change his mind and be tempted to drive with him up to Aith. He’d be curious, surely. Curiosity had always driven Jimmy forward to see cases through. And for a moment Perez did seem tempted.

‘Who are they sending from Inverness?’ he asked.

‘A woman.’ Sandy felt lighter, more eager. ‘Some woman with a strange name. But we’ve got the night to sort it out before she gets here.’

‘Good luck with that then.’ And Perez backed into the house and shut the door. He turned on the light inside, and through the window Sandy saw his shoulders hunched over the kitchen table, his head low over his mug of tea, so that he looked like an old man. It was as if Perez had briefly felt himself coming to life again and didn’t like the feeling. It hurt him too much.

By the time Sandy arrived at Aith it was fully dark. It had taken longer than he’d expected because there was a hennie bus on the narrow road between Bixter and Aith and it had gone slowly. Once it stopped to let out a lass to be sick on the verge. The girl had her leg tied to her friend’s, as if they were competing in a three-legged race, and it had taken an age for the two of them to get down the steps. Any other time and Sandy would have been amused. Hen parties on the island were always good value. But tonight he was annoyed and leaned on his horn until the bus pulled in and let him past.

In Aith there was a constable at the entrance to the marina, who recognized his car and waved him through. Sandy had expected the Fiscal to be at home, but she was still at the scene, wearing blue jeans and a cagoule, a knitted hat over her immaculate hair. They’d switched on the lights in the marina and everything looked washed out and pale, except the water, which was black and oily. Rhona Laing came up to him as soon as he climbed out of his car.

‘It was good of you to make it, Sergeant.’ Her voice acid, all trace of the earlier compassion gone.

‘I went to see Jimmy Perez,’ he said. ‘I thought it was a courtesy.’ He was proud of the new-found word.

She hesitated. ‘He didn’t want to come along then?’

‘He didn’t feel up to it.’ Sandy paused too. ‘A pity. It could be just what he needs. Something to take his mind off things and get him out of the house.’ The Fiscal didn’t answer and he went on. ‘I spoke to Inverness, and they’re sending a team on the first flight tomorrow. I’ll collect them from the airport and bring them straight here. Morag is sorting out accommodation. There’s a new inspector.’ He was going to add that it was a woman with a strange name, but thought better of it. He knew Rhona Laing wouldn’t consider that relevant. He wondered what the women would make of each other and smiled in the gloom at the possibilities of a power-play. It would be good to have someone else as the target of the Fiscal’s sharp tongue.

‘This way.’ The Fiscal led him along the jetty to one of the moorings. They’d put a screen at the end of the pier to stop prying eyes, and a piece of tarpaulin hid the body in the yoal. Davy Cooper, a uniformed sergeant, lifted one end and shone a torch so that Sandy could see.

‘He’s kind of familiar,’ Davy said. ‘But I can’t put a name to him. I’ve opened the briefcase, but I couldn’t find an ID. I didn’t want to look in his pockets until the CSI gets here tomorrow morning.’

Sandy looked down at a man in his early thirties, who was dressed in jeans that would have cost him a couple of days’ wages. ‘It’s Jerry Markham,’ he said. There was shock to see him dead, though no sense of bereavement. They’d been distant cousins, but never had enough in common to be friends. ‘His folk run the Ravenswick Hotel. He worked as a journalist on The Shetland Times until he went south to make his fortune. I didn’t know he was home.’

‘Of course it’s Markham,’ Cooper said. ‘Now you say, I can see his mother in him.’

But Sandy wasn’t listening. He was looking at the Fiscal, who seemed suddenly even whiter in the unforgiving lights. ‘Did you know him, Ma’am?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know his name of course, but we’ve never met.’ She looked away from the body. ‘It’s getting cold, and I’ve not eaten. If you need me, you can find me at home.’ She began to walk away, but just as she reached a patch of shadow she turned back to them. ‘Will you inform the family?’