Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

‘But you saw him after that? Once the news of Markham’s murder was out?’ Perez felt impatient and wanted to shift the conversation along.

‘He came here for a late lunch on Sunday. Jen’s idea. She thought Evie would be busy. “Your last lunch with us as a single man.” That was what she said. It was mid-afternoon by the time we ate, because she had to take a shift at the crofting museum.’

Perez remembered Henderson’s car speeding away from the kirk. He’d have been off home to change out of his formal clothes before the meal with his friends. ‘Did you talk about Markham’s death?’

‘Of course! By then the news was all over the island. There was no escaping the gossip. Jen warned me that John might not want to discuss it, but he was like an old woman, wanting all the details.’

‘How did he seem when he talked about Markham?’ Perez asked.

Belshaw hesitated for a moment. ‘It was always hard to tell what John was thinking. He’d seemed preoccupied all lunchtime, but that might have been work. He took his work very seriously. And of course there was the wedding. It occurred to me that he’d be remembering Agnes and wondering if he was doing the right thing. Not last-minute second thoughts, because he loved Evie, but just thinking about the last time he was married. Kind of honouring Agnes’s memory, before moving on.’ He paused. ‘I did think it was odd that he wanted to talk about Markham and the murder. He was never one for gossip, for getting excited about another man’s misfortune.’

‘And that was how he seemed?’ Perez leaned back in his chair. ‘Excited?’

Belshaw seemed to consider. ‘Maybe that’s not the right word,’ he said at last. ‘But John kept coming back to the subject. He wouldn’t let it go. Not while we were eating because the children were there then, but later, when we sent them out to play.’

‘Did he have any theories about Markham’s death? Did he speculate about the motive or the killer?’

‘No.’ Belshaw leaned forward across the table. ‘Nothing like that. He seemed upset, disturbed. “Things like that shouldn’t happen here.” That was what he said.’

‘You hadn’t talked to John about Markham’s murder before then? You don’t know how he came to hear about it?’

‘No. I was working on Saturday. I do the occasional day at the weekend. That was when you came to see me.’ Belshaw drained his mug. ‘I’m glad Jen invited John to lunch on Sunday. She rows in the Aith vets’ rowing team and she should have been at the regatta at St Ninian’s, but there were plenty of volunteers, so she was able to get out of it. It gave us a chance to spend some time together. That was the last time I saw him.’

Perez looked up. ‘Is your wife friendly with Rhona Laing?’

Belshaw shrugged. ‘They row in the same team. They both love being on the water. I don’t think that makes them best mates.’

He got to his feet as his phone rang. It was obviously work-related. Perez couldn’t think of a reason to prolong the interview and waved to indicate that he would see himself out. He pinned his card on the notice board in the kitchen before leaving, mouthing, ‘Give me a ring if you think of anything.’ Belshaw nodded and went back to his call.

Perez stood on the decking out of sight of Belshaw and looked down at Aith. A yacht was leaving the marina. It was white and rather grand and belonged, he guessed, to the Fiscal. So here was another connection. Jen Belshaw rowed with Rhona Laing and might have been the person to find Markham’s body, if circumstances had been different. Perez wondered what Willow Reeves would make of that.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock, probably the busiest time in a school kitchen. He imagined pots boiling on a hob, steam and chaos, assistants to overhear. There was no point in trying to chat to the woman now. But now would be a good time to visit Joe Sinclair, harbour master at Sullom Voe and John Henderson’s boss. He’d be happy enough to make Perez coffee and to chat.

As soon as Perez climbed into his car his mobile rang. Willow Reeves.

‘Jimmy.’ The reception was bad and her voice crackled. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I’ve spoken to the Fiscal,’ he said. He thought that would be the interview that interested her most. ‘And I’ve just finished talking to Andy Belshaw.’

‘Good.’ But she seemed distracted. ‘Can you get back here, Jimmy? As soon as you can. There’s been a development.’

Sandy Wilson had taken the call. Willow Reeves had stuck him in the operations room, his job being to take referrals from the PC answering the emergency line that had been set up. Willow had given instructions that anything interesting or unusual should be put through to him – he had the local knowledge, after all, to weed out the usual weirdos and losers. So he’d sat trapped in the grey featureless room, with the sense that the investigation was continuing elsewhere without him. He’d wished he could be out with Perez.

Willow had stuck her head round the door. ‘I’m just off to the Ravenswick Hotel to chat to Maria Markham. I want to see if she was the woman who met Markham in the Bonhoga.’ And just at that moment the phone rang and the new PC, apologetic as if she hated to disturb Wilson, came on the line: ‘There’s a lass wants to talk to someone. She’s from London. Says she was Markham’s girlfriend. She wants to come up and see where he died.’

Sandy turned to wave at Willow, but she’d already sensed his interest and was back in the room, listening in. He offered her the phone, but she gestured for him to continue the call.

‘Can I help you?’ He made sure his voice was clear. Knapping for the woman on the end of the line.

‘My name is Annabel Grey.’ The woman was young, certainly younger than Markham, Sandy thought. But then Markham had taken a fancy to Evie Watt when she was only just out of school. Perhaps he liked his women that way. She seemed to take a breath before continuing. ‘I’m a student. Final year in Oxford. St Hilda’s. I’ve been away, out of contact, and I’ve only just seen the news. The Shetland murders.’

He wondered where she’d been. She made it sound as if she’d been travelling to far-flung and exotic places. Or to outer space. Cartoon images of spaceships and little green men floated into his mind.

‘I was Jerry’s girlfriend,’ she said suddenly, dragging him back to the matter in hand. It sounded more like a statement from a politician – a mission statement – than a declaration of love. ‘We were going to be married.’ There was a sudden silence, as if she thought there was nothing else to say.

‘When did you last hear from Jerry?’ Sandy asked. He was always happier with facts: dates, times, places. And it must have been the right note to take, because Willow smiled and gave him the thumbs up. Anyone else might have felt patronized by the obvious gesture of support, but Sandy was just relieved that he wasn’t messing up.

‘I spoke to him on the telephone the day before he went north,’ the woman said. There was a clarity in her voice that made Sandy wonder if she was a singer. It was hard to tell what she made of Jerry’s death. It didn’t sound as if she’d been crying, but perhaps she’d made the effort to put on a brave show. ‘After that, as I said, I was away for a few days and he couldn’t get hold of me. But he sent me a postcard. It arrived this morning.’

‘Could you describe the postcard?’ Again Willow beamed at Sandy, like a nursery teacher encouraging a particularly stupid child.

‘It was a reproduction of a painting,’ Annabel said. ‘Three musicians.’ So, Sandy thought, the card was identical to the ones they’d found in Jerry’s briefcase. He must have picked them all up from the Bonhoga at the same time.