Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

In the end Markham’s girlfriend approached them. She came straight towards them after coming down the narrow corridor from the tarmac – no bag to collect, just a small rucksack over her shoulder. And beside her walked a tall, distinguished man. Grey-haired, tanned from a winter holiday in the sun. Or skiing. Willow thought he might be a skier. He carried a leather holdall.

‘You must be Sandy.’ The woman spoke as if he was the only one that mattered, as if Willow was quite invisible.

And Sandy blushed and muttered that he was. He’d become a schoolboy again because this woman was startlingly beautiful, film-star lovely. Tall and blonde with a wide mouth and a slender body, and Sandy wasn’t sure how to respond to her at all. Her eyes were red from crying.

‘I’m Annabel Grey.’ She held out her hand. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear, an actress’s voice, and Willow expected everyone in the airport to turn and listen to her, was surprised to look round and see that there was no reaction. ‘And this is my father.’

‘Richard Grey.’ He held out a hand. The voice defined him. Public school , Willow thought. Then Oxbridge . He’s a politician . Or an actor . No , a lawyer . Because that was the impression he gave, walking beside his student daughter. That he was there as her advocate rather than as her father.

Annabel was wearing city clothes: a floral knee-length dress, black tights, black pumps and only a short grey jacket to keep out the Shetland cold. In London perhaps summer had already arrived.

Willow introduced herself. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer in the case.’ Needing some recognition from this woman who seemed bent on ignoring her. Despite herself, the inspector resented the effect the visitor was having on Sandy Wilson.

‘So you’re in charge?’ Annabel said. ‘You’ll find out who killed Jerry and the other man?’

There was, Willow thought, something childlike about her directness. No guile or pretence.

‘Yes,’ Willow said. ‘I will.’

The woman stared at her for a moment before giving a brief, approving nod. ‘You see, Dad. I said it was right to come.’

They drove to the police station in silence. Willow switched up the heating in the car, worried that the girl would be cold, and found herself almost nodding off; she’d never been able to think clearly in the heat. Sandy, driving, was still tongue-tied and awe-struck. Willow sat beside him in the passenger seat, leaving father and daughter to take their places in the back. The woman, poised and apparently unemotional now, despite the sign of earlier tears, looked out of the window at the passing landscape. She spoke just once when they passed a brown tourist sign pointing to the Ravenswick Hotel.

‘Isn’t that where Jerry grew up, where his parents live?’

Sandy slowed the car so that she could see the grand house and the walled garden, but Annabel Grey made no further comment on the place. ‘What a lovely setting!’ the father said. He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her to him.

Willow thought Jerry’s women had this in common: a lack of hysteria, a dignity in grief. Evie Watt hadn’t cried either, when she’d learned of John Henderson’s death. Not in public at least.

She took Annabel and Richard Grey into her office, the office that had belonged to Jimmy Perez, not to the interview room. That was hard and impersonal. It didn’t smell of offenders, but still the ghosts of the addicts and the drunks somehow lingered there. And perhaps because she was using his space, she asked Jimmy, not Sandy, to sit in on the discussion. Sandy would find it hard to get beyond the woman’s beauty. Perez was still so caught up in his own loss that he would scarcely notice it.

Annabel Grey was determined to tell her own story in her own way. She opened the conversation as soon as she took a seat.

‘I want to see Jerry. Would that be possible, do you think?’

‘His body’s not here.’ Perez answered before Willow could reply. ‘It’s gone to Aberdeen for the postmortem.’ He paused. ‘The pathologist there is very good. Very respectful.’

It was clear that the woman was disappointed, shocked even. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

‘You see, sweetheart. I said that was how it would be.’ Richard Grey patted his daughter’s hand as it lay on the table. He looked up at Willow. ‘I’m a barrister. Not in criminal practice, but I do have some understanding of the procedures.’ The charming smile that was also a warning: Don’t mess with me. Willow gave herself a mental pat on the back for guessing his profession, before thinking that this was an added complication she didn’t need.

‘I loved him.’ For the first time Annabel’s voice broke a little, but there was still the childish intonation. They sat in silence for a moment. Willow thought Perez might offer a word of sympathy, but when he spoke it was a question, blunt and matter-of-fact.

‘Where did you meet Jerry Markham?’

That was all the encouragement Annabel needed to begin her story. Willow thought she had turned it into a legend, polished it by retelling, not just to her friends in her smart university, but to herself. ‘It was in December, and I was home for the Christmas vacation. In the breaks I do some voluntary work – a regular commitment, started when I was still at school. I’ve been lucky in so many ways, and it’s important to put something back. Don’t you think so?’

Annabel looked up at them, but her father was the only person to respond, patting her hand again.

Left to herself, Willow would have urged the girl to continue more quickly, but Perez was content to wait. She hadn’t seen him so still. Willow had heard about his legendary patience, but this was the first time she’d seen it in action. At last Annabel continued: ‘This year there was an advent course in St Luke’s, the church on the square close to where we live. Beside other things, I helped out with that.’

‘Advent course?’ Now Willow couldn’t help interrupting. She felt a nerve in her ankle twitching. She’d been sitting still for too long.

‘For people looking for answers,’ Annabel said. ‘An introduction to the spiritual life.’

‘And Jerry was running a story about it?’

‘No!’ Annabel smiled. ‘He was one of the participants. At first he couldn’t take us seriously. I could tell. He was there for a joke or a bet. Or perhaps for a story. Yes, perhaps that’s why he turned up that cold December day. Or because it was raining and at least there’d be some shelter and lunch and coffee. But in fact, of course, he was sent to us. He needed to be there.’

Oh, shit, she’s a God-botherer! Another. As if there aren’t enough already in this case. Willow’s parents had been Buddhists in a vague, undemanding way, and she’d rejected all ideas of the supernatural before leaving school, had become an aggressive atheist. Another form of rebellion.

Annabel continued to speak. ‘He fought it of course. People often do. But that made it even more wonderful when he finally let the Lord into his life. He’d been so certain, so antagonistic, and then all the barriers were down. It was a privilege to be a part of the process.’

‘And now he’s dead.’ Willow couldn’t help herself.

‘And now he’s dead,’ Annabel agreed seriously. ‘Faith isn’t always an easy path.’

‘You think he was killed because he was a Christian?’ Willow made no attempt to keep the incredulity from her voice. In her head she had an image of Annabel at worship: a congregation of like-minded deluded souls, eyes half-closed, waving their arms in the air. Mad as snakes, but hardly a threat, hardly likely to provoke violence, just extreme irritation. She wondered if the girl’s father was a church member too. Willow found it hard to imagine. Richard Grey seemed too sophisticated to be part of that scene.