Ann Cleeves: Dead Water

Sandy nodded.

‘The press will be here as soon as the news gets out,’ she said. ‘They’re always interested in one of their own. We’ll keep the identity to ourselves for as long as we can, Sergeant, so I’d appreciate a bit of discretion when you arrive at the hotel.’

‘Would you like to tell Peter and Maria yourself?’ The last thing Sandy wanted was a drive back to Ravenswick, and the hotel was the smartest in the islands. He always felt out of place there. He imagined that the Fiscal would be a regular in the restaurant.

‘That’s hardly my role, Sergeant.’ She was already moving away from him, and by the end of the sentence the darkness had swallowed her up.

On the drive back to Ravenswick, Sandy ran through the things he knew about Jerry Markham in his head. Markham was a bit older than Sandy, though he’d still been at the Anderson High while Sandy was there. One of the fashionable boys. Editor of the school magazine. Star of the school play. He’d gone away to university and come back to write on the Shetland Times , got bored and miserable and moved south again. Now he wrote for one of those big London papers that had serious stories, and sport only on the back pages. Sandy’s mother had been full of that when Jerry had got the job, and whenever his name was on an article she clipped it out to wave under Sandy’s nose when he went home.

The parents were Peter and Maria Markham. Maria was a Shetland wife. She’d grown up in Northmavine. Peter was an incomer, what Shetlanders called a soothmoother.

What had Peter Markham worked at before they bought up the Ravenswick Hotel? Sandy couldn’t bring it to mind, but thought it was something to do with oil. Then he remembered that there was a military connection: Markham had been stationed at the air-force base in Unst and that’s when he’d met Maria. When he’d left the services he’d flown helicopters from Scatsta out to the rigs. The Ravenswick had been rundown before the Markhams took it over. It had been a laird’s house, built in the eighteenth century, huge and solid and right on the water. Now it was completely refurbished and called itself Shetland’s only country-house hotel. Fran and Jimmy had taken him for a meal there to celebrate their engagement. Only in the bar, but it still seemed awful expensive to Sandy. The food had been good, though, and if Sandy had a woman that he really wanted to impress, he’d take her there at lunchtime when there was a set menu and it didn’t cost so much.

Sandy realized he’d reached Perez’s house and was on the edge of the settlement of Ravenswick. There were still lights on in the old chapel, but the curtains were drawn. Perhaps Jimmy kept the light on now when he went to sleep. Perhaps, like a bairn, he got nightmares in the dark. Or perhaps he was sitting up awake, staring into the fire.

There was a fire lit in the entrance to the hotel. Peat that you could smell all the way from the car park. Stuart Brodie was on reception. Sandy had been at school with him too. The bar was full of residents drinking coffee or taking a dram after their dinners. The reception was all dark wood, with the smell of beeswax.

‘Are Peter and Maria around?’ Sandy leaned across the polished desk so that he was close to Brodie and didn’t have to shout to make himself heard.

‘They’ve just gone up to the flat.’ Brodie was conscientious. A bit dull; he had no curiosity at all. ‘Is it something I can help with? I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’

‘Point me in the right direction and I’ll find my own way,’ Sandy said. ‘Don’t ring them.’ He took the grand staircase to the first floor and then a smaller staircase until he reached a door marked ‘Private’. He knocked a couple of times, then at last he heard footsteps on the other side and it opened.

Peter Markham was still dressed for work in a suit, though he’d taken off the tie and there was a glass in his hand. His hair was turning grey, but he was still fit. He didn’t come across to Sandy as an old man.

‘Can I help you?’ He seemed a little irritated by the interruption, but he wasn’t rude. Perhaps guests often knocked on his door to complain or ask for help and, given the prices they were paying, Peter Markham couldn’t afford to lose his temper.

Sandy introduced himself and the man stood aside. ‘What is it, Sergeant? Has one of our guests been misbehaving?’ He didn’t recognize Sandy, but then his wife had dozens of distant relatives.

Sandy followed him through to a large sitting room. Once these might have been servants’ quarters, but this end of the attic had been knocked into a large space and painted white. The polished wood floors of the hotel were here too, and there was a blue patterned rug near the wood-burning stove. Sandy thought it would be a bit chilly in the winter. He preferred a carpet. On a shelf near the stove was a sculpture of a gannet, almost life-size, made of driftwood. Sandy found himself staring at it. How had the artist made it look as if it was about to dive?

Maria Markham was slouched in a low armchair. She’d changed into a dressing gown, nothing glamorous, but the sort Sandy’s mother might wear, fleecy and comfortable. She was staring at the television; Sandy suspected it had been switched on to help her relax, not because she was interested in the programme. There was a drink on the table beside her. Maria knew him at once. They were related in the way of the islands, remotely – she was a kind of aunt by marriage – and, growing up, he’d met her occasionally at weddings and funerals. She’d always been on her own; her husband and son had never accompanied her. And since she and Peter had taken on the Ravenswick, Sandy hadn’t seen her at family events at all.

She stood up, pulling her dressing gown around her, a little embarrassed to be caught like this, dressed so informally. ‘Sandy! How lovely!’ It didn’t seem to occur to her that he might be here in a professional capacity. He thought she’d put on weight. Her chin was soft and fleshy. ‘What would you like to drink? You’ll take a dram with us? Were you downstairs earlier? We were so busy that I didn’t see you. The place is full of folk here supervising the new gas terminal up the island. Good for business, but if it lasts, we’ll need to get more staff. And the fog meant that the Edinburgh plane didn’t go, so some of our guests were stranded for an extra night.’

‘I’m here about Jerry,’ he said.

‘He’s not back,’ she replied. ‘He’s working. We’re expecting him at any time. Why don’t you wait? He’ll love to catch up with you.’

Her husband, though, seemed to sense that this wasn’t a social call. He stood behind his wife and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Jerry’s dead.’ Sandy had broken tragic news a few times now and found that it didn’t get any easier. Those words were so brutal that he felt as if he was killing the man again, but there was no gentle way to do it. Best that there was no doubt, no room for hope.

The couple stared at him. It was as if they were frozen. ‘What do you mean?’ Maria said at last. ‘He’s here in Shetland. He’ll be back any minute.’

‘No.’ Sandy wished he was better with words. With people. ‘His body was found in Aith. I saw it for myself.’

‘Was it that bloody car?’ Markham said. ‘He drove it like a maniac.’

‘No.’ Sandy’s brain scrambled to understand the implication of the words. Of course Jerry would have brought a car to the island. They’d have to trace it. He should already have started a search – Perez would have done that. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘There wasn’t a car accident.’

‘What then?’

Sandy looked at Maria. Tears were running down her cheeks, but still she didn’t move and she made no noise.