Ann Cleeves - Dead Water

‘He gave me a message for you.’ Sandy broke in before she could continue. He could tell she was all set for a good rant, and he still had to get to Ravenswick.

‘And what was that, Sandy? What words of wisdom did he ask you to pass on?’ Willow leaned back in her seat, her arms folded across her chest. Sandy decided she was probably being sarcastic, but he thought he would answer the question anyway. His best mate’s parents had separated when he was a peerie boy and for the first time Sandy understood what it must have felt like to be caught in the crossfire between warring adults.

‘Jimmy said you should get in touch with Evie Watt. He said you should check that she was OK.’

‘He thinks Rhona Laing is going after Evie now?’ Willow’s voice had turned high-pitched, almost hysterical.

‘I don’t know,’ Sandy said. ‘I’m just passing on the message.’

‘Evie’s in Fetlar with her parents.’ For the first time a touch of anxiety had moderated her fury. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘I think so. But that was what Jimmy asked me to tell you.’

There was a moment’s silence. Sandy could see that the inspector was thinking. She had one of those faces that were almost transparent. It was as if you could see the thoughts behind her eyes, passing like clouds across the sky on a windy day.

‘What else did Jimmy Perez ask you to do?’ Her voice was calmer now and quieter.

‘He said I should go to the Ravenswick Hotel and talk to Maria. He said I should ask her three questions.’

He thought Willow would ask him what those questions were and had started to rehearse them in his head. But she only looked at him with those sharp blue eyes.

‘You’d better get along then, Sandy. Let me know how you get on.’

The Ravenswick Hotel was busy. There was a big party in the restaurant, a birthday, and the guests were getting rowdy. Not unpleasant drunk, but noisy, lingering over coffee and drams. There were helium balloons, which had started to deflate, and a half-eaten cake with pink icing. The other diners had moved on to the lounge and the bar, and perhaps because there were so many people around, Maria was helping out. Sandy couldn’t see Peter, but assumed that he was there too.

Maria was taking an order for coffee from a party of elderly tourists sitting in old leather chairs in a corner of the lounge. She looked very smart in a black dress and black tights, shiny shoes with pointy heels. Sandy thought she’d lost weight and that the dress looked better on her now than it would have done a couple of weeks ago.

He stood at the door and watched her until she’d finished writing the order. She didn’t see him until she was making her way back to the kitchen, then she stopped in her tracks.

‘Sandy. You have some news for me?’ He could see then that the dress and the efficient taking of orders, the smile for the tourists, were all a show. Her face was pale and drawn. She walked on without waiting for a reply. Suddenly, he thought, she found the laughter from the restaurant, the noise from the bar, even the muted classical music playing in the lounge unbearable. He followed her through the swing door into the kitchen. She handed the slip of paper on which she’d written the order to one of the staff and led Sandy on, past the sinks and the fridges to a small storeroom. She leaned against the wall, next to a huge drum of vegetable oil. ‘Well?’

‘No news,’ Sandy said. ‘Not tonight. But we’re very close. Tomorrow we should have something for you.’ Even as he spoke the words he wondered if he was being rash, if his faith in Jimmy Perez was misplaced.

‘So why are you here, Sandy? What is this about?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said, ‘but I have some questions. Important questions.’

‘Go on then, Sandy.’ Her voice was impatient. ‘What is it this time?’

For an instant his mind went blank and he had a moment of panic when he thought he would never remember what Jimmy had told him. Then it came back. ‘You cut a piece from the Shetland Times about Evie’s engagement to John Henderson. Did you tell Jerry about that?’

‘I sent him a cutting,’ she said. ‘We take a dozen copies of the paper here in the hotel for the guests. It was a kind of joke. I wrote in the margin. Something like: Look who she’s ended up with! ’ Maria stared at him. ‘What could that have to do with Jerry dying?’

‘I don’t know.’ The truth. ‘Inspector Perez thought it might be important.’

‘Is there anything else, Sandy? You can see that we’re busy.’

‘Jerry’s car,’ Sandy said. ‘The Alfa. Did you buy it for him? A present for getting that job in London?’

She was so tired now that she didn’t even question why he wanted to know. ‘No. We gave him money for his first six months’ rent. He bought the car for himself.’

It took her longer to answer Sandy’s last question. She grew animated and waved her arms around, and after a little while Sandy had to make an excuse and leave.

In the end Perez left his car at the pier and walked up to Henderson’s house. He went slowly, listening all the time for unusual sounds. Out on the water there was a boat. Boys after creels, perhaps. The first trip out of the season, caught out by the poor visibility and the change in the weather. In his head it felt like midnight, but here in Hvidahus it was seven o’clock. In the Haa, Duncan Hunter would be getting Cassie ready for bed. He would probably forget to read her a story. When he arrived at the Henderson house, Perez paused again and listened. Nothing unusual. He looked at his mobile and saw that he had reception. He made a phone call.

He replayed his search of the Marie-Louise . There’d been nothing on deck. No footwear prints to get Vicki Hewitt excited. Everything tidy. Ropes coiled and the moorings tight. Rhona Laing would be that sort of sailor. Even in a panic she’d follow procedure. Below deck it had been just the same. The cabin was immaculate. No bedding on the bunk, no sleeping bag, so Rhona hadn’t planned to spend a night away. In the small galley Perez had found the same sense of order. Had that neatness first attracted John Henderson? Had he seen in the Fiscal’s compulsive tidiness a sign that he’d found a kindred spirit? Someone quite different from Agnes, with her arty generosity and her exuberance. In the galley Perez had reached out and touched the kettle on the Calor gas hob. It was cold.

He’d flashed the torchlight around the cabin floor, but had seen nothing of interest. It was only as he was preparing to leave, to return to the deck and Sandy Wilson, that he’d glimpsed a scrap of litter, a piece of paper, wedged behind a clock in a wooden case. Not the sort of place it would get to by accident, but perhaps it had been put there to stop the clock rattling. Perez had pulled it out and shone the torch on it. A compliment slip from Jamieson’s, the wool merchant in Lerwick. What had he been expecting? A postcard with a picture of three fiddlers?

Vicki Hewitt had finished her work in the Henderson house and it was locked. There was no light showing through the uncurtained windows. He opened the garage and found a door from the back of it that led into the kitchen. Everything was quiet. He fumbled to find a light switch and the sudden brightness made him blink. All quiet and all tidy. He’d hoped that the Fiscal might have come here. A last chance to mourn her former, secret lover. He’d imagined her brooding, a large whisky in one hand maybe. But it seemed he’d been wrong. Anxiety began to nibble at his brain. He felt his heart rate quicken. He opened doors into all the downstairs rooms. The place felt cold and dead. It was hard to believe that Henderson had been living here less than a week before.