Ann Cleeves - Thin Air

‘What should I tell the folk in the house?’

‘Tell Eleanor’s man that she’s dead. He deserves that. He can decide whether or not to tell the rest of them. If Mary Lomax is back on the island, get her to sit in with them.’ Mary was the North Isles community police officer, middle-aged, motherly and perfect for the job. She’d grown up in Glasgow, but had taken to island life immediately. Apart from the accent, you’d have her down as a native Shetlander.

Sandy phoned Mary. She said she was back in Unst and that she’d be at Sletts in half an hour. Then he turned his mobile to silent and hesitated, rehearsing in his mind the words that he would use to tell the Englishman with his square face and his hard eyes that his wife was dead. When he walked through the door they all stared at him and his mouth went dry.

‘Could I have a word outside, please, Mr Longstaff?’ Speaking slowly so the man would understand his accent. Knapping.

He expected questions, a refusal to comply, but Longstaff stood up and followed him onto the deck. As they left the house the other couple continued to stare at him in silence.

‘They’ve found her.’ It wasn’t a question. Sandy nodded. ‘Is she dead?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Sandy was about to offer his condolences, say those words that always sounded false to him, even though he meant them, but Longstaff interrupted. ‘I knew she must be. She wouldn’t have gone like that. Not all night without a word. She’d know that I’d be worried. It’s been a difficult time, but we loved each other. In a way that other people can’t understand.’ He looked up. ‘Can I see her?’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Sandy said. ‘But maybe just not yet.’

There was a sound of a car coming down the track. Mary Lomax climbed out. She hadn’t taken time to change into her uniform, was wearing tracksuit bottoms and an elderly fleece that smelled of her collie. She’d taken on a small croft to work in her spare time. Sandy waved at her, felt the kind of relief that had always marked the end of the school term for him.

‘I’m sure that you’ve urgent things to be doing, Sandy. I can look after things here now.’ She put her arm around Ian Longstaff’s shoulder. Sandy expected him to push her away, but he curved his head towards her and clung onto her as she led him inside.

Perez was waiting on the hill, a good distance from the body with his back to it. He’d sent everyone else away and was looking south. The land sloped down towards Springfield, the old laird’s house that had been turned into a hotel. Sandy knew better than to approach the crime scene and stayed where he was, by the fence. He thought this must be hard for his boss. Another dead woman, much the same age as Fran had been. He never knew what to say to Jimmy Perez these days, or whether he could say anything to make him feel better.

‘James Grieve will fly in on the last flight from Aberdeen.’ The words shouted because he was still a distance away. And that seemed to work, because Perez gave him a smile and walked towards him.

‘I’m hoping to get the Chief Inspector in this evening too.’

‘Who have you asked?’

‘Willow Reeves.’

Sandy gave a little smile at the name. ‘Would you like me to stay here to keep the walkers and gawpers away?’ He didn’t mind dead people. He couldn’t offend them.

‘Nah, I’ll do it – I’ve called in reinforcements from Lerwick.’ Sandy thought Perez liked the idea of a silent vigil. He had turned in the other direction now and was staring out over the water. Maybe he needed the time on his own. ‘Find us some accommodation, would you, Sandy? We can’t be traipsing back to Lerwick every night. See if you can find somewhere big enough for us all. Didn’t I read that Springfield House has new owners? It might be worth trying there.’

So Sandy was back in his car driving away from Meoness and the few miles to the big house further south. Springfield had been empty for years until an English couple had turned up to renovate it. The house had a special place in Shetland mythology because it was where Peerie Lizzie had been living when she drowned.

When Sandy arrived one of the owners was showing a family into his car. He was still standing at the door, the keys in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’ He was in late middle age and a shock of grey hair stuck up at the front, like the crest of a bird, giving him a comical, cartoonish appearance.

Sandy explained who he was and that he needed as many rooms as the hotel could provide.

‘I’m just about to drop these people at the ferry. Is that OK? Call into the bar and ask Billy to make you a coffee or a sandwich and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. My partner’s out for the afternoon.’ His voice was deep and somehow familiar.

The bar was reached from a courtyard at the back of the house. Once it had been a stable or a garage. Sandy had seen pictures in the museum of the house in Peerie Lizzie’s day – grand men and women in fancy clothes, arrived from the south for a week of fishing and shooting. Perhaps this was where they kept the rods and the guns. Inside the bar Billy Jamieson was polishing glasses. Sandy had done him for drunk driving about a year before, but the man didn’t seem to bear a grudge. ‘Sandy, what can I do for you? Is this work or pleasure?’

‘Work.’ No details, though news would get out soon enough. Had probably got out already and Billy was just fishing for more information. ‘I’m here to book some accommodation, but your boss is away to the ferry with some guests. He said to give me a coffee and a sandwich while I wait.’

Billy nodded, played with the coffee machine and disappeared into a small kitchen at the back, only sticking his head round briefly to ask if ham would do because they didn’t have much else left.

‘I’m starving,’ Sandy said. ‘I’d eat you in a sandwich, if there was enough mustard to go with it.’ He sat at the bar with his coffee. The room was empty apart from a couple of foreign tourists in a corner and a local man nursing a pint. ‘What are they like to work for then?’

Billy understood what the question was about. A couple of gay men taking over the place had been a topic of conversation all over the islands. Nothing too unpleasant – Shetlanders considered themselves above prejudice these days. But a lot of interest and a few unfunny jokes. He shrugged. ‘Fine enough. David’s a good cook and he does most of the work. Charlie’s the front man.’

And on cue the owner appeared at the door, a silhouette against the sunlight outside. He walked in smiling, his hand outstretched. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Charles Hillier.’ As if the name was important, as if Sandy should recognize it. And something did stir in his memory: Saturday-night television in his grandmother Mima’s house in Whalsay. He and his brother there for a sleepover because his parents were away. Some variety theatre or game show, and the three of them laughing because the humour was the sort that bairns could enjoy too. Now he felt awkward because the memory was so sketchy, but the man obviously thought he was still famous. Sandy decided it was best to stick to the business in hand. He’d look the hotelier up on Google later.

‘We’ll have a team based in Unst for a few days at least. Could you provide some rooms for us? Bedrooms and maybe a meeting room.’

If Hillier was disappointed not to be recognized he didn’t show it now, but switched into professional mode, leading Sandy into the main house and showing him into bedrooms, throwing open doors with the air of a conjuror. He was flamboyant, a showman. In his head Sandy was counting up what all this would cost and was wondering what Jimmy Perez would say. ‘Would there be a discount? As we’ll be taking so many of your rooms?’