Ann Cleeves - Thin Air

The worst time had been straight after she’d graduated. An inner-city public library where youths had gathered round the computers as if they were in an amusement arcade full of gaming machines. Where the reading-group members had demanded edgy contemporary fiction instead of the classics that Polly offered them. Her boss had been a loud woman who despised weakness and pretension and accused Polly of both. She’d had grey teeth and body odour and they’d disliked each other immediately.

It was Eleanor who’d seen the advertisement for the Sentiman job in the Guardian . You like all this strange stuff, Poll. Why don’t you go for it? Another reason to be grateful to her.

They were gathered in Sletts now, and Polly could feel the tension as pressure on her forehead and squeezing against her eyes. Mary Lomax was no longer camping out with them, but the three felt constrained, choosing every word carefully as if there was still someone listening in. The landline rang. For a moment they stared at it. Were they expecting another message from the dead Eleanor? Polly reached out and answered it. It was Caroline, her voice normal, almost cheery. Again it seemed strange to Polly that Caroline could be so cool and restrained when her best friend was dead. ‘Grusche wonders if you’d like to come to dinner here in Voxter? Get you all out of the house for a bit.’

Walking down the track towards the hall they found that they were chatting freely for the first time all day. About Willow and Perez, what odd police officers they were and nothing like the detectives you’d find in London, comparing notes on the interviews in Springfield House. And about Eleanor. Snatches of anecdote and pieced-together memories of the times they’d spent together. Even Ian seemed to be able to escape his anger for a moment. At one point in the conversation he stopped in the middle of the road. ‘The thing about Eleanor was that she could be so sodding annoying.’ Marcus and Polly gave a surprised laugh of agreement and they all continued on their way.

Walking past the houses, the old, apparently derelict croft and the new-build family home, Polly was tempted to say something about the little girl. I think Nell’s ghost lives in one of these. I saw her playing on the beach. Not a ghost at all. But in the end she stayed silent. It would have felt disrespectful to Eleanor’s memory, and she didn’t want to remind the others that the last hour they’d shared with their friend had been odd and a little embarrassing. She sneaked a look in through the windows as she went past, though. Still it was impossible to see anything through the mucky glass of the old house; she thought there might be a faint warm light in the corner of the room – the embers of a fire perhaps. And, looking at the chimney, there was a drift of smoke, the smell of peat. No other sign of life.

There was more washing on the line of the new house. Casual women’s clothes and a row of baby jumpsuits and tiny cardigans. Nothing that might belong to a girl aged about ten. A pushchair stood in the front porch. Polly lingered while the others walked on. It was still a fine day and the window was open. From inside the house came the sound of a radio playing country music, then of a baby crying and a woman’s soothing voice.

In the Malcolmsons’ kitchen there was the smell of meat cooking, and Polly was sure there’d be the awkwardness of reminding everyone that she was vegetarian and then a scramble while they found something she could eat. The inevitable omelette or lump of old cheese. But it seemed that Caroline and Lowrie had explained, and Grusche pulled out of the oven an open tart with leeks and mushrooms and home-grown chives, which she left to stand on top of the Rayburn while drinks were poured and the table was laid.

For a while during the meal Eleanor wasn’t mentioned at all. Ian and George were drinking steadily, both intent, Polly thought, on getting drunk. All she knew of George was that he’d once been a lightkeeper. Lowrie had talked of growing up with the ritual of his father disappearing for four weeks out of eight. ‘The Lighthouse Board flew him out to Muckle Flugga in the helicopter and sometimes the weather was so wild that he couldn’t get home.’

‘That must have been tough,’ she’d said. She and Lowrie were both only children, and her father had doted on her. She’d looked forward to him coming home each day from the factory where he was a supervisor, the sound of his key in the door. She couldn’t imagine having grown up without him.

‘Not at all.’ Lowrie had laughed. ‘My mother spoilt me rotten. And it wasn’t so unusual then. Lots of kids’ parents were at sea or worked on the rigs. It was almost easier when he was away. He’s found it hard to adjust to life with more than two other people. If he seems a bit odd just now, that’s the reason for it.’

Polly wondered if George had developed the habit of heavy drinking when he worked on the rock. There’d surely be no drink allowed in the lighthouse, so perhaps he’d made up for it when he was at home and that had formed a ritual too. Lowrie’s parents seemed a strange couple to her. Grusche was cultured. She knew about books and films and talked about her weekly treat – a trip to the matinee movie at the Mareel arts centre in Lerwick. ‘It’s not all blockbusters from the US, you know. We get our share of art house too. I can’t wait until I’m a pensioner and then I’ll get a free cup of tea at the afternoon viewings.’ George seemed entirely absorbed by the work of the croft and had no interest in any life away from the islands. It had always been Grusche who’d come to visit Lowrie when he’d been at university, dragging him off to plays and art exhibitions, exhausting him with her energy. Polly could only remember seeing George once. He’d been there for Lowrie’s graduation, uncomfortable in an old suit that didn’t quite fit, while Grusche had been splendid in a dress that she’d made herself. And as soon as the ceremony was over George had taken them all to a pub and stood a round of drinks for the whole crowd. Her own parents had stood awkwardly beside her; it had been the first time they’d been in a bar for years.

It was Grusche who first brought up the subject of Eleanor’s murder. ‘You’re very lucky to have Jimmy Perez working on the case. He’s a good man. I knew his girlfriend, Fran. She was a fine painter.’ The table fell silent and everyone looked at her. She seemed not to notice, though, and began to clear the plates. Then she paused. ‘Of course Jimmy will understand what pain you’re going through. Fran was murdered too.’

Then there was another silence until Grusche dished out the pudding, a fool made with rhubarb from the garden and Shetland cream, and Marcus shifted the mood by beginning one of his stories – this one about walking through the desert in the Yemen with an elderly American botanist.

Polly tuned out Marcus and watched the others instead. She’d heard the story before and she’d always been an observer. This felt like a traditional family meal, with George and Grusche as the parents. It occurred to Polly for the first time that most of her friends had been only children, in one way or another. Caroline had a much younger sister, and Eleanor had half-brothers whom she rarely saw, but Marcus and Ian had no siblings. Like her. We made our own family. She wondered what relevance that might have had to Eleanor’s murder.

Time moved on, but outside it was still light. Grusche made coffee and the men used that as an excuse to get out the whisky. They’d shifted seats so that they were all at one end of the table, the bottle between them. Polly caught Marcus’s eye and he winked at her. She wondered if he saw this tragedy as just another of his adventures, a story he’d tell to his customers when they’d made camp in the mountains somewhere and were sitting around the fire as darkness fell. A tale about the time he went north to celebrate a wedding and ended up as a suspect in a murder inquiry. Because she realized now that they were all suspects.