Ann Cleeves: Thin Air

He was opening the door when his phone started ringing. Sandy Wilson, his colleague. It was only recently that Perez had started thinking of the man like that. Before that he’d seen Sandy as a boy to be instructed and protected.

‘There’s a woman gone missing in Unst.’ Even now, it seemed, Sandy was incapable of giving detailed information without being prompted.

‘What sort of woman?’ A couple of months ago Perez would have been angry and would have let his irritation show. He could still get moody. Late at night when he couldn’t sleep, eaten away by grief and guilt, he hated the world, but when he made breakfast for Cassie he had to be sane. And, like everything, sanity came more easily with practice.

‘A tourist. Name of Eleanor Longstaff. Aged thirty-six and from Battersea.’ A pause. ‘That’s London. She was staying in a holiday let in Meoness with her husband and another couple. They’d been at Lowrie Malcolmson’s hamefarin’, then went back to the cottage for a few drinks around midnight. The others left Eleanor sitting outside when they went to bed, and when they woke up this morning there was no sign of her. She’d disappeared into thin air.’

Perez considered. ‘Her husband didn’t notice that she hadn’t come to bed?’

‘I did ask that.’ Sandy could be touchy; he was always thinking he was being criticized. ‘He’s a heavy sleeper. And, like I said, they’d all had a bit to drink.’

‘Could she have slept in a spare room? On a sofa? And just gone out this morning?’ In which case there was no reason to panic. Even if they couldn’t find Eleanor in Unst, the ferries would be operating by now. Perhaps she’d just felt the need to be on her own, or the wild hadn’t suited her and she’d run back to the city. Perhaps there’d been a row with the husband. But if she’d disappeared late at night there would be no ferries; no escape from the most northerly island in the UK. In the early hours of the morning a woman who’d been drinking could wander away from the path and lose her way on the cliff. The strange light of the simmer dim could be almost hallucinatory.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Sandy said. ‘I spoke to the husband, Ian. He said she hadn’t been herself lately. She’d been depressed. Something about losing a baby.’

‘He’s thinking she might have committed suicide?’

‘He didn’t say that, but I think it’s on his mind. He sounded upset. He wanted us there straight away.’ Sandy paused. ‘I told him we’d be with them as soon as we could. It’s Mary Lomax’s patch, but she’s away south, so I’ve asked the coastguard to start a search. Was that OK?’

‘Perfect.’ Perez was thinking it was a good day for a trip to the North Isles, clear and still. ‘Book us onto the ferries and I’ll pick you up in Lerwick on the way through.’

The ferry was already at Toft when they arrived and theirs was the second car in the booked lane, waved aboard almost immediately. They drank dreadful coffee from the machine in the passenger lounge, and Perez watched the fulmars flying low over the water. It felt like a day off. Truanting. He looked at his phone and asked Sandy to check his. Reception came and went here, so they might not hear even if the woman had turned up. He hoped that when they arrived at Meoness she would be there. He pictured how she would be, offering them coffee or lunch to make up for their inconvenience. Embarrassed to have caused so much fuss. A little angry with her husband for overreacting. He and Sandy would turn round and drive back to Lerwick, with only half a day wasted. But even when they arrived at Yell and the phones were working again there was still no news. Perez drove north across the island very quickly, feeling a strange sense of urgency. When they got to Gutcher a ferry was pulling out from the pier and they had to wait for the next one to arrive. He could feel the tension mounting in his forehead and across his shoulders. Fran had been thirty-six when she had died.

When they landed at Belmont in Unst a group of children was waiting to board the ferry south. He thought they must be on their way to Lerwick for some end-of-term outing. Some of them were in fancy dress. They giggled as they boarded the coach to take them to Shetland mainland. Perez was going to ask Sandy if he knew what it was about – Sandy read The Shetland Times as avidly as a gossipy woman – but the sergeant had a map open on his knee, concentrating on getting them there, and Perez thought it better not to interrupt.

The holiday house was long and low and whitewashed, and sat right on a beach with a crescent of sand and pebbles at its back. Once perhaps it had been a croft house with a byre attached, but the renovations had been well done, with the holiday market in mind. There was wooden decking between the house and the beach and a couple sat there, waiting. Perez looked at them as he got out of the car. The woman was skinny and pale. An interesting angular face, which Fran would have wanted to draw. Long hair tied back at her neck. Jeans and a cotton jumper. She walked out to greet them. ‘Is there any news? Ian has taken the car out to look for her, but that was ages ago and we haven’t heard anything since.’ Her eyes were grey and slanted like a cat’s. She had a faint north-of-England accent.

Perez introduced himself.

‘Polly Gilmour. This is my partner, Marcus Wentworth.’

‘And you were staying here with Mr and Mrs Longstaff.’

‘Yes, we came for Lowrie and Caroline’s wedding party. The four of us thought we’d make a holiday out of it, a kind of retreat.’ The eyes were almost unblinking.

‘Did Mrs Longstaff need a retreat?’ Perez had reached the deck and took a wooden chair on the other side of the table from Marcus. Sandy leaned against the wall of the house and tried to look inconspicuous.

There was a silence. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of question they were expecting.

‘I mean,’ Perez said, ‘was there any reason why she might have taken herself away? If she’d been going through a bad time?’

Polly hesitated. ‘She had a miscarriage late in pregnancy,’ she said. ‘She’s been a bit low lately and had a spell in hospital. Ian thought it would help her to get away from London.’

For a while Perez didn’t speak. He’d been married before he met Fran, and his wife had suffered three miscarriages. He’d been devastated by each one, but determined to hold himself together. Sarah had thought him uncaring and had walked away from the marriage.

‘Is Eleanor still seeing a doctor for the depression?’

Polly shook her head. ‘She signed herself out of hospital and has refused treatment since. She said it was natural to feel sad at the loss of a child; you’d be ill if you didn’t. And she’s been much better recently. Almost back to her old self.’

There was another silence. Perez could sense Sandy’s impatience. It seemed Marcus was unnerved by it too, because he stood up. ‘Coffee? It’s a long drive from Lerwick. I don’t think I realized the scale of the place before we arrived – how much distance there is between communities.’ He sounded easy, confident, a man who’d been to a good school and expected to get what he wanted.

‘Coffee would be grand.’ Perez waited until he’d disappeared into the house and then turned again to Polly. ‘Tell me about Eleanor.’

Now the woman did blink. ‘We’re friends. Really close. There are three of us: Eleanor, Caroline and me. We met on our first day at university. Eleanor took me under her wing. You could tell that she would do well, even then. She was always beautiful, of course, and that still helps, doesn’t it? Especially if you want to work in the media.’

‘What was her work?’

‘She did drama at uni and found work in television as soon as she left, first as a runner, then as a script editor. Recently she’s set up her own TV production company. Mostly documentaries for Channel 4 and the BBC.’