Ann Cleeves: Thin Air

‘Sounds stressful.’ Perez gave a little laugh. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to run a company or live in London. Through the open door into the kitchen he smelled coffee. Good coffee still reminded him of Fran.

‘Nell thrived on the stress. It was what made her feel alive. And, as far as I know, the company was doing well. But not getting pregnant was different. Outside her control. And I think it was the first time she’d ever failed at anything.’

‘Do you think she’s killed herself?’

The question seemed to stun her, but the response was immediate. ‘Not for a moment. Nell’s a fighter. She wouldn’t give up. She’s in the middle of a project at work and she would never leave anything half-finished.’

‘What’s the project?’ Perez felt that he was out of his depth. He knew nothing about the media and only watched TV with Cassie. CBBC or Disney.

‘A film about ghosts. Contemporary hauntings. That’s why she was delighted when I told her the story of Peerie Lizzie.’

‘How did you know it?’ Perez hadn’t realized that anyone outside Shetland had heard of the ghost of Peerie Lizzie.

‘I’m a librarian,’ Polly said. ‘I specialize in folk stories, British myths and legends.’ She paused. ‘Nell never stops working. I guess she’s kind of obsessive. She thought that while she was here she could interview people who’d seen the girl. She even brought a digital recorder with her.’

Peerie Lizzie was a little girl who was supposed to haunt the land around Meoness in Unst late at night. It was claimed she was the spirit of a child, the daughter of the big house, who’d been drowned close by in 1930. The child had been especially precious because the parents had been middle-aged when she was conceived, and some stories had it that her appearance foretold a pregnancy. Perhaps that was why Eleanor had been so interested. Perez was a sceptic. Most people who reported the sightings were young men with a few drinks inside them, or attention-seekers looking to get their name in the paper. As far as he knew, nobody had got pregnant as a result.

He had the sense that Polly was going to say more, but she turned away and looked at the beach, so he resumed the conversation.

‘Do you think she might have wandered up the road last night in the hope of seeing the ghost?’

Marcus appeared with a tray, a pot of coffee and four mugs. Polly waited to answer until he’d set them on the table.

‘It’s more likely than a notion that she would have killed herself.’ A pause. ‘As I said, she was obsessed with the idea of the documentary, so yes, it’s just what she might have done.’ The woman looked up at her partner. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘I didn’t know her. Not like you did. A couple of supper parties and then a night together when we came up on the boat from Aberdeen… But I certainly wouldn’t have had her down as a potential suicide risk.’

‘Do you have a photo?’ Perez still couldn’t get a handle on the missing woman and thought that a picture in his head might make her more real for him. ‘It would help, if we need to widen the search.’ He’d show the boys who worked on the ferry to Yell. If she’d been out early in the morning, and on foot, they’d have noticed her.

‘Not a print,’ Polly said, ‘but there are some on my laptop. I took some pictures on the boat from Aberdeen, so they’re recent. The house has Wi-Fi. Come inside.’

The interior of the house was tasteful and simple. Only the sheepskins in front of the wood-burner and the prints of puffins and gannets on the walls reminded visitors they were in Shetland. And the spectacular view from the window. Polly’s laptop was open on the coffee table and she switched it on. With a few clicks she’d reached the file of photos.

Eleanor Longstaff was dark-eyed. Long hair was being blown by the wind away from her face. She could have shared ancestors with Jimmy Perez, whose forebears were shipwrecked off Fair Isle during the Spanish Armada. The photo had been taken on the deck of the NorthLink ferry. Eleanor was dressed in a waterproof anorak and was leaning back against the rail. She was laughing. No sign here, at least, of stress or depression.

‘I can email you a copy, if that’s any good,’ Polly said.

Perez nodded and handed her his work card with his contact details. He’d get the photo printed in Unst’s small police station. Mary Lomax, the community police officer, might be away, but Sandy had brought a key to the building.

Polly’s narrow fingers were tapping on the keyboard when she stopped suddenly and looked round at them. She seemed paler than ever. Horrified. ‘I’ve had an email from Eleanor. It arrived this morning. Sent at two a.m., so not that long after we went to bed. It must be from her iPhone.’

‘Open it!’ Marcus was looking over her shoulder.

She looked at Perez for permission. He nodded and moved so that he had a better view of the screen. Polly double-clicked on the message and it opened.

No greeting and no sign-off, not even the obligatory x. Just one line. Don’t bother looking for me. You won’t find me alive.

Outside there was the sound of a car moving slowly down the track. Ian’s 4x4. Polly turned off the laptop. She didn’t care what the policeman thought; she couldn’t bear the idea that Ian would walk in and find them all staring at a message from his wife. A message that could be read as a suicide note. She still couldn’t quite believe in the email; thought if she opened her in-box again it would have vanished, a figment of their collective imaginations.

Ian was a techie, a geek, not given to emotion of any kind; and even now, as he stood in the doorway frowning, it was hard to tell what he made of the situation. Polly had always thought that he and Eleanor made an unlikely couple. How could Eleanor, who needed so much love, who wanted to be touched and hugged and kissed, fall for a man so stony and unresponsive? It had occurred to Polly that her own reaction was selfish: perhaps she just hated the idea of losing her close friends of university days, of being separated from them. But Caroline had married Lowrie, who was sympathetic and uncomplicated, and Polly was entirely happy for her .

In contrast, Eleanor’s engagement to Ian had made Polly anxious from the start. The night before Eleanor’s wedding the three of them had got drunk together in Polly’s flat. The bride and the bridesmaids and too much fizzy wine. An essential ritual.

‘You do realize that it’s not too late?’ Polly had said, after Caroline had fallen asleep in a chair in the corner, her mouth open, snoring. ‘You don’t have to go through with it. Pull out now and I’ll sort out the practical stuff for you.’

‘Of course I don’t want to pull out.’ Eleanor had been horrified, had looked at Polly as if she hardly knew her. ‘Ian’s what I want and what I need. I can’t imagine not spending the rest of my life with him. What’s wrong with you? Can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous that I’ve found someone special at last?’

That had been three years ago and it still seemed to Polly that their friendship was strained. Caroline hadn’t noticed, but Polly had been aware of the tension, of having to choose her words carefully. She couldn’t spill out her feelings to Eleanor as she had in the old days, when they’d both been single. She’d hoped this trip to Unst might make everything between them right again.

Of course Eleanor’s wedding to Ian had taken place and Polly had been there as the witness, smiling for the camera outside the registry office on a breezy March day. Eleanor had changed her name to her husband’s, although few of their friends did that any more. In the afternoon they’d gone up in the London Eye and had drunk a toast in champagne to Mr and Mrs Longstaff. Then Eleanor had sent the guests away to party without them. ‘My husband and I want to be alone.’ A radiant smile.