Ann Cleeves - Thin Air

Perez thought he’d never seen her so excited. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to Yell to track down the mysterious Monica. And you’re coming too.’

They knew it would be a rush to get there and back that evening. The last ferry north to Unst on a Friday night was always busy, so they’d want to avoid that. It would be full of kids who’d been to parties or down to friends in Lerwick. Couples who’d made the trek south for the sort of dinner out they’d not get in the North Isles. And late in the evening there’d be fewer ferries. The last thing they’d need would be to be stuck in Yell, or having to leave the car there and come back as foot passengers. And if Monica split her time between London and Shetland there was no guarantee she’d be there.

‘Perhaps we’re better leaving it until the morning,’ Perez said. The only contact they had for Monica Leaze was at the gallery, and it was possible that nobody was there at this time. Of course Sandy should be able to track down a home address for them before they arrived in Yell. Mary Lomax would probably know. But Perez hated the idea of turning up at the artist’s house, breathless and ill prepared. She was crucial to the investigation, and she was famous. It seemed the worst kind of rudeness to barge in on a Friday night.

‘We don’t have time to wait,’ Willow said. ‘It has to be this evening.’ He knew she was desperate to move the case forward before the soothmoothers left the islands. He saw that there would be no reasoning with her.

Still, in the car at the ferry terminal in Belmont he had another go at persuading her to put off the visit until the following day. ‘Perhaps we should speak to Polly and Caroline first. Eleanor might have spoken to them about Monica. Or she might have dropped a hint that this wasn’t her first trip north.’

But now he saw that Willow was caught up in the moment of the chase. She was enjoying the frantic drive to the pier, and the sense of movement was a reaction to the frustration of sitting in Springfield House running through the details of the case in her head. Perez thought again that she was obsessed by the passing of time; this was her attempt to stop the clock.

‘We can’t piss about, Jimmy. This might be our breakthrough.’ Her eyes were gleaming. She was like a skua about to dive on an injured lamb.

By the time they arrived in Yell, Sandy had an address for them. Monica Leaze lived in Cullivoe, not too far from where the ferry came in. They turned off the main road and ahead of them the evening sky was red like flames, as if the sea was on fire. Everything was still. The banks on each side of the road were wild with flowers and grasses, the colours intense in the strange evening light. Willow was driving; she was too tense and fidgety to be a passenger.

When they found the house it was undistinguished, grey and small, a little ugly. There was no land attached, apart from a small square garden at the front, separated from the neighbour’s by a slatted wooden fence. There were other, newer homes along the same road. A couple were squat bungalows and the rest were Norwegian kit houses in coloured wood. Willow pulled the car into a passing place and they climbed out. Outside Monica’s front door stood a couple of terracotta pots, one containing mint and the other rosemary, but the lawn was overgrown. Willow opened the gate and knocked at the door.

No reply. Looking through the window, Perez thought the living room was too tidy. There was a Sunday paper neatly folded on a small table, but from the headline he could tell that it was at least a fortnight old. The cushions were piled symmetrically on the couch. It was oddly impersonal. No indication that an artist had lived here. No drawings on the wall. No paints. He stepped back a couple of paces and looked at the roof. There were Velux windows cut into the tiles, so perhaps Monica worked in the room in the attic.

An elderly woman was bringing in washing next door. She stood with a plastic basket at her feet, folding the clothes, but her eyes were fixed on the visitors. At last curiosity got too much for her and she came up to the fence. ‘Can I help you?’ She was all bone. Her face seemed to have been sculpted by the weather.

‘We’re looking for Monica Leaze.’

‘Nobody’s there. I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks. She comes and goes, though. It’s more like a holiday place for her. I’m told she still has a house in London.’

Perez approached her. She’d probably respond better to his voice than to Willow’s. ‘Do you look after the place when she’s away?’

‘She never asked.’ Perez sensed there was no love lost between the neighbours. Had Monica, tense and anxious and used to the anonymity of the city, resented the intrusion of a bored, elderly woman? ‘Who are you?’

‘We’re police,’ he said. ‘Investigating the murders in Meoness.’

Her attitude changed at once to a manic excitement. ‘Come in, come in. You’ll take a cup of tea.’ And they found themselves in her kitchen. The kettle already humming and a plate of home-made flapjacks on a plate. Her payment for a story that would be retold by telephone to family and friends as soon as they left: You’ll never guess who was in my house this evening.

‘How long has Monica lived next door?’ Perez was asking the questions. Willow was standing with her back to the window, trying to contain her impatience.

‘She moved in about a year ago. She doesn’t own it. It’s rented from Johnny Jamieson in Lerwick, who bought it for holiday lets. I used to go in and clean for him once a week after the visitors left. He didn’t pay much, but it helped out with the pension.’

Perhaps this was part of her resentment. With next door turned into a permanent rental, she’d lost her little job. She was continuing her story. ‘I called round on her first day there, in case I could help at all. You know what it’s like when you first move in – you can’t find anything. She didn’t even invite me across the threshold.’

‘Does she rent it ready furnished?’ That might explain the bland sofa and the bare walls.

‘Yes, and that seemed kind of strange. If she was planning to live here full-time you’d think she’d want her own belongings. She didn’t have much stuff at all. A couple of suitcases and a box with all her paints.’ The woman sniffed. ‘She calls herself an artist.’

‘So you went round to see her,’ Perez said. ‘Can you tell us what she’s like?’

‘Kind of nervy. Skinny and a smoker. Dresses younger than she really is. All flowers and bright patterns.’

‘Is it just her living there?’ Willow interrupted. Perez saw her glance at the clock on the wall. ‘No man or family?’

‘I think she had a bairn here a couple of times. Young. Maybe a grandchild. But not living here fulltime.’

‘Boy or a girl?’ Perez asked

The woman glared. ‘How would I know? I don’t snoop. I just saw them playing outside once.’

‘But you might have some idea.’ He smiled at her.

‘I think it was a lassie. Though once she had a couple of lads to play with her too. They might have been local, because they didn’t stay the night.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw Monica? The exact date would be very helpful.’ Perez again, coaxing her as if he was a favourite nephew.

‘Exactly a week ago,’ the woman said at last. ‘So she hasn’t been away as long as I thought.’

The day before the hamefarin’ . Perez wondered if that had any significance.

‘She might have been around since then, though,’ the woman went on. ‘I’ve been away at my daughter’s down in Brae, so I wouldn’t know.’ A sniff. ‘Not that Monica’s bothered to cut the grass, if she has been there.’