Ann Cleeves - Cold Earth

‘He’d heard Alissandra Sechrest speak, though,’ Willow said. ‘Anyone coming to see him, to collect the keys, would have had to use an American accent to be convincing.’

Perez shrugged. He thought any accent that wasn’t Shetland would have seemed strange to Magnus. And if the mysterious dark-haired woman had come here, she’d have charmed him. Magnus had remained single all his life, but he’d always had an eye for a pretty woman. ‘Anyone who watches TV from the US would probably have done well enough to fool Magnus.’

Perez moved on round the room. Willow seemed to realize this was more than a routine investigation, that Perez had a personal connection with the place, because she stood quite still and let him continue the search unhindered.

Under the sink was a galvanized bucket, a scrubbing brush, washing powder and pegs. On the other side of the room stood a large Victorian sideboard. Dark wood, engraved with florid flowers and leaves, lush vegetation that would never have grown in the islands. A prized family possession. In the drawers were the records of Magnus’s life, personal and business. Receipts for lambs sent to the slaughterhouse, the details of sales, in a sprawling hand. A savings book showing a balance of £2,500 with the Orkney and Shetland building society. Cheque books going back decades, neatly folded and fastened with elastic bands. Nothing had been removed. The distant relatives from the south who had come to bury the old man had taken the ferry back to Aberdeen on the evening of the landslide, anxious that they might be trapped in the islands by another act of nature. Shetland must have seemed a very hostile place to them. Perez had spoken to them briefly. They’d said they would come back when the weather was better, to sort out the estate. One was a businessman and one a university lecturer, and the only sense they had of the place where their grandparents had been born came from stories and legends.

In the sideboard there were Christmas cards, saved in a shoebox. Minnie Laurenson had obviously sent one each year. The subject matter was always religious and the message, carefully written in black ink, always the same: Season’s greetings from your very good friend. Two single people who were neighbours and friends. Perez wondered if there’d ever been a romantic connection, and thought that even if there had been, Magnus’s mother would probably have discouraged it. Then he came across a handmade card. The image on the front a child’s handprint in green paint, turned by an adult into a fat Christmas tree. Inside the message: To Magnus, merry Christmas from Cassie and Fran. Two kisses, sprawling and drawn by the toddler that Cassie must have been then. Perez put the lid back on the shoebox, shoved it back into the ugly sideboard and moved into the other room.

The bedroom seemed even emptier than the kitchen. In the wardrobe a suit, shiny and threadbare, brought out for funerals and weddings. And for being taken into custody. Perez felt in the pockets, but found nothing. In the drawers there were underclothes grey from age and from washing by hand. In the kitchen it seemed that Willow had wanted to check the sideboard for herself. Perez heard the clunk of the cupboard doors and the opening of the drawers. Perhaps she was curious about what had spooked him. He should have shown her the Christmas card from Fran. How hard would that have been? Look, Cassie must have been very young when she did this. He’d lacked the courage even to do that.

‘Jimmy, there’s a letter from Minnie Laurenson’s solicitor.’

Of course Willow’s search would have been more thorough. She wouldn’t have allowed herself to be distracted by the handwriting of a dead lover. Perez walked slowly back into the kitchen.

She’d put the letter on the kitchen table. It had the Rogerson and Taylor printed letterhead and was dated nine months previously. The wording was formal and rather imperious:

We understand that you have in your possession the keys to Tain, Gulberswick Road, Ravenswick, now the property of our client Ms Alissandra Sechrest. We would be grateful if you could return the fore-mentioned keys to our office at 6 Commercial Street, Lerwick, at your earliest convenience.

‘Would he have taken the keys into the office?’ Willow was standing almost directly under the bare bulb, and her face looked shiny and hard like a plastic doll’s.

‘Oh, I think so. Magnus was a bit scared of anyone in authority. Something like this would have made him nervous. He’d have been on the first bus into town with the keys in his pocket.’

‘So the murdered woman pretending to be Alissandra didn’t get the keys from here.’ Willow moved a little and now it was her hair that caught the light. Perez thought it was like spun sugar, a little burnt, turned into caramel.

‘It seems not.’ But he was distracted. He read the letter again. ‘Doesn’t this seem a bit heavy-handed to you? I mean, why not just phone up Magnus and ask him to drop the keys into the office next time he was in town? They’d know he wouldn’t do any damage to Tain.’

She shrugged. ‘Isn’t that lawyers for you?’

‘Aye, maybe.’

Willow had moved into the bedroom and was searching there. It irritated Perez that she couldn’t trust him to do a good job. But after all, he’d missed the solicitor’s letter, so he was in no position to complain. She came back into the kitchen.

‘Anything?’

She shook her head. ‘It always seems a terrible intrusion, going through a dead person’s belongings. Much worse, somehow, than searching when the owner is around.’

‘So a wasted trip,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you up here.’

‘What is it the scientists say? That even negative results are significant. And maybe you’re right about the solicitor’s letter. It’s certainly worth following up with them.’

Perez switched off the light and they stood outside. While they’d been in the house the fine rain had stopped and there were patchy breaks in the clouds, the occasional glimpse of a half-moon. ‘Do you want to come back to mine for a coffee?’

She paused for a moment. When she spoke he couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Ah, Jimmy. I don’t think you’re in the mood for company tonight.’

They walked down the hill in silence towards the lights of his house and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or sorry.

He saw Willow into her car and waved her away. There’d been no phone reception on the hill, but now his mobile started buzzing with texts and emails. The house seemed empty without Cassie’s chatter. The breakfast dishes were still dirty on the draining board and he washed them, before looking at his phone. He thought there was nothing now that couldn’t wait and he was still reliving the shock of seeing Fran’s handwriting in Magnus’s Christmas card. He had little written by her. Neither of them had been sentimental. There was no shoebox full of cards in this house. All he had was her last shopping list, attached to the fridge by a puffin magnet, and the letter she’d written him in Fair Isle, half-joking and half-serious, bequeathing him her daughter in the event of her death. That was hidden away in a secret place. He’d been tempted to throw it away, but knew he’d have to show it to Cassie when she was old enough.

He made a cup of tea and looked at his phone. A list of routine messages that he’d answer the following day. Suddenly he felt very tired. And then he saw there was a recent voicemail from Sandy. The man was so excited that Perez had to play it twice before he could properly understand it. It seemed Sandy had seen Tom Rogerson in the Scalloway Hotel with a strange woman. Perez thought there was little suspicious in that. Tom had business meetings all the time. Sandy’s last sentence was more interesting: ‘They drove off in separate vehicles, boss. And Tom Rogerson’s car has a Shetland flag sticker on his bumper.’