Ann Cleeves - Cold Earth

The receptionist stared at the inspector for a moment. Perhaps he was considering the possibility of lying, but at the last moment he seemed to think better of it.

‘You’re quite right, sir. Mr Barnes has vacated his room, but he’s waiting with his colleagues in the lounge for news of his flight. The weather is forecast to clear briefly early this afternoon and there’s also the possibility of a coach to Sumburgh. Would you like me to fetch him for you?’

‘I’d like that very much.’ Perez gave a sudden smile. ‘And I’d like you to find a room for us to talk in private, and to arrange for a tray of coffee to be brought for us.’

The receptionist remained impassive, but he gave a brief nod of his head.

The room they used was a conference space with a huge oval table and twelve matching chairs. Perez sat at the end with a notebook in front of him, as if he was chairing a grand meeting. Even Sandy felt intimidated and he knew it was just a tactic, because Jimmy seldom took notes when he was interviewing; he relied on Sandy to do that.

‘Mr Barnes. Thank you for giving us your time.’ Perez had already offered coffee, which had been curtly declined.

It seemed that Mr Barnes was a senior professional who wasn’t used to being summoned by the police. He was already put out because of the delay to his flight. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary,’ he’d said when he’d arrived in the room. An explanation perhaps for his bad temper. An excuse. ‘I’d planned something rather special for my wife.’

‘We’re very grateful for the delay, although I do see that it’s inconvenient for you. You might prove to be a very useful witness.’ Perez could have been a senior manager himself. Sandy was deeply impressed. ‘We’re investigating two murders. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.’

Barnes muttered something about being too busy to watch television.

‘Your name appears, along with colleagues, on a list. You made a number of payments to a solicitor called Thomas Rogerson. We have evidence to suggest that Mr Rogerson could be charged with living off immoral earnings, were he still alive. You have committed no offence to date, although if you withhold information in such a serious investigation, you would of course be charged.’ Perez paused just long enough for Barnes to take in the implication of the words and then explained them anyway. ‘Your company operates a policy that states that an employee found guilty of any offence will be removed from the islands immediately and dismissed. You signed that contract.’ Another pause, after which the tone was more conciliatory. ‘Of course if you can help us with our enquiries, your company need know nothing about this line of investigation.’

Perez drank coffee, reached out for a mass-produced biscuit and waited.

Barnes was an intelligent man. It didn’t take him long to decide that it was in his interest to cooperate. ‘Tom Rogerson was a lying bastard,’ he said. ‘He told me that there would be no record.’

‘Why don’t we start at the beginning?’ Perez leaned forward. At the other end of the table Sandy turned the page of his notebook so that there was a clean sheet of paper in front of him and marvelled at Perez’s skill.

It seemed that Stephen Barnes had met Tom Rogerson at a social function to celebrate the completion of one stage of the new terminal’s construction. They’d met at the town hall. There’d been speeches, warm fizzy wine and oatcakes with smoked salmon. Barnes had thought Tom was a good chap and when the solicitor had suggested they go back to his house for a ‘proper’ drink, he’d agreed.

At this point in the story, Perez interrupted. ‘Was anyone else in the house? Tom’s wife, for example?’

‘Not his wife, no. I think his daughter was there when we arrived. A pretty young thing. But she soon said she had work to do and left us to it.’

Perez nodded for Barnes to continue.

‘We’d had quite a lot to drink by then, and he brought out a selection of good malts. We were talking about our families, and Tom said he’d worked away in the past and how difficult that was and how wives didn’t always understand. He had this way of persuading you to confide in him.’ For the first time Barnes seemed embarrassed rather than simply resentful. ‘By the end of the evening I’d given him a cheque.’

‘Can you be more specific, please? For the notes.’ Perez nodded briefly towards Sandy. ‘The cheque was payment for what service?’

‘It was an introduction fee. Tom Rogerson had promised to set me up with a woman.’ Barnes paused briefly. ‘The next day I told myself I’d simply been ripped off and nothing would come of it.’

‘But it did?’ There was curiosity in Perez’s voice, but no judgement.

‘Exactly a day later I received an email in my personal account, giving a time and a place for the meeting.’

‘When was this?’

‘About three months ago.’

Sandy looked up at Perez and knew exactly what he was thinking. Alison Teal hadn’t been in Shetland three months ago, unless she’d made a trip for which they had no record. But Tain had been empty then and available for Rogerson’s use.

‘The name of the woman you were to meet, please?’

‘Elena.’

‘And the place?’

‘A small house in Ravenswick.’

Sandy knew exactly what that meant. Barnes might not have known the name of the house, but they did. Tain. Once the home of an elderly spinster called Minnie Laurenson, left to an American publisher called Sandy Sechrest, and occasional residence of Craig Henderson and Alison Teal.

‘Did you keep the appointment with Elena?’ Perez asked.

There was a pause. ‘I did.’ Barnes seemed about to justify or excuse his decision but thought better of it.

‘And was the encounter satisfactory?’

Another pause. ‘It was.’

‘Could you describe Elena to me, please?’

‘She was tall and slender with very long and very straight fair hair. Small features. Is that enough?’ Barnes was starting to become resentful again and to bluster, but the description was enough for Sandy, who recognized the woman he’d seen with Tom Rogerson in the Scalloway Hotel on the evening of his Valentine’s treat with Louisa.

Perez continued to ask Barnes questions, but the civil engineer had little other useful information. He was quite clear that he’d never met Alison Teal or anyone of her description. In the end they let him go. His colleagues were already boarding a coach to Sumburgh, where, it seemed, the storm was less ferocious.

Willow didn’t waste time thinking about what had happened at Jimmy Perez’s house the evening before. There would be opportunities for that later and, besides, perhaps nothing of any importance at all had happened. She might feel dizzy with hope – giddy, as she felt when she was at the top of a cliff looking down at the waves breaking below. But she knew it would be wise to limit her expectations. Perez had promised nothing. Today she had to focus on getting the information they needed from Alison Teal’s brother. Nothing else could be decided until the case was over.

A local police officer had informed the man of his sister’s death. He’d gone along to the prison where Jono Teal was being held, with the probation officer who’d known Jono for some years. Willow talked to the probation officer first. Her name was Hazel Sharpe and she was middle-aged and tough, more cynical than most police officers Willow knew. Hazel gave the impression that nothing at all would shock her.

‘Tell me what you know about the family,’ Willow said.

Much of the information Hazel passed on they’d gleaned previously, from interviews Alison had given at the height of her popularity. It seemed the actress hadn’t exaggerated the tough childhood; the feckless parents and the informal adoption by the grandparents on the Norfolk coast still formed a part of the story.