Ann Cleeves: Cold Earth

‘Where do you think that was taken? Somewhere hot, I’d say. Greece? Spain?’ Perez hoped it was Spain. He wanted to believe that Alis came from the country of his ancestors. He imagined a landscape that smelled of thyme and olive oil.

Sandy shook his head. He didn’t know anything about hot countries. How could he, when he’d never lived away from Shetland?

‘I don’t know. It could have been taken in a sunny garden anywhere in the world. The background’s all blurry. It could even have been taken in Shetland on a fine day in midsummer.’

But Perez’s imagination had taken him to Spain. ‘Are they her parents, do you think?’ They’d be the right sort of age.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Sandy drank his beer slowly and watched Perez take the other photo from the box.

Two children aged about five and seven, not on the bench, but on swings in a play park. There was the same sandy soil beneath the swing. The girl was the older. She was wearing shorts and a jumper and stared defiantly at the camera. She’d lost almost as many teeth as the old man, but Perez supposed that she’d get new ones. The boy had curly hair and a smile that must have charmed old ladies. ‘And are these Alis’s children?’

Now it was clear that Perez was talking to himself, and Sandy made no attempt to answer. Perez turned both pictures so that he could look at the back, hoping for a name or a date, but there was nothing. ‘So how did you get a name for her, Sandy?’

‘From the letter.’ Sandy nodded back to the box. ‘I haven’t read it all. I thought I’d wait for you.’

Perez laid the letter on the table in front of him. There was no address from the sender at the top. The writing was precise and rather formal. He thought it must have been written some time ago. Even older people now used email and texting. Everyone had forgotten the art of writing, and any handwritten notes he received these days were sprawling and untidy.

My dearest Alis

What a joy to know that you’ll be back in the islands again, after so many years! I’ve so enjoyed our rare encounters on my visits south and I know you’re the same beautiful woman who first attracted me when we first met. I’m sure we can make a go of things and that we’ll have a wonderful future together.

There was no signature at the bottom, just a row of kisses, and Perez wondered what that suggested. Perhaps this was a married man who didn’t want to leave any evidence of his adultery. Someone cautious, keeping his options open, despite his promise of a future with the now-dead woman. Or perhaps the writer felt that a name was superfluous. Of course Alis would know the identity of the writer.

‘And this was all you could find?’ Perez tried to keep his voice free of irritation, but he found these brief glimpses into the woman’s life frustrating. He could make up a story about the dark woman, about her parents and her children and the island man who’d fallen for her, but that would be a fiction. He needed something more concrete to help identify her.

‘There’s this book. I thought we might get fingerprints.’

‘Which will only help if she’s on our system.’

‘I was very thorough, Jimmy.’ Sandy had taken the words as criticism, despite Perez’s efforts. ‘Tain is a small house and there was very little left inside. If we search through the debris left in the garden, we might have more success.’

Perez didn’t answer immediately. ‘Was there any response to the Radio Shetland appeal for information?

‘Jane Hay called in,’ Sandy said. ‘She thought she might have seen someone of that description in the Co-op in Brae a week ago. I was thinking I’d go and see her tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘She seems like a sensible woman. I can’t see that she’d make up something like that.’

‘No, I’ll talk to her.’ Perez wanted to be the person to breathe life into the dead woman. It was ridiculous but he couldn’t help himself. ‘I can call in on my way to work. She’s a neighbour. The Hay place is right next to Tain. Kevin said he hadn’t seen anyone in the house, but Jane might have done.’

Sandy stood up and Perez led him out. Usually it would have been quiet and dark. There were no street lights here, and Magnus’s house was still empty. But further south the men were working to get the road clear for the following day, and the powerful arc-lights threw strange shadows across the hill.

Jane Hay settled on the wooden chair and nodded to the other people in the circle. There were fewer than usual this evening. There must be friends who couldn’t get to the meeting because of the landslide. She sipped tea, waited for the latecomers and was aware of the calm and gratitude that always accompanied her here on meeting nights. The community hall was heated by a Calor gas heater and the fumes caught in her nostrils and at the back of her throat, but she was so used to them that they had become a part of the experience.

Alf Walters spoke a couple of words of welcome and they started. Jane cleared her throat and there was a brief moment of tension as she waited for her turn. She’d been coming to meetings for more than eleven years, but she was still a little nervous.

‘My name’s Jane and I’m an alcoholic.’

She stayed behind for half an hour afterwards because she was sponsoring a young woman, an emergency doctor based at the Gilbert Bain Hospital, and wanted to see how she was doing. Rachel had been coming to meetings for three months, but she was still struggling. After a stressful day at work, her colleagues all turned to a glass of wine to help them relax. For Rachel one glass, or one bottle, would never be enough. She still occasionally phoned Jane in the early hours of the morning, either very drunk or needing support and reassurance: ‘I’m sorry. I’m such a failure.’ Jane could tell she was sobbing.

Jane understood what she was going through and was always patient. ‘You’re not a failure at all. This is a disease and the treatment is brutal. If you were going through chemo for cancer, you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’

Kevin was less tolerant of the late-night calls. ‘Is that one of your alkie pals, pissed again?’

He thought Jane’s attendance at meetings was a form of masochistic indulgence. Tonight he’d had a go at her as she left the house. ‘You’ve been sober for years. Since just after the kids started school. Why do you still need all that nonsense? It’s not so convenient, you disappearing up to town two nights a week. And I’ll be worried about you being out on a night like this.’

Usually she let it go. She couldn’t change him, just as he couldn’t change her. But she’d been tense all day. The rain and the background noise of the machinery at the landslide had stretched her nerves. The boys had been moody too, sniping at each other over the supper table, answering their parents in monosyllabic grunts. They were such different characters that usually they got on fine, but that evening she’d sensed an underlying animosity between them, something bitter and brooding. She’d felt the stress as a tightness in her arms and spine, in the twitch of a nerve in her face.

‘Would you rather I was drinking?’ They’d been on their own in the kitchen. The boys had disappeared to their rooms, to relieve their own tension by killing people on separate computer screens. Or so she supposed. She’d felt herself trembling, could hear the shrill voice that was almost out of control. ‘You’d rather I was disappearing off into the night and coming back bladdered in a taxi in the early hours of the morning? Not knowing where I’d been, not being able to care for the bairns and a total mess.’

He’d stared at her without speaking for a moment. ‘You know what?’ He’d turned away to look out of the window into the dark, so she couldn’t see his face. ‘You were a lot more fun in those days. At least we could have a bit of a laugh.’