Ann Cleeves - Cold Earth

‘Alison,’ he said. ‘Alison Teal.’

Of course . Perez should have known all along. Kevin Hay hadn’t been Alison’s client. The regular visitor to Tain, paying Tom Rogerson with his father’s stolen debit card, had been Andy. Not Kevin. Andy, the boy teased for his lack of sexual experience and his attraction to older women, would have been easy prey. Hay must have guessed why the payment had been made in his name and was protecting his son. Perhaps he believed that Andy had killed the woman. And perhaps, Perez thought as the idea chased around his head, perhaps that made sense.

Jane seemed to be following the same logic. ‘Did you kill the woman?’

‘No!’ The boy was screaming. ‘I loved her.’

Again there was a moment of silence.

‘She was a prostitute,’ Jane said. ‘You do know that?’

And how did you know? A wild guess? Been listening to the same rumours as Craig Henderson? Or did Kevin tell you?

‘Of course I knew. She wouldn’t have had sex with someone like me if I hadn’t paid her. But it didn’t matter. She made me happy.’ He looked round the filthy room. ‘She made this place seem special. And she did like me.’ A pause. ‘I brought her a kitten from the farm to keep her company. She was going to cook me a meal on Valentine’s Day.’

‘Did your father know what you were up to?’ The woman’s voice was even now.

‘Not at the time.’ The boy’s bony fingers continued to move. Perez couldn’t stop staring at them, flexing and twisting as if they had a life of their own. ‘I think he followed me down one night, but he couldn’t see what was going on. He worked it out later, when the police started asking about the money.’

‘So after they were both dead?’

‘Of course after they were dead!’ Andy was howling now. ‘You can’t think Dad would commit murder?’

‘Of course not.’ But Perez could tell that the woman had considered the possibility. ‘Where have you been staying, Andy?’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Where have you been running away to, the nights you didn’t come home?’

For a moment Perez thought the boy would refuse to answer, that like a petulant child he would stand in the flickering candlelight with his mouth clamped shut. But Andy shrugged and began to speak. The answer wasn’t unexpected, but it triggered a shift in perception for Perez, an entirely new way of looking at the investigation. He remembered why the bad weather on the day of Rogerson’s disappearance was so important. He moved away from his hiding place and through the hole in the wall where once the back door had been.

Jane and Andy stared at him in horror, as if he was an apparition, and then they both began to speak at once. At the same time he must have chanced upon a patch of mobile reception, because his phone started to go wild with electronic sound.

Willow drove south out of Lerwick. The roads were quieter now and she scarcely passed any traffic. There was a light in Jimmy Perez’s house and she was tempted to stop, but after a moment’s hesitation she continued on her way. He might have personal reasons for not answering her calls, and she had too much pride to turn up unannounced on his doorstep. She slowed down to avoid a jogger in a high-vis jacket running north. Willow wondered at the dedication that drove people to exercise in weather like this and at this time of night. She checked the clock on the hire-car dashboard. It was only seven. Not so late after all, although it had been dark for hours.

The building appeared before she was quite expecting it. Her headlights swept across it and it appeared as a solid black shadow. She had decided against a clandestine approach. She wouldn’t be able to hide the car and, besides, she was only here to ask questions. There was no need to make a big issue of the visit. The building was unlit, as far as she could see. Perhaps she’d misjudged her timing and had made her dramatic chase south for nothing. She could have called ahead and saved herself a wasted journey. All the same, she got out of the car and knocked at the door. Silence. She turned the handle and it opened. That struck her as odd. Shetlanders might not usually lock the doors even of their work places, but there had been two murders within a few miles of this place.

‘Hello! Anyone at home?’

She walked further inside. It had the air of a place that had been left recently. There was a kettle, warm to the touch. In the office a file left open on the desk, and the PC on standby. The occupier could be home any minute, but Willow thought she would have some warning. There hadn’t been a car parked outside and she’d see the headlights coming down the track, hear the engine noise. The office faced out towards the road. Willow would have time to move back to the other room and pretend that she was just waiting out of the weather. She’d left on the hall light and could see well enough just from that. A light in the office would show that she’d been snooping.

She opened the desk drawers one by one, not entirely sure what she was searching for. In the top drawer there was the same self-help book that they’d found among Alison’s possessions; she recognized the title and the publisher’s name. Sandy Sechrest, the owner of Tain, worked as an editor for the company in New York City. Willow was pondering the significance of this – excited, because in a small way it confirmed her theory – when she was aware of a change in the atmosphere. A slight draught. Somewhere a door had been opened. She turned quickly, preparing to leave, but she was too late. There was already someone else in the room, blocking the exit. Willow was about to smile apologetically and mumble an excuse; she felt embarrassed, but not in any danger. Then there was a brief moment of bewilderment and everything went black.

When Willow woke, she was outside. Her face felt wet: blood from the wound on her temple mixed with a gentle drizzle, and the damp was soaking through the back of her jeans. She was wearing the waterproof jacket she’d had on when she’d been hit, and that was keeping the top of her body dry. She shifted slightly and the pain in her head was so severe that she wanted to scream. She didn’t scream. That pride again, but also an instinct for survival because somewhere close by there was the sound of footsteps. Willow heard the suction of boots lifted out of mud and the splash of surface water. She knew she was in no state to take on her attacker, so she lay still.

Strong arms grabbed her under her shoulders and began to drag her along the ground. Willow tried to distract herself from the pain. She could do this. It was why she got up before work every morning and practised the discipline of yoga. She could keep her breathing even, control her muscles and force herself to relax. Her attacker had to believe that she was still unconscious, that she posed no danger. Willow imagined coming to the scene as the first officer present. Her heels would be making tracks in the mud, and any competent detective or CSI would work out what had happened here. The killer was panicking and getting careless. The movement stopped and Willow’s upper body was dropped on the ground. This time there was no need for pretence. The pain was so intolerable that she slipped back into unconsciousness.

When she woke once more she was lying on her back again. The rain on her face was heavier, sharper. It was still and dark. Thick black. Usually her eyes adjusted to the island dark and after a while she’d make out shades of grey, a house light in the distance, the beam of a lighthouse sweeping the horizon. Now there was nothing and it came to her that she must still be unconscious, dreaming or dead. But her other senses were working. She felt cold and wet, and a heaviness on her lower limbs and her torso, as if something or someone was lying on top of her. There was a smell of damp earth. And a sound. Rhythmic, repetitive and oddly familiar.