by Ann Cleeves
‘Did she ever make you feel like that? Angry.’
‘Nah, I was never worth provoking. Fat Dougie. Too easy a target. She took me under her wing.’ Dougie struggled to explain the relationship he’d had with Angela. ‘You know how sometimes really fit women have an ugly friend. Someone who’s not a threat. Someone to confide in. That’s how Angela was with me. I was the ugly friend.’
‘Even though you only came to the field centre once a year?’
Dougie hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much to tell Perez. He’d decided to stick to answering the questions, not to volunteer any information, but the questions were more wide-ranging and personal than he’d expected. And he thought Jane had guessed how things were between Angela and him. She’d probably tell Perez anyway. ‘We kept in touch,’ he said at last. ‘Email mostly. Sometimes by phone.’
‘Didn’t you resent it?’ Perez asked. ‘The way she used you, I mean.’ When Dougie didn’t answer at once, he added: ‘Or perhaps you didn’t feel used? You didn’t mind being the ugly friend?’
‘I knew I could never be anything else,’ Dougie said. ‘It was better than nothing.’ He paused. He had never thought he’d tell anyone about his feelings for Angela. And in five minutes this strange islander with the dark hair had wheedled information out of him that he’d always kept secret. Dougie thought this was what it must be like to be under hypnosis. Perez said nothing. He waited for Dougie to continue and Dougie felt compelled to speak.
‘I loved it when she phoned me. It was always late at night. I imagined her in the bird room, looking down over the cliffs to the sea. It was exciting. She knew she excited me. Perhaps she only did it when she needed a boost for her ego. I didn’t care, even when she just wanted to talk about her marriage, other men. I was flattered that it was me she’d chosen to talk to.’
‘Were there other men?’
Dougie nodded. He expected other questions, a demand for specifics, but Perez didn’t follow that line of inquiry.
‘What did she say about the marriage?’
‘That Maurice was a sweet man but sometimes he bored her so much that she thought she would die. She wasn’t sure she could stand living with him any more. “And he’s crap in bed.” That was what she said.’ Dougie felt he should apologize for Angela. She wasn’t malicious, not really. Sometimes she said outrageous stuff just to make me laugh. But he had the feeling Perez understood anyway.
‘Do you think she was seriously considering divorce?’ Perez asked.
‘Nah! Maurice was just what she needed: someone to look after the domestics so she could spend all her time birding. He was too convenient to have around. And he was besotted with her. She knew he’d let her get away with anything.’
‘Did you go and see her in the bird room the night she died?’
Dougie was astonished. Was the inspector some sort of magician? Could he read men’s thoughts?
‘Because it’s the sort of thing a friend would do,’ Perez went on. ‘There’d been that scene with Poppy. Angela might have been upset. I thought you might call in to check that she was all right.’
‘I heard her go into the bird room,’ Dougie said. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I’d brought a bottle of whisky to the island with me. I don’t drink much, but other people do.’ And you still feel the need to buy friendship, don’t you, Dougie? ‘I took it down. I offered a drink but she didn’t want one. “Not for me, Dougie. You have one if you like.” I didn’t stay for long. She was working. She made it clear I was disturbing her. If we had any sort of friendship it was always on her terms.’
‘Did you have a drink? Was there a glass on her desk?’
‘Nah, I didn’t bother either. Like I said, I don’t really like it.’
‘Did she tell you what she was working on?’
‘No. We talked about Poppy. Angela said if the wind didn’t change soon, so she could get rid of the teenager from hell, there’d be a murder.’ Dougie looked up at Perez. He didn’t want the Shetlander to think he’d made some sort of crass joke, but Perez still focused on the notes on the paper before him.
The detective looked at him. ‘Was she alive when you left her?’
‘Yes!’ Dougie felt himself flush. Would Perez assume that was a sign of guilt? He couldn’t help himself. He always blushed like a girl when he was nervous. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of the plane coming in. Jane had said there’d be no flights today, but perhaps she’d got that wrong. Would it be full of birders? He wanted to be on the hill to meet it, to show the incomers his find.
But Perez still had questions: ‘Were there any feathers in the bird room? Was Angela working with them?’
‘That night? No.’
‘Any time?’
Dougie knew what this was about. Ben had described the feathers in the hair. ‘I don’t understand why there should be. Unless there was some special study I knew nothing about.’
‘Was Hugh asleep when you went back to the dormitory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you have heard him if he left the room in the night?’
‘No,’ Dougie said. ‘It takes me a long time to get to sleep, but when I finally go off, I sleep like the dead.’
Chapter Sixteen
In the field centre kitchen Jane made a cottage pie. Easy to prepare and also Maurice’s favourite. She’d do a veggie chilli for Ben. Jane was starting to worry about Maurice, who was still holed up in the flat and who hadn’t really eaten anything the previous day. The community nurse had come up to the lighthouse the morning that Angela had been found dead and offered sedatives, but Maurice had refused to see her: ‘I don’t need her pills. I don’t need tranquillizing. I don’t want to forget my wife.’
Now, Jane wondered if she should get the nurse back. The woman was chatty, easy-going and she was probably the source of many of the rumours floating round the island about Angela’s murder. She’d be happy enough to call in. But it was unlikely that Maurice would be persuaded to see her, and Jane didn’t want to provide more fodder for the Fair Isle gossip machine. She put the pie in the larder to keep cool and phoned Mary Perez. Mary had been the island nurse before she became a full-time crofter and Maurice had always got on well with her. No reason why Jane shouldn’t invite her to the North Light for coffee and try to persuade Maurice out of the flat to meet her.
While she waited for the woman to arrive, Jane went upstairs to make beds and tidy rooms. In the height of the season they’d employed a young woman from Belfast to do the cleaning, but now Jane looked after all the domestic chores. It wasn’t too onerous this week. Two rooms: the small dormitory where Dougie and Hugh slept and the twin belonging to the Fowlers. The staff looked after themselves, though sometimes Jane took pity on Ben Catchpole and did his laundry.
The dormitory had the stuffy, sweaty smell of men living in close proximity, even though two of the beds were empty and the men were sleeping at opposite ends of the room. Jane straightened sheets and folded duvets, cleaned the sink, opened the sash window just a little to let in fresh air. She wondered if Perez had searched in here. Would that be the normal procedure in a murder investigation? Surely he’d have to get permission first and he certainly hadn’t asked her if he could look round her room. She thought she would have known if he’d been there, looking through her drawers, prying in her things. Again she felt the investigation as a sort of challenge, an impersonal puzzle that had nothing to do with the reality of the murdered Angela. Jane had always been competitive and now she wanted to pit her intelligence against that of Perez, to come up with the identity of the killer before he did. She’d become an amateur sleuth, like a character in the detective stories she’d read as a child.
Of course it was presumptuous to think she might succeed ahead of the police, but she could get away with behaviour that would be impossible for the inspector. Who would know, for example, if she looked through guests’ personal belongings? She had every right to be in their rooms.
The chest of drawers n
ext to Dougie’s bed contained underwear, a couple of folded T-shirts and a pile of socks. On top, next to a bottle of whisky that was three-quarters empty, there was a field identification guide to the birds of America. This, it seemed, was Dougie’s only bedtime reading. Hugh’s possessions were more interesting. They were still piled in his rucksack and in such an untidy and random way that he would never tell that anyone had been looking. A torn envelope file made of pink card had been slipped end on by the side of a tangle of clothes. Jane pulled it out. There was a moment’s hesitation before she opened it. Really, what right had she to pry? But by now she was so curious that it was impossible for her to replace it before reading the contents. Besides, she had a sense that here, in the lighthouse, they were living outside the normal rules. She knew Hugh would be on his way down the island for his interview with Perez. She wouldn’t be disturbed.
The file seemed to contain all Hugh’s recently received correspondence. There was a bank statement still in its envelope. It had come in on the plane with Jimmy Perez and Fran, redirected from home; Jane had collected the mail from the post office that day. It was unusual for visitors to receive post and she recognized the envelope. It showed that Hugh had been seriously overdrawn until the week he arrived in Fair Isle, when £2,500 had been paid into his account. The indulgent parents bailing him out again, Jane thought. There were a couple of copies of his CV. Jane had worked in HR and picked up the lack of experience, the unexplained gaps, despite the creative description of his short adult life. She wouldn’t have hired him as a tour leader. At the bottom of the file there was a handwritten letter from Hugh’s father, saying he felt he had supported Hugh financially for long enough. They would continue, of course, to provide advice and support but Hugh would have to earn his own living. The letter had been written some months before. Why had Hugh kept it? And where had the £2,500 come from? Had Hugh charmed his parents into providing one last handout? Or had he actually done some paid work? She looked for a name on the statement but it seemed to have been paid in cash. It was something the police would be able to check easily enough and as she straightened she supposed she should pass this information on to Perez. But then she’d have to confess to snooping and the thought of it made her blush. Surely if the police were looking for a motive they’d look into their suspects’ bank accounts.
The Fowlers’ room was always orderly. They made their own beds each morning. Sarah’s nightdress was folded on one pillow. There were matching toothbrushes in the glass on the shelf by the sink. In the top drawer next to Sarah’s bed there was a diary. Jane left it where it was – despite the temptation to read it, she thought that was a step too far. There was something about Sarah’s closed expression, her jumpiness, which made Jane think there had been a tragedy in her personal life. They’d never visited Fair Isle before and it was unlikely to have anything to do with Angela Moore. It seemed that John had brought work with him. A laptop computer in a case leaned against the wall and a pile of files and books were piled on the bedside table. The files contained magazine articles, printed pages that looked like work in progress. After reading halfway down the pile Jane stopped. She couldn’t spend too long here; she might be missed and although she knew Perez was interviewing the Fowlers, she couldn’t bear the thought that she might be caught snooping. There was a catalogue for Fowler’s bookshop. He’d called it something fancy in Greek, that meant nothing to her. How pretentious, she thought. She blinked at some of the prices being demanded for rare and out of print books. She supposed he must operate mostly with dealers.
Jane opened the laptop and switched it on. There was no password and she clicked on ‘recent documents’. There was a letter from John pitching an article about the diet of wading birds for a scientific magazine. He seemed excited by a new study of mole crickets in saltpans in the Middle East. The rest of it made little sense to her. There was no Wi-Fi in the field centre so she couldn’t check his emails, which was rather a relief. That would have seemed a terrible intrusion.
In the corridor outside the room a door banged. It was the fire door at the top of the stairs. Even though she had every excuse to be here, Jane felt the sort of glorious terror she’d not experienced since playing hide and seek as a child. What if the Fowlers had come back early from their interview with Perez and were on their way into the room? She replaced the computer in its case, wiped a cloth around the sink to justify her presence and left. The corridor was empty. It must have been Dougie or Hugh on his way to the dormitory.
Mary arrived just as Jane reached the lobby. She’d brought Perez’s fiancée with her. Jane thought Perez and this Englishwoman made a strange couple; Perez was so straight and silent, very Shetland despite the dark hair and olive skin, and Fran so full of energy and questions, stylish in a bohemian sort of way. She could quite easily have been a colleague of Dee’s, would have fitted in perfectly at one of the Richmond parties.
‘You don’t mind me turning up too?’ Fran said now. ‘I don’t want to gatecrash.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. It’s a treat to have someone new to talk to.’ She thought she and Fran might become friends and the thought cheered her. She led them through to the kitchen, put the kettle on for coffee. ‘I’ll see if I can persuade Maurice to join us.’ She looked at Mary. ‘I’m worried about him. He’s not eating and he hasn’t been out of the flat since Jimmy took Angela’s body away. I thought you might have a chat with him.’
Mary nodded and Jane saw she wouldn’t have to explain her misgivings about calling in the regular island nurse. Mary had understood.
Jane knocked at the door of the flat and when there was no answer she went in. The curtains in the living room were still drawn. She opened them and was almost blinded by a sudden flash of sunshine. The clouds had parted to let a biblical shaft of light onto the sea. She could hear the television in Poppy’s room.
‘What are you doing here?’ Maurice’s voice seemed unnaturally loud.
She started. Maurice had been sitting in one of the armchairs; perhaps he’d been there all night. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before.
‘I did knock,’ she said. ‘I’m making coffee and thought you could use some.’
‘No, thanks.’ The words were aggressive, almost violent.
‘You can’t sit here all day. You’ll make yourself ill and you’ve got Poppy to think about.’ I’m a bossy cow, she thought. I always sound like a middle-aged nanny. She saw he was crying, that tears were rolling silently down his cheeks. She took a tissue from her apron pocket and wiped them away. He sat quite still like an obedient child having his face cleaned. ‘Come on. A change of scene will do you good. Mary Perez is here. You’ve always liked her. But everyone else belonging to the centre is out on the island. You won’t have to face them.’ She took his arm and helped him to his feet, giving him no real choice. She felt the stiffness in his joints, thought again that he’d probably been there all night.
In the kitchen she poured coffee, cut a freshly made scone in half, buttered it and set it before him.
‘The boat’s going out tomorrow,’ Mary said. ‘James and the boys will be up later to get it into the water.’ She turned to Maurice and asked gently: ‘Will you go out with it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe it would be for the best if you and Poppy got away for a while.’ Mary reached out to pour herself another mug of coffee. ‘Is there somewhere you could stay?’
‘Poppy will go back to her mother’s,’ Maurice said. Jane saw how clever Mary was, gently persuading him to consider the practical, to form constructive thoughts from the mess of emotion in his brain. ‘They’ve already discussed it. Someone will come up to Shetland to collect her. I’ll phone her this afternoon and make sure it’s arranged.’
Fran had finished her coffee and was on her feet, looking out of the window down past the low wall all the way towards the havens. Jane thought Fran would rather be out there, walking along the beach, climbing out on the rocks at the point
of Buness. She wouldn’t get on with the endless round of social calls that made up island life, especially in the winter. She wouldn’t settle here.
‘Would Poppy like to spend the rest of the day with us, do you think?’ Fran asked, turning back to the room. ‘She might be glad of some time on the island, especially if it’ll be her last day. That’ll be all right, Mary, won’t it? She could have lunch with us? It would get her out, away from the lighthouse for a while. It must be weird for her here. There’s no one of her own age.’
‘Yes,’ Maurice said. ‘I think she’d like that. I’ve been no help to her.’
‘I’ll go and ask her then, shall I? Is it just through here?’ Before Maurice could reply she was away, down the corridor towards the flat. Jane wondered what Fran was up to. Had Perez set her up to this? Or was she playing her own game? But you won’t come to the solution before me, Jane thought. Because an idea had come to her suddenly when she was talking to Maurice, like the flash of sunlight on the green waves.
There was a moment of silence in the kitchen. Mary turned back to Maurice.
‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘What are your plans? You must have friends who’d put you up?’
‘I don’t know. I lost a lot of friends when I married Angela. They thought I was mad: to leave my wife, to give up my job and move up here. They thought she’d put some sort of spell on me.’
‘But they’d be glad to help you now,’ Mary persisted.
‘Now she’s dead, you mean?’ Maurice looked up and his voice was bitter. ‘Oh, yes, there’ll be lots of people glad that she’s dead.’ But he drank his coffee, picked up the scone and ate it.
The field centre phone rang. It was Perez to say the coastguard helicopter was on its way to take out Angela’s body; he wondered if Maurice would like to be there to see her off. When Jane passed on the information Maurice shook his head. ‘I couldn’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t face it.’