Blue Lightning

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘In the Pund. That was our place.’

  Perez nodded. The Pund was a ruined croft house. Once it had been set up as a bothy for campers, with a loft bed. Aristocratic naturalists had stayed there before the war but it had fallen into disrepair and was no longer used. It would be a romantic place for an illicit meeting and he could see how the young man would love the excitement of hiding away there, the sun slanting through the gaps in the roof, the charge of expectation when he heard Angela approaching.

  ‘You do know she was sleeping with Hugh too?’ he said.

  ‘He dropped hints.’ Ben kept his voice unemotional. ‘There have been other visitors and Hugh was her type.’

  ‘You didn’t discuss it with him?’

  ‘Of course not! None of my business.’

  Perez had a picture of life in the North Light in the week running up to Angela’s death. The wind and rain making people feel trapped inside the building. Angela manipulating events for her own amusement, playing the young men off against each other, fuelling Poppy’s resentment, suggesting that Jane wouldn’t be welcome to return to the isle the following year. And Maurice? How would he have reacted to the mounting tension, to Angela’s games? Would he have welcomed them as one way of relieving her boredom, of ensuring that she would stay married to him? Perez thought the situation must have been intolerable.

  ‘Do you know which of the islanders was her lover?’

  ‘No!’ Ben was shocked. ‘It wasn’t something we discussed. She would have hated me prying.’ He paused. ‘If I’d asked about anything like that, she would never have seen me again.’

  ‘Was Angela undertaking a particular study at the moment?’

  ‘She was writing up the summer seabird census. I don’t think there was anything else.’ Ben frowned. How was this relevant? He seemed almost to resent the conversation moving away from his affair with Angela. He longed for the opportunity to talk about her.

  ‘Anything involving the collection of feathers?’ Perez asked.

  ‘You’re thinking about the feathers in her hair?’

  ‘I wondered if they’d have been in the bird room already.’ Otherwise the murderer must have brought them with him, Perez thought. And why would anyone do that? What sort of point was being made?

  ‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember seeing them. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Angela was quite private about her own research. She was paranoid about people stealing her ideas, getting into publication before her.’

  ‘What could she hope to prove through a study of feathers?’

  Ben shrugged. His interest was only marginally engaged. He was still more concerned about his own feelings. Perez thought how self-absorbed some people were. How they liked to create dramas with themselves playing the leading role.

  ‘An analysis would prove identification,’ Ben said. ‘Through DNA. You can also get an idea where a bird might have come from. That’s to do with trace elements found in the environment.’

  There was a moment of silence. Perez found his concentration slipping. He looked around him. The hall was the place for wedding parties. He imagined bringing Fran back here as his wife for the traditional ‘hame-farin’. She’d be wearing the dress she’d worn for the marriage ceremony – that was the custom. The place would be decorated with flowers and balloons, a big banner across the stage: ‘Jimmy and Fran’. There’d be music and dancing. I wanted to marry her from the minute I saw her. That idea was new to him and the sudden realization took his breath away. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to say the words to Fran. She’d laugh at him. Shallow and sentimental, he thought. That’s me.

  ‘Why were you so scared to talk to me?’ he asked. ‘You were scared?’

  Ben shrugged again. ‘It was the waiting. It felt like waiting for an exam to start. I’ve never been good at exams. I nearly passed out before my viva.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I thought you must have found out about us. About her men. I suppose I have a motive for murder.’

  ‘Jealousy?’ Perez asked. ‘Were you jealous?’

  ‘Horribly.’ Ben’s initial fear had quite gone. He was almost cheerful. Have I missed something? Perez wondered. What was making him so worried, so guilty? Ben went on: ‘I’d have killed Hugh Shaw if I’d thought I could get away with it. But not Angela. I’d never have harmed her.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Perez remained in the hall after Ben Catchpole had walked away; he was thinking about Angela. Her mischief, her games, her meddling with the emotions of the men in the field centre, all these could explain the outburst of violence that had led to her death.

  What am I saying? That she asked for it? The idea shocked him. He’d always been dismayed when colleagues suggested that victims, especially women, had contributed to the crimes against them. But he was curious about Angela Moore and he wanted to understand her better. He tried to picture the woman he’d met at island functions. He’d never had the sense that she was flirting with him. Although she’d been lively and confident, he’d never been attracted to her, and he found it difficult to explain Ben Catchpole’s infatuation or to see how she caused such chaos in the lives of the men in the lighthouse.

  Perhaps I wasn’t her type. Too old. Too boring. Despite himself he felt a sting of envy.

  After a couple of calls he tracked down the home number of Bryn Pritchard, the officer who’d notified Angela’s father about her death.

  ‘He’s the community plod,’ the station sergeant in Newtown had said. ‘Been there for years. No ambition. But he knows the place like the back of his hand.’

  The phone was answered by a woman. She put her hand over the receiver, but still Perez could hear her shouting. ‘Bryn, it’s for you. Work. Sounds like a foreigner.’ A voice like a foghorn.

  Bryn would have stayed chatting all day. At one point his wife must have brought him a drink, because Perez could hear him slurping in the occasional gap when Perez could insert a question.

  ‘They’re not local, not really. They moved to the village when Angela was eleven or twelve. There never was a mother. At least, I suppose there must have been once, but we never saw her. Gossip had it that she ran off because the prof was such a difficult bastard to live with, but that could have been speculation. There was a lot of speculation because nobody could find out what had really gone on. They didn’t mix. Angela didn’t go to school, for instance. The prof taught her at home. Not that unusual here with English families, home schooling. We tend to attract the hippy dippy crowd.’ He paused for breath, a gulp of tea.

  ‘The prof?’

  ‘That’s what he was. A professor. Or had been before he retired and moved out to live with us. Professor of biological sciences at Bristol University.’

  ‘He must have been quite old then, to be bringing up a daughter of that age.’ Perez tried to imagine what that would have been like for the girl. Cooped up in a house with an elderly academic. No friends of her own age.

  Bryn had his own opinions about that. ‘Archie Moore was about fifty-five when they moved here. It wasn’t right. I don’t know what the education welfare were thinking about allowing it. How could he provide for the needs of a teenage girl? Because that’s what she was when she left home. But they said she was receiving balanced schooling. She took all her exams a year early, passed with some of the highest marks in the country. But education isn’t only about exams, is it? He pushed her and pushed her. Not just in her school work, but music too. He sent her to Newtown for piano lessons and if you walked past in the evening you’d hear her practising. She didn’t have any sort of social life, not even with the other home-school kids. I don’t know where he bought her clothes for her but she dressed like a middle-aged woman. Who knows what sort of monster he was creating?’

  Perez didn’t answer and Bryn continued: ‘No wonder she went a bit wild in the end.’

  ‘Wild in what way?’

  ‘It was the last summer, before she went off to colleg
e. She hung around with some of the bad lads in the village. The girls never seemed to take to her. There was nothing criminal, not that she was ever done for, at least. But drinking. Probably drugs. One night Archie reported her missing; she turned up a couple of days later with a hangover, looking as if she hadn’t slept for a week.’

  ‘Where had she been?’

  ‘She would never say. But with a man. There were rumours that she went off early to college so she could get an abortion.’

  Perez didn’t ask how Bryn could know that. He too lived in a community where personal information leached into the public domain.

  ‘Did she come back to visit her father?’ Perez asked. ‘In the university holidays? After she graduated?’

  ‘No.’ There was a moment of silence. ‘That was the last time anyone here saw her, when she went off to uni on the coach from Newtown. I always thought that was very hard. I don’t like the man, but he’d done what he thought was best for her. Given her an education. She’d never have had all those chances without him. He didn’t even get invited to her wedding.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts about why she might have stayed away?’

  Another silence. ‘You’re thinking abuse?’ Bryn said. ‘Is that the way your mind’s working?’

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘So did I,’ Bryn said, ‘at the time. But no, I don’t think that was the reason she didn’t come home. She didn’t suffer the sort of abuse you’re thinking about anyway. She had nothing to bring her back. There was no more to it than that. The old man’s turned into a bitter old soak. He props up the bar of the Lamb from teatime to closing, talking to everyone who’ll listen about his famous, ungrateful daughter. She had no real friends here. She probably just put the place out of her mind.’

  ‘How did he take the news of her death?’

  ‘I went to see him as soon as I heard. It was about lunchtime, so at least he was almost sober. He lives in the same house where he’d brought up the girl. An ugly sort of bungalow on the edge of the village. It must have been built in the fifties – you’d never get planning permission for it now. Lily Llewellyn goes in every now and again to clean, but you’d never think it. Such a mess. He can’t throw anything away. Piles of newspapers all over the living room. And he still seems to be carrying out experiments. The kitchen bench is covered with jars and test tubes, with stuff growing inside. There’s a microscope. No telly. They never had a telly.’

  Perez thought if Sandy Wilson were doing this interview he’d be hurrying Bryn along, urging him to come to the point. But Perez was grateful for the detail. He could see the house in his head, was with Bryn when he stepped into the room, cleared a seat so he could sit down, felt the stickiness underfoot.

  ‘I just told him straight,’ Bryn said. ‘“Angela’s dead. It seems as if she was murdered.” He sat there looking at me. He was a big man in his day and he’s still tall, though he’s lost a lot of weight. Then he started crying. “I thought one day she’d understand what I’d done for her,” he said. “I thought she’d be grateful. Now she won’t have the chance.” He’d always been a hard man. No compromise with him. Angela was his project, after he gave up the university. It made me a bit queasy watching the tears. But I had the feeling he was crying for himself and not for her.’

  ‘Didn’t he want any details?’ Perez would have expected a scientist to need to know the facts of his daughter’s death. He had brought his child up to be rational. Even in old age, wouldn’t he need the facts to hang on to?

  Bryn hesitated for a moment. ‘He just said he wasn’t surprised. “She wasn’t the sort to live a quiet and easy life. She was her father’s daughter, after all.”’

  Perez switched off his mobile. Was this what he’d expected? An eccentric upbringing for Angela. Loveless, driven. It was hardly surprising that she hadn’t turned into a woman who made friends easily. She’d had no practice as a child. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for a girl growing up in a small community, looking different, sounding different. No mother. No television. If there were other kids around, she’d be the subject of their jokes and their gossip, an easy target, a scapegoat. Hardly surprising that she’d developed other ways of getting attention and affection. But he wasn’t sure the conversation with Bryn Pritchard brought him any closer to explaining her violent death.

  Through the window he saw a couple of mothers waiting in the schoolyard for the nursery children to come out. Angela’s mother would surely have been younger than Archie Moore. Where was she now? Had she followed her daughter’s career at a distance, seen the news reports of Angela’s death? Perez hit the number for the police station in Lerwick and got through to Sandy Wilson.

  ‘Are you all set for coming into the Isle tomorrow? Make sure you’re at Grutness early. I’ve asked the boys to take the Shepherd out ahead of time to bring you back. There’s a rare bird on the island and I don’t want the place swamped with birdwatchers.’ He’d hoped to outwit the reporters too, though if the wind continued to drop they’d have no problems chartering planes. ‘There’s something I want you to do this afternoon. I need you to trace the deceased woman’s mother. They’ve had no contact as far as we know since Angela was eleven. The father was a professor at Bristol University so you could start there.’

  Sandy yawned. Perez knew this was the sort of task he hated. The folks on the other end of the phone could never understand his accent and anyone with a higher education intimidated him. He’d grown up a bit in the last couple of years but he still had a low boredom threshold.

  Perez felt the need to explain why he couldn’t track down Angela’s mother himself. ‘I’m going back to see Maurice. I’ll ask if he knows where the woman might be, but you’ve got access to records I won’t have.’

  ‘Is it so important to track down the mother? I mean, she could hardly have committed the murder, could she? Not if she wasn’t there. You said yourself it had to be someone staying at the field centre.’

  ‘Surely she has a right to know her daughter’s dead!’

  But in terms of the investigation, Perez thought Sandy was probably right. This was a waste of time, a distraction activity. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he had no idea who had killed Angela Moore. But Maurice had lived with Angela for five years. He’d put up with her affairs, and continued to adore her. He must understand her better than anyone and with Poppy away from the North Light at Springfield with Fran and Mary, Perez at last had the chance to talk to him on his own.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Perez bumped into Maurice Parry in the field centre kitchen. The man showed no surprise at seeing him there. He looked grey and gaunt.

  ‘I was looking for Jane,’ Maurice said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen her. Perhaps she’s in her room. Dinner’s all ready but I can’t find her. There’s nobody here to ask. They all must be out.’ He seemed put out that Jane wasn’t available for him. He looked around like a petulant child, demanding attention or reassurance. Perez found it hard to remember the competent, affable man who had run the centre.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No,’ Maurice said. ‘Not really. I was hoping she might help me pack for Poppy. I’m sending Poppy out on the boat tomorrow and I thought I should get her stuff together. She went out with your fiancée and she hasn’t come back yet.’ Again there was a faint tone of complaint as if he blamed Perez for his daughter’s absence.

  ‘You’re not planning to go south yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Maurice said. ‘I’m not sure where I’d go. This is the only home I have now.’ He looked around the room. ‘I suppose there are friends who’d put me up, but I’d be terrible company.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Perez was a decent packer, better than Fran at least. And it would give him the chance to talk to Angela’s husband in an informal way.

  But Maurice seemed unable to make a decision. ‘Perhaps I should leave it to Poppy. It doesn’t really matter if something gets left behind and she should
be back soon to do it herself.’ He looked vaguely at Perez. ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ Perez said. ‘Tea would be great.’ He expected Maurice to take him through to the flat, but the man turned round and switched on the kettle there. Perhaps he saw the big lighthouse kitchen as neutral territory. Perez thought Maurice might have questions about the investigation; instead this was the sort of polite conversation you’d have with an acquaintance, about the weather forecast and the prospect of a quiet spell at last. The tears and depression that had formed his first response to the murder had given way to a mindless focus on small details. Another way, Perez supposed, of coming to terms with Angela’s death.

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me fill in some gaps in Angela’s background.’ Perez interrupted Maurice’s description of the high-pressure system that was due to settle over German Bight.

  There was a moment of shocked silence. Maurice dropped teabags into mugs.

  ‘I don’t know much about her life before she took up with me,’ he said at last. ‘She didn’t get on with her family.’

  ‘She must have told you something about them.’

  ‘Her father was a scientist. An academic. He had strange ideas about education and taught her at home instead of letting her go to the local school.’

  ‘Do you know why her parents separated?’

  ‘Angela never discussed it,’ Maurice said. ‘She resented her mother leaving, said she grew up feeling abandoned.’

  ‘How did she get on with her father?’ Perez asked. He cupped his hands round the mug of tea.

  Maurice shrugged. ‘They were very close when she was young, but later Angela found him controlling. I had the impression he was a bit of a bully or at least that he tried to live his life through her. When she left home to go to university they lost contact.’

  ‘That was her decision? Not to see him again? It seems extreme, especially if they got on together when she was young.’