Blue Lightning

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘I’ve been watching it all day,’ he said. Jaunty, exaggerating too, of course: he hadn’t spent all day at Golden Water. ‘Mind-blowing views . . . Yeah, if you like, I can meet you at the plane and walk up with you.’ He sensed a new respect in their attitude. He’d always be remembered as the guy who found the UK’s first trumpeter swan. The storm and the wait in Lerwick would only add to the mythology.

  It was quite dark when he got to the centre. He dumped his gear in the dormitory, then went to the common room and helped himself to a can of pop, putting the money in the honesty box, because nobody was running the bar. The place had a deserted feel and he realized that was because there was no sound coming from the kitchen. Jane usually had the radio on. Not music but talk and the discussion seeped through as a background hum into the common room. The quiet unnerved him and though he still felt awkward when he remembered the truth game, he was relieved when Hugh and Ben wandered through. Something about the empty lighthouse spooked him.

  ‘We met up on the road north,’ Hugh said. He caught Ben’s eye. Dougie wondered why Hugh had felt the need to explain the meeting. Was there something conspiratorial in the way they looked at each other?

  Again he felt like the fat boy in the playground, never invited to join a gang. He wondered what they’d been chatting about, suspected that there might have been jokes at his expense. Ben reported catching a few migrants on the trap round and they discussed the possibility of another rarity on the following day.

  ‘I’ve done all the crofts at the south this afternoon,’ Hugh said. He stretched as if the exertion had exhausted him. ‘Nothing special but it’s looking good for tomorrow. Especially if there’s a bit of drizzle at dawn.’

  It was the sort of conversation they would have had with Angela.

  ‘How did you get on with Perez?’ It seemed odd to Dougie that everyone was carrying on as if she hadn’t been murdered, as if there wasn’t a detective camped out in the hall conducting interviews.

  ‘He made me show him the swan,’ Hugh said. Dougie thought Hugh seemed almost jubilant. ‘Really, I’m not sure how bright he is. Now the weather’s cleared, surely they’ll send someone in from the mainland to take over the case.’

  ‘I think he’s bright enough.’ Ben was drinking beer too. ‘He pretends he’s slow, but he seems to have a pretty good idea what’s been going on here. I wouldn’t underestimate him.’

  The Fowlers arrived then, showered and changed for dinner as always, as if this was some smart hotel. They always looked scrubbed clean. Everyone sat waiting for the bell to go for the meal. There was an odd tension. There was no more talk about Perez and the questions he’d asked them. They just sat, looking at each other. Only Hugh seemed relaxed, lounging in his chair, reading an old Shetland bird report.

  ‘Jane’s a bit late tonight.’ John Fowler looked at his watch. ‘Not like her. It smells good though.’ Then they lapsed into silence again. Sitting beside her husband, Sarah had twisted her handkerchief into a ball, and was passing it from one hand to the other, incapable, it seemed, of sitting still. The constant movement frayed Dougie’s nerves. If she doesn’t stop soon, I’ll scream.

  A couple of minutes later they heard a noise in the kitchen, the door from the staff quarters being opened, and there was a moment of relief. Dougie only realized then how dependent they’d all become on Jane. It was the routine of the field centre – trap rounds and mealtimes, the log being taken each evening – that had prevented them falling into panic after Angela’s murder. Without Jane in the kitchen, the reassuring ritual was falling apart. Now she was here, all would be well again.

  But instead of Jane, bustling in to lay the table and apologizing for the delay, they saw Maurice and Poppy.

  ‘We thought we’d eat with you tonight,’ Maurice said. ‘It’s Poppy’s last night. Where’s Jane?’

  Before they could answer they heard the plane going over. It seemed very low, even more noticeable because it had been several days since they’d last heard the engine noise.

  ‘Perhaps she’s been arrested.’ It was Hugh, making a joke of it. Dougie thought any more jokes like that and one of them would slap him. ‘That’s the plane coming in to take her away.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Maurice’s voice was more assertive than Dougie had ever heard it. Perhaps the man couldn’t bear the thought of life on the island without Jane to make things run smoothly for him. ‘She’s probably down at Springfield with Mary and Fran. She needs some time off, for goodness’ sake. Dinner’s all ready. I think we can help ourselves.’

  It occurred to Dougie that none of them had expressed any concern over Jane’s safety. She was one of those efficient women who could always look after themselves. And nobody speculated about the arrival of the plane. They assumed it would be police business. They’d watched dramas on the television. Now, it seemed getting fed was the most important thing in their lives. It was at least something to focus on, just as he gave all his attention to birdwatching when he was troubled.

  So they all went into the kitchen and the Fowlers took control, setting Poppy to lay the table and asking Ben to put out the plates. John Fowler found rice keeping warm in the oven, almost as if Jane had expected to be delayed. Sarah carried the big pot of chicken casserole to the serving hatch and began to dish it out, acting just as Jane would have done, even wearing Jane’s apron.

  They were so quiet when they ate that they heard a vehicle coming into the lighthouse yard.

  Again there was a collective sense of relief. ‘Jane must have got a lift back,’ Poppy said, the words unnecessary, because it was what they were all thinking. She’d put on the black eyeliner and the gel in her hair so she looked almost back to her normal self. They heard the outside door of the lighthouse open and then the door into the dining room. Dougie thought they were all preparing things to say: You see, we managed without you. Did you have dinner at Springfield? I bet it wasn’t as good as this. Words so Jane wouldn’t know how thrown they’d been by her absence.

  But it wasn’t Jane who came into the room. A strange woman stood there, looking at them. She had the groomed hair and subtle make-up of a television news presenter. Jimmy Perez stood behind her. The woman moved aside and obviously expected Perez to speak.

  ‘This is Rhona Laing,’ he said. ‘The Procurator Fiscal. She’s supervising the police investigation here. The Scottish legal system is different from the English and she’ll be involved through to the prosecution.’

  ‘Have you seen Jane?’ Maurice spoke for them all. At the moment Jane’s whereabouts seemed to concern him more than the appearance of a lawyer from Lerwick. Who would make the coffee? ‘She seems to have disappeared. We thought she might be at Springfield with you.’

  Dougie saw a look pass between Perez and the Fiscal.

  ‘Jane Latimer is dead,’ the woman said briskly. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  They all stared at her.

  ‘What happened?’ Hugh’s smile had disappeared. Dougie thought his face looked quite different without it.

  ‘We’re here to ask questions, not to answer them,’ Rhona Laing said. ‘Her death is suspicious. That’s all you need to know for the present.’

  Dougie thought her approach was very different from Perez’s. But probably easier to deal with, he thought. More straightforward. He found Perez’s silences, his quiet understanding, terrifying. This woman would bluster and bully but she wouldn’t have the detective’s ability to read minds.

  ‘When did you last see her?’ Rhona demanded. She stood at the head of the table and looked at them all. She didn’t have to ask them to introduce themselves. Perez must have described them to her. It seemed to Dougie that she was enjoying herself. Perhaps she spent most of the time in an office, and the flight through the dark to the island, this confrontation with possible suspects, was a great adventure to her.

  ‘She was here for lunch,’ John Fowler said. ‘She served it and cleared it up. I haven’t seen her since then.’ />
  ‘Did anyone see her after lunch?’

  Nobody answered. ‘This is a small island,’ Rhona said. ‘There are few places to hide. It seems she walked away from the field centre at some point in the afternoon. It didn’t look as if she drove. Surely somebody saw her. Who was outside?’ She sounded like a teacher trying to elicit a response from a particularly unresponsive class.

  Still there was no reply. Dougie’s phone began to ring. The call was from one of the Bristol birders, a member of the rarities committee.

  ‘Switch that off!’ Rhona snapped at him without looking round. She pulled up a chair and sat at the table. It was Perez’s turn.

  ‘We have to decide how to proceed from here,’ Perez said. ‘The boat will go tomorrow. We’ve agreed that Poppy should be on it. Her mother will be meeting her in Grutness to take her home and we’ll know where she is if we need to talk to her again. Was anyone else planning to leave?’

  ‘I’m contracted to be here until the middle of November,’ Ben said. ‘Someone should carry on ringing throughout the migration season. I’d like to prepare the annual report as Angela’s not here to do it.’

  ‘I want to stay,’ Dougie said. He still resented not being allowed to take the call from the birding celebrity. The wind was light south-easterly. Who knew what other vagrants might turn up? American birds were all very well, but they weren’t as exciting as the rarities from the east. Anyone with enough money could go to the US to see trumpeter swan. Birds from Siberia weren’t so easy to track down on their breeding grounds. ‘And there’ll be loads of birdwatchers turning up tomorrow.’

  ‘We should decide how we’re going to manage that.’ Perez looked at Rhona.

  ‘You can’t stop them coming!’ Dougie said. ‘They’ll come anyway. If you stop the flights they’ll charter boats.’

  ‘We can’t allow them to get in the way of the investigation,’ Rhona said.

  ‘They won’t! I’ll bring them up to Golden Water and then back to the airstrip. They don’t need to stay overnight.’

  Rhona looked at Perez: ‘Would that work?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ He paused. ‘The press might be more troublesome.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the press,’ she said. ‘I’ll cope with them. It’ll be best to get them all in together and give them the same story.’

  She’d enjoy dealing with the media, Dougie thought.

  ‘There must be somewhere we can hold a press conference. The community hall, perhaps?’

  Perez nodded.

  ‘I was hoping we could go out on the boat,’ Sarah Fowler said. Still her hands moved in her lap. ‘We’re booked to stay for another week, but I’m scared now. Two murders. Two women. I want to go home.’

  ‘I can’t keep you here,’ Perez said. ‘But it would make life easier for me if you stuck to your original plan. We’ll need to talk to everyone again in the light of this afternoon’s discovery. Another police officer came in on the plane this afternoon. He’ll be staying here at the lighthouse. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Of course you’ll be safe,’ Rhona said. ‘I’ll be staying here too.’ As if she would be far more effective than Perez’s colleague at preventing another outrage.

  The Fowlers looked at each other. Dougie thought it would take more courage to stand up to the Fiscal and insist on going than to decide to stick it out. Sarah put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Please, I don’t think I can stand it here any longer.’

  Fowler frowned. Dougie thought he was torn between meeting his wife’s request and doing what he’d see as his duty. ‘Just a few more days,’ he said. ‘If the inspector thinks it’ll help.’

  Sarah looked at her husband and saw that she was defeated ‘OK. We’ll stay.’

  ‘Who’ll do the cooking?’ Dougie asked.

  For the first time that evening Perez smiled. ‘I’ll ask someone from the island to help out. We’ll make sure that you’re fed.’ He turned to Hugh. ‘What about you? Do you need to get home?’

  The trademark grin had already returned. ‘I want to stay until this is all over. Until the killer’s caught. Of course.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  In Springfield, Mary and Fran waited for news. Fran thought: Throughout history, it’s been the women who’ve waited. The men have it easy. They see the action and they know what’s happening. The women sit, imagine disaster, and peer through gaps in the curtained windows for the men to return. Then she thought she was being ridiculously melodramatic. She was hardly the French Lieutenant’s Woman, staring out from the end of the pier. These days there were mobile phones. She could always phone Perez and ask him what was going on. Waiting would have been more bearable if she could have had a proper drink. She was drowning in tea. Perhaps because of James’s puritan influence, Mary seemed to think alcohol was sinful and corrupting, especially for women. If James took a dram she considered that almost medicinal, but she never joined him. Fran had bought a bottle of wine in the shop when she was last there, to have with dinner when they all got together. It seemed that was unlikely to happen in the near future, and the bottle was still in her room, tempting her. It had a screw top. She wouldn’t even have to steal a corkscrew from the kitchen. Already, in her head, she was forming this as an amusing story to tell her London friends. They’d be in a bar somewhere and she’d be talking about her first visit to Fair Isle and the religious in-laws, about sneaking into her bedroom, drinking the wine straight from the bottle. She was a good storyteller. She’d have them in stitches.

  She phoned Cassie as she did every evening. Duncan had taken the girl to Whalsay with him on business and Fran sensed she’d been bored. ‘When are you coming home?’ Cassie demanded. ‘Jimmy promised to take me swimming.’

  ‘Just a couple of days. I promise. Not long now. Get Dad to invite Jenny to play tomorrow.’ Jenny was Cassie’s new best friend.

  Fran had just replaced the receiver when Big James arrived home. She knew Perez found it hard to get on with his father. They’d discussed the relationship: parents and how to survive them. But Fran thought James was a sweetie. He’d been pleasant enough to her at least. When Perez was busy he’d walked round the croft with her, explained the crops he was growing, told her how they worked the sheep. It had seemed to her that he was a man who enjoyed the company of women.

  Now she thought he looked very tired and quite old. She’d always considered him a strong man, muscular and fit, but this evening she saw the lines on the back of his hands and the slackness in the skin around his eyes and his jaw.

  ‘I don’t know how Jimmy does that work,’ he said. ‘It would be too much of a strain for me.’ He sat in his usual chair by the fire and pulled off his boots.

  ‘The plane got in all right?’ Mary asked.

  ‘No problem at all. It was the new pilot, but he knew what he was doing.’ James got to his feet and poured himself a glass of whisky. He lifted the bottle towards Fran. ‘Will you take a dram?’ A sign that these were indeed unusual times.

  She hesitated for a moment and then she nodded. He poured her a measure that was as large as his own.

  ‘Have they made an arrest?’ Fran asked. It had occurred to her that at least a second murder might have brought a fresh impetus to the investigation. Surely now Jimmy would have more idea what had happened.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ James said. ‘Jimmy couldn’t talk about the case. I understand that.’

  ‘So you have no news at all.’ It was Mary, looking up from her knitting. She set it down on the floor beside her. ‘I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill Jane. That Angela was a different matter. I never took to her.’ She looked up sharply at James. ‘You know what I thought of her.’ Fran had never heard her speak ill of the woman before and thought this a sign of how the murders were affecting everyone on the island. ‘But Jane? What harm was there in her?’

  ‘We never knew her,’ James said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I knew her enough to know tha
t I liked her. She was in here the other day when the birdwatcher came banging at the door with news of the rare swan. We laughed together about the obsessions men have. We decided that women had more sense.’

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘That new Fiscal came in on the plane,’ James said at last, an attempt, Fran thought, to distract Mary with a snippet of gossip. ‘She seems a fine woman.’

  Fran was going to say that Jimmy didn’t get on with her so well, but stopped herself. It wasn’t the sort of subject Jimmy would want to discuss with his father.

  James turned to her and his voice was unusually gentle. He could have been speaking to a baby. ‘Jimmy wants you to come out with us on the boat in the morning. He thinks you’ll be safer at home.’

  ‘No!’ How much harder would the waiting be, if she were at home in Ravenswick. Even with Cassie to keep her company, she couldn’t bear it. ‘Absolutely not.’

  He shrugged, as if that was the answer he’d been expecting, as if he’d told his son already that she wouldn’t be persuaded.

  ‘Have you any idea when he’ll be back here?’ Mary asked.

  ‘He said not to wait up for him. He could be out all night.’

  Fran felt desolate. Was this how her life would be? Jimmy would have his work. She’d be at home worrying. Perhaps she couldn’t deal with that. Perhaps they’d be better moving on to Fair Isle. If he were working on the croft and the Shepherd he wouldn’t be poking around in the private lives of killers. She wouldn’t spend her time thinking he was in danger.

  She was still awake when Perez came in. It must have been after three in the morning; she’d glanced occasionally at the alarm clock by the bed. Now the wind had stopped she heard a vehicle approaching, a couple of whispered words, and then the sound of the engine disappearing north again. Sandy Wilson would have driven him home. Perez must be exhausted. She hadn’t appreciated before his ability to do without rest. The relief of his return made her relax and she thought now sleep would be possible.