Blue Lightning

by Ann Cleeves

  And James had always liked younger women. He’d been flattered by their attention. He liked to dance with them. They liked him too, were taken in by the old-fashioned courtesy. Even Fran, the most discerning of people, had been seduced by his charms.

  How many women have there been? Perez thought now, watching the sky lighten over Sheep Rock. How many lies has he told my mother? Then it came to him that Mary must surely have known about his father and Angela Moore, guessed at least that something was going wrong. She was a perceptive woman and they’d been married for more than thirty-five years. James would be the worst sort of liar. Perez wondered that he hadn’t realized there were problems in the marriage; between them his parents had managed to keep the crisis secret from him.

  He saw that Sandy was already at the ruined croft. He was sitting on the threshold watching Perez approach. Perez hoped that Vicki was still in the lighthouse catching up on some sleep. He’d ordered the helicopter in with the search team at ten o’clock. She could take the body and her evidence back on that and would be in Aberdeen by lunchtime. Now he wanted to talk to Sandy alone.

  Again he had coffee in his bag, and bacon sandwiches and sticky date slices. His mother had got up before James to prepare food for him and the crew and had made up a parcel for Jimmy too. Every boat day was the same. Why would you do that if you knew he’d been sneaking here to the Pund and having sex with Angela Moore? Perez thought it would be about pride and presenting a united front in the face of island gossip. She must still care for his father and wouldn’t want him to look a fool.

  Perez sat on the doorstep next to Sandy. ‘How were things at the field centre?’

  ‘Fine. The Fiscal said she’d be here to see the body away. She’ll borrow their Land Rover. Vicki will make sure it’s all done right.’

  ‘I need your advice.’ Despite himself he smiled at the surprise and pride on Sandy’s face. People usually offered Sandy advice, whether he wanted it or not; they didn’t often ask for it.

  Perez told his story. About finding the silver earrings and bangle in the wooden box, while he was searching the Pund before finding Jane’s body. About the implications of their disappearance.

  ‘What does your father say about it?’ Sandy had lit another cigarette.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve not asked him.’

  ‘Maybe you should. You could have got the whole thing wrong. Do you not think you could be jumping to conclusions?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure how that would look. If we were to charge him . . .’

  ‘Ballocks.’ Sandy blew smoke into the cold air, watched it rise above him. ‘You’re not saying the man’s a murderer?’

  ‘No.’ That at least was something Perez had discounted almost immediately. His father had been at Springfield when Angela Moore had been killed and if he’d stabbed Jane Latimer to prevent her from talking about his affair, he could have taken the jewellery out of the wooden box then. Besides, the show with the feathers wasn’t his style.

  ‘Then charging doesn’t come into it,’ Sandy said. ‘But if he knew the woman then he might have something useful to tell you. It would be wrong not to ask him about her. He’s an important witness.’

  ‘He’s tampered with a crime scene,’ Perez said. ‘Perverted the course of justice.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sandy said, ‘if you have got this right, he’s trying to save his marriage.’ He paused. ‘And his son from embarrassment.’

  They sat in silence and watched a huge orange sun rise over the sea beyond Sheep Rock. In the distance there was the sound of an approaching plane.

  Perez went to the airstrip to watch the plane arrive. It must have left Tingwall at first light and it certainly wasn’t a regular scheduled flight. He met Dougie Barr, the fat birder, on his way; the man was flushed despite the cold and out of breath.

  ‘I’ve just been up to Golden Water,’ he said, the words coming out in short, painful bursts, ‘to check that the swan’s still there.’

  ‘And is it?’ After a night of anxiety about his father, Perez saw the birdwatchers now as an amusing distraction. He’d always found the obsession of these men faintly ridiculous. He realized that they were mostly men. Angela Moore was a rarity.

  ‘Yes. Just where it went to roost yesterday evening.’

  ‘You’ll take them straight up to the north end and then back to the plane. No detours. Otherwise the flights will be stopped.’

  ‘I’ve explained all that to them.’ They both stepped off the track to allow Dave Wheeler to drive past.

  There were still signs on the airstrip of the preparations for the emergency flight the night before – piles of ash where the fires had been lit, scorched grass. The plane circled the strip and came in low to land, smooth and easy. Tammy Jamieson’s wife turned up, not in the van – Sandy was still using that – but in a gold Ford Capri with the wheel arches eaten away by rust. She parked just where Perez was standing and wound down the window. She was a Fetlar woman; she and Tammy had met at school.

  ‘Glad to have Tammy out with the boat?’ Perez asked.

  ‘Aye, he’s like a bear with a sore head if he doesn’t get on to the water every week. And I’m glad of the peace. I love him to bits but we all need some time on our own.’

  ‘Anyone you know coming in on the flight?’

  She grinned. ‘Nah, I’m here as a taxi. Maurice phoned last night to ask if I’d give the birdwatchers a lift to the north end and bring them back. I’ll be at it all morning, it seems. A kind of shuttle. He said they’d pay and it’ll be something towards the holiday fund.’

  Perez thought Maurice must be slipping back into his role of field centre administrator. Perhaps Jane’s death had forced him to pick up the reins again. Or maybe Rhona Laing had something to do with it; few men would have the nerve to stand up to her and Maurice had always taken the easy course. Almost immediately after thinking about the Fiscal, his mobile rang and her name flashed on to the screen.

  ‘Jimmy. Where are you?’

  ‘At the airstrip seeing the first lot of birdwatchers in.’ He watched them climb out of the plane, laden with telescopes, tripods and cameras. Dougie shepherded four of them into the waiting car. Even from where he stood he could sense their excitement. They stuffed their equipment in the boot and piled into the back. Dougie took the front seat. ‘You can start walking up the road,’ he said to the remaining four. ‘We’ll pick you up as soon as we’ve dropped this lot off.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ The Fiscal, impatient, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.’

  ‘I’ve fixed a time for the press conference. Two o’clock in the hall.’

  Perez couldn’t hear what else the Fiscal had to say, because the plane rolled past him on its way to take off. He supposed the aircraft was doing a shuttle too. It would bring another lot of birders in and take out the folk already here.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘Could you repeat that?’

  ‘I’d like you there, Jimmy. At the press conference.’ He sensed her growing irritation. She was used to getting an immediate response.

  ‘How are the reporters getting in?’

  ‘We’ve arranged one special charter. The rest will come on the boat. I’m hoping we’ll have got rid of most of the day-tripping birdwatchers by then.’

  He thought she’d choreographed the whole procedure very well.

  ‘Well, Jimmy?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You will be at the press conference?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course.’

  In the North Light they were eating breakfast. Dougie was missing, but all the other suspects were there: the Fowlers, Hugh Shaw, Ben Catchpole, Maurice Parry. Perez stood at the door watching them before they noticed he was there. One of you is a murderer. They all looked so ordinary, so unthreatening, that the idea seemed a ridiculous exaggeration.

  Again Sarah Fowler had taken up Jane’s place in the kitchen. Now Poppy had gone, she was the only female long-t
erm resident left. Perez wondered what Fran would make of the assumption that she’d do the cooking, but he saw that she’d taken over the role with enthusiasm. The desperation of the night before seemed to have dissipated. She stood behind the counter just as Jane had done, sliding bacon and fried eggs from the warm tray on to plates, looking up occasionally to talk to the other guests. Again he wished he could find a way of understanding her better. What lay behind her switches in mood? Of course, last night, they’d all seemed to be in a state of shock. This morning, it was as if they’d determined to ignore the violence and continue as normal. Perhaps the fact that Jane’s death had occurred away from the centre made that more possible.

  ‘Would you like some breakfast, Inspector? Or coffee?’ Sarah Fowler had seen him and called him over.

  ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Please. So you’re left doing all the work?’

  ‘I’m much better having something to do. Really, there’s no need to organize anyone else to cook. I’d prefer to be busy.’

  There was no sign of Vicki or the Fiscal in the dining room.

  ‘You’ve just missed your colleagues,’ Sarah said. ‘They took the field centre Land Rover.’ To the Pund to collect Jane’s body, then to the helicopter landing pad near the South Light.

  He nodded, took his coffee and sat at a table next to Maurice. ‘Poppy went out OK with the Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maurice was tidier than Perez had seen him for a while. Had he shaved before seeing his daughter on to the boat? Made a last effort to hold things together for her sake? Or was it the Rhona Laing effect again?

  ‘In the end she seemed quite reluctant to go,’ Maurice went on. ‘She said she was worried about me.’ He looked up. ‘Did you get in touch with Jane’s relatives?’

  ‘Her sister,’ Perez said. ‘Jane’s parents are quite elderly. The sister will pass on the news to them.’ He looked over to the birdwatchers on the other side of the table. ‘Why aren’t you at Golden Water with that American swan?’

  ‘The work of the field centre has to go on. We’re not all on holiday.’ Ben flushed and Perez wondered what had provoked such an angry response. Did he resent the plane-loads of birders tramping across the island? ‘Fair Isle isn’t just about rarities, despite people like Dougie. We’re doing real science here.’

  ‘Of course.’ Perez drank his coffee.

  ‘I’ve walked round the traps and now I’m going to do the hill survey. Without Angela someone has to keep things going.’

  ‘If you’re up on Ward Hill you’ll have a good view of the Pund.’

  ‘So?’ Another flash of anger and defiance.

  ‘I wondered if you were there yesterday. Someone was out on the hill and you might have seen something.’

  ‘I was on the hill in the morning. Jane was still in the lighthouse then.’ Ben stood up and walked out, almost flouncing, tossing his red hair like a young girl. Poppy had gone but it seemed Ben had taken her place as token petulant teenager.

  ‘We’re all rather short-tempered, I’m afraid,’ John Fowler said. ‘It’s the stress. You mustn’t take it personally.’

  On the table beside him lay a notebook, the top page covered in squiggles of shorthand. Again Perez suspected his motives. Would all this become an article in a grand Sunday newspaper? It would make a good story, he could see that. The group of witnesses gathered together in the same building on a windswept isle, wondering which of their number was a murderer.

  The journalist muttered something about helping his wife and wandered into the kitchen. Hugh said he’d go to Golden Water; it would be a good chance to catch up with his friends and he might as well make the most of his moment of glory. Perez and Maurice were left alone.

  ‘She was gay, you know,’ Maurice said suddenly. Then, when Perez didn’t respond immediately: ‘Jane Latimer. She was gay. Probably not relevant and it didn’t make any difference to me, but I thought I should tell you.’

  ‘Was it something she discussed?’

  ‘She didn’t make a big deal of it, but it wasn’t a secret. She talked occasionally about her partner – her former partner. She works in the media: television, film. Something like that.’

  ‘Did she form any relationships while she was here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but then I might not have known. She would have been discreet. It seems unlikely though. We don’t get many single women staying at the North Light.’

  Perez thought Sandy would be excited by this revelation. He would find it significant. But Perez didn’t believe that Jane was the primary victim in this case. She was killed for what she knew or what she had guessed, not for who she was.

  Outside, there was the sound of an engine and through the long window he saw the helicopter arriving to take the dead woman back to the mainland. There would be no dramatic send-off for her, but he thought she would have preferred it that way.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Dougie looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes and he’d have to get this last load of birders back to the airstrip. One lot had already gone. They were all experiencing the post-tick high, not really looking at the bird any more – they’d been concentrated enough when they’d first arrived, staring through telescopes, taking notes, drawing sketches. Then, everyone had been whispering. Now, they’d turned up the volume: they were laughing, catching up on the news, sending texts and photos to friends not lucky enough to be there, gripping them off. Hugh was in the centre of them. You’d have thought it had been him and not Dougie who’d found the swan and because he’d been the second to see it, his name would be in the British Birds rarity report too. Dougie resented that.

  Soon the plane would be in. In the distance he thought he could hear Tammy’s car on the return trip to collect them. That was a relief. He felt responsible for getting the newcomers down the island on time. It was all very well Hugh holding court with his stories – everyone wanted to hear about the murder and Hugh was happy enough to oblige – but it would be Dougie who’d get the blame if they weren’t on the airstrip when the plane landed. If Angela had been here she would have laughed at him. For fuck’s sake, Dougie boy, lighten up a bit. She’d laughed at him a lot – about his obsession with being on time, the boring nature of his job, taking himself too seriously. But she’d taken herself seriously, Dougie thought. At least, when it came to her work.

  The gold Capri driven by Sally Jamieson appeared round the corner and a sort of cheer went up. There were comments about the rust and the smell but none of them would have wanted to walk. The group started to move away from the edge of the pool towards the road. The Shetland birders would be glad to get back to Lerwick, to lunch in a bar and a few beers to celebrate. The rest had to make their way south. Dougie walked behind them. He turned for a last look at the swan. It stretched its wings, ran over the water to take off and sailed into the air. He expected it to circle and return to the water. It had done that a number of times since it had settled on Golden Water. But it flew high into the air and disappeared to the north. The birders fell silent and watched it until it was out of sight. They knew it wouldn’t return now.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The hall was very warm. Rhona must have arranged for the heating to be turned on and the sunlight was flooding in through the windows, reflecting on the camera lenses, picking up a swirl of dust in one corner. Chairs had been unstacked and set out in rows. The Fiscal stood with Perez at the front of the room. He was still distracted by the thought that he should confront his father. The Good Shepherd had arrived back into Fair Isle and he couldn’t put it off much longer. But Perez was already having doubts. What if Sandy was right and he was misreading the whole situation? What if he accused his father of adultery only to find he’d made a huge mistake? The man would never speak to him again.

  Rhona took the press conference. She read out the statement she’d prepared in the lighthouse while they were eating lunch. The news of the second murder came as a surprise to most of the reporters. The helicopter ha
d come in and out with Jane’s body before they’d arrived. There was a gasp, almost of glee, when she gave the facts in her dry, measured voice. Perez supposed he couldn’t condemn the press for enjoying the drama of the story. Many of the Fair Isle folk had reacted in the same way. It was as if the little community at the North Light were a living soap opera, being played out for the audience’s enjoyment.

  The Fiscal looked around the room, squinting a little against the sunlight. ‘Are there any questions?’

  A big man wearing an old Barbour jacket raised his hand. Perez didn’t recognize him. He must have come in from the south. ‘Two women dead on an island this size. I’d not have thought it’d be hard to track down the killer. Why has it taken so long to make an arrest?’

  The Fiscal stared at him icily. ‘I’ve explained about the unusual situation here. The weather prevented the usual forensic support. We have every expectation that an arrest will be made shortly.’

  ‘Will you be calling in the Serious Crime Squad from Inverness?’

  ‘I have every confidence in the local officers, assisted by the specialist search team that arrived from the mainland today. Of course, should it become necessary we’ll ask for additional support.’

  No pressure then, Perez thought. He understood the subtext of her words. Sort this quickly or we’ll take the case away from you. Two days ago that wouldn’t have bothered him. He’d have been glad to hand it over and take Fran away from the Isle. Now his father seemed to be involved. If it came to light that he’d had a relationship with Angela Moore, the press would make his family’s life a misery.

  A dark-haired young woman stood up. ‘Angela Moore was a celebrity. Do we know if she’d received unusual attention from any individual?’

  Again the Fiscal took the question. Perez had only spoken to clarify a few points of fact.

  ‘Are you talking a stalker? No, we have no evidence of that.’

  ‘Have Mrs Moore’s relatives been informed of all the circumstances surrounding the case?’ A slight man, with prominent front teeth that made him look like a rat. Perez supposed the national press were already tracking down Archie Moore. Were they camping outside the run-down bungalow Bryn Pritchard had described? Perez imagined the old man sitting in the pub, taking drinks from reporters, talking about his famous, ungrateful daughter.