Thin Air: (Shetland book 6)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Sandy said. ‘I spoke to the husband, Ian. He said she hadn’t been herself lately. She’d been depressed. Something about losing a baby.’

  ‘He’s thinking she might have committed suicide?’

  ‘He didn’t say that, but I think it’s on his mind. He sounded upset. He wanted us there straight away.’ Sandy paused. ‘I told him we’d be with them as soon as we could. It’s Mary Lomax’s patch, but she’s away south, so I’ve asked the coastguard to start a search. Was that OK?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Perez was thinking it was a good day for a trip to the North Isles, clear and still. ‘Book us onto the ferries and I’ll pick you up in Lerwick on the way through.’

  The ferry was already at Toft when they arrived and theirs was the second car in the booked lane, waved aboard almost immediately. They drank dreadful coffee from the machine in the passenger lounge, and Perez watched the fulmars flying low over the water. It felt like a day off. Truanting. He looked at his phone and asked Sandy to check his. Reception came and went here, so they might not hear even if the woman had turned up. He hoped that when they arrived at Meoness she would be there. He pictured how she would be, offering them coffee or lunch to make up for their inconvenience. Embarrassed to have caused so much fuss. A little angry with her husband for overreacting. He and Sandy would turn round and drive back to Lerwick, with only half a day wasted. But even when they arrived at Yell and the phones were working again there was still no news. Perez drove north across the island very quickly, feeling a strange sense of urgency. When they got to Gutcher a ferry was pulling out from the pier and they had to wait for the next one to arrive. He could feel the tension mounting in his forehead and across his shoulders. Fran had been thirty-six when she had died.

  When they landed at Belmont in Unst a group of children was waiting to board the ferry south. He thought they must be on their way to Lerwick for some end-of-term outing. Some of them were in fancy dress. They giggled as they boarded the coach to take them to Shetland mainland. Perez was going to ask Sandy if he knew what it was about – Sandy read The Shetland Times as avidly as a gossipy woman – but the sergeant had a map open on his knee, concentrating on getting them there, and Perez thought it better not to interrupt.

  The holiday house was long and low and whitewashed, and sat right on a beach with a crescent of sand and pebbles at its back. Once perhaps it had been a croft house with a byre attached, but the renovations had been well done, with the holiday market in mind. There was wooden decking between the house and the beach and a couple sat there, waiting. Perez looked at them as he got out of the car. The woman was skinny and pale. An interesting angular face, which Fran would have wanted to draw. Long hair tied back at her neck. Jeans and a cotton jumper. She walked out to greet them. ‘Is there any news? Ian has taken the car out to look for her, but that was ages ago and we haven’t heard anything since.’ Her eyes were grey and slanted like a cat’s. She had a faint north-of-England accent.

  Perez introduced himself.

  ‘Polly Gilmour. This is my partner, Marcus Wentworth.’

  ‘And you were staying here with Mr and Mrs Longstaff.’

  ‘Yes, we came for Lowrie and Caroline’s wedding party. The four of us thought we’d make a holiday out of it, a kind of retreat.’ The eyes were almost unblinking.

  ‘Did Mrs Longstaff need a retreat?’ Perez had reached the deck and took a wooden chair on the other side of the table from Marcus. Sandy leaned against the wall of the house and tried to look inconspicuous.

  There was a silence. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of question they were expecting.

  ‘I mean,’ Perez said, ‘was there any reason why she might have taken herself away? If she’d been going through a bad time?’

  Polly hesitated. ‘She had a miscarriage late in pregnancy,’ she said. ‘She’s been a bit low lately and had a spell in hospital. Ian thought it would help her to get away from London.’

  For a while Perez didn’t speak. He’d been married before he met Fran, and his wife had suffered three miscarriages. He’d been devastated by each one, but determined to hold himself together. Sarah had thought him uncaring and had walked away from the marriage.

  ‘Is Eleanor still seeing a doctor for the depression?’

  Polly shook her head. ‘She signed herself out of hospital and has refused treatment since. She said it was natural to feel sad at the loss of a child; you’d be ill if you didn’t. And she’s been much better recently. Almost back to her old self.’

  There was another silence. Perez could sense Sandy’s impatience. It seemed Marcus was unnerved by it too, because he stood up. ‘Coffee? It’s a long drive from Lerwick. I don’t think I realized the scale of the place before we arrived – how much distance there is between communities.’ He sounded easy, confident, a man who’d been to a good school and expected to get what he wanted.

  ‘Coffee would be grand.’ Perez waited until he’d disappeared into the house and then turned again to Polly. ‘Tell me about Eleanor.’

  Now the woman did blink. ‘We’re friends. Really close. There are three of us: Eleanor, Caroline and me. We met on our first day at university. Eleanor took me under her wing. You could tell that she would do well, even then. She was always beautiful, of course, and that still helps, doesn’t it? Especially if you want to work in the media.’

  ‘What was her work?’

  ‘She did drama at uni and found work in television as soon as she left, first as a runner, then as a script editor. Recently she’s set up her own TV production company. Mostly documentaries for Channel 4 and the BBC.’

  ‘Sounds stressful.’ Perez gave a little laugh. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to run a company or live in London. Through the open door into the kitchen he smelled coffee. Good coffee still reminded him of Fran.

  ‘Nell thrived on the stress. It was what made her feel alive. And, as far as I know, the company was doing well. But not getting pregnant was different. Outside her control. And I think it was the first time she’d ever failed at anything.’

  ‘Do you think she’s killed herself?’

  The question seemed to stun her, but the response was immediate. ‘Not for a moment. Nell’s a fighter. She wouldn’t give up. She’s in the middle of a project at work and she would never leave anything half-finished.’

  ‘What’s the project?’ Perez felt that he was out of his depth. He knew nothing about the media and only watched TV with Cassie. CBBC or Disney.

  ‘A film about ghosts. Contemporary hauntings. That’s why she was delighted when I told her the story of Peerie Lizzie.’

  ‘How did you know it?’ Perez hadn’t realized that anyone outside Shetland had heard of the ghost of Peerie Lizzie.

  ‘I’m a librarian,’ Polly said. ‘I specialize in folk stories, British myths and legends.’ She paused. ‘Nell never stops working. I guess she’s kind of obsessive. She thought that while she was here she could interview people who’d seen the girl. She even brought a digital recorder with her.’

  Peerie Lizzie was a little girl who was supposed to haunt the land around Meoness in Unst late at night. It was claimed she was the spirit of a child, the daughter of the big house, who’d been drowned close by in 1930. The child had been especially precious because the parents had been middle-aged when she was conceived, and some stories had it that her appearance foretold a pregnancy. Perhaps that was why Eleanor had been so interested. Perez was a sceptic. Most people who reported the sightings were young men with a few drinks inside them, or attention-seekers looking to get their name in the paper. As far as he knew, nobody had got pregnant as a result.

  He had the sense that Polly was going to say more, but she turned away and looked at the beach, so he resumed the conversation.

  ‘Do you think she might have wandered up the road last night in the hope of seeing the ghost?’

  Marcus appeared with a tray, a pot of coffee and four mugs. Polly waited to answer until he’d set
them on the table.

  ‘It’s more likely than a notion that she would have killed herself.’ A pause. ‘As I said, she was obsessed with the idea of the documentary, so yes, it’s just what she might have done.’ The woman looked up at her partner. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I didn’t know her. Not like you did. A couple of supper parties and then a night together when we came up on the boat from Aberdeen . . . But I certainly wouldn’t have had her down as a potential suicide risk.’

  ‘Do you have a photo?’ Perez still couldn’t get a handle on the missing woman and thought that a picture in his head might make her more real for him. ‘It would help, if we need to widen the search.’ He’d show the boys who worked on the ferry to Yell. If she’d been out early in the morning, and on foot, they’d have noticed her.

  ‘Not a print,’ Polly said, ‘but there are some on my laptop. I took some pictures on the boat from Aberdeen, so they’re recent. The house has Wi-Fi. Come inside.’

  The interior of the house was tasteful and simple. Only the sheepskins in front of the wood-burner and the prints of puffins and gannets on the walls reminded visitors they were in Shetland. And the spectacular view from the window. Polly’s laptop was open on the coffee table and she switched it on. With a few clicks she’d reached the file of photos.

  Eleanor Longstaff was dark-eyed. Long hair was being blown by the wind away from her face. She could have shared ancestors with Jimmy Perez, whose forebears were shipwrecked off Fair Isle during the Spanish Armada. The photo had been taken on the deck of the NorthLink ferry. Eleanor was dressed in a waterproof anorak and was leaning back against the rail. She was laughing. No sign here, at least, of stress or depression.

  ‘I can email you a copy, if that’s any good,’ Polly said.

  Perez nodded and handed her his work card with his contact details. He’d get the photo printed in Unst’s small police station. Mary Lomax, the community police officer, might be away, but Sandy had brought a key to the building.

  Polly’s narrow fingers were tapping on the keyboard when she stopped suddenly and looked round at them. She seemed paler than ever. Horrified. ‘I’ve had an email from Eleanor. It arrived this morning. Sent at two a.m., so not that long after we went to bed. It must be from her iPhone.’

  ‘Open it!’ Marcus was looking over her shoulder.

  She looked at Perez for permission. He nodded and moved so that he had a better view of the screen. Polly double-clicked on the message and it opened.

  No greeting and no sign-off, not even the obligatory x. Just one line. Don’t bother looking for me. You won’t find me alive.

  Chapter Four

  Outside there was the sound of a car moving slowly down the track. Ian’s 4x4. Polly turned off the laptop. She didn’t care what the policeman thought; she couldn’t bear the idea that Ian would walk in and find them all staring at a message from his wife. A message that could be read as a suicide note. She still couldn’t quite believe in the email; thought if she opened her in-box again it would have vanished, a figment of their collective imaginations.

  Ian was a techie, a geek, not given to emotion of any kind; and even now, as he stood in the doorway frowning, it was hard to tell what he made of the situation. Polly had always thought that he and Eleanor made an unlikely couple. How could Eleanor, who needed so much love, who wanted to be touched and hugged and kissed, fall for a man so stony and unresponsive? It had occurred to Polly that her own reaction was selfish: perhaps she just hated the idea of losing her close friends of university days, of being separated from them. But Caroline had married Lowrie, who was sympathetic and uncomplicated, and Polly was entirely happy for her.

  In contrast, Eleanor’s engagement to Ian had made Polly anxious from the start. The night before Eleanor’s wedding the three of them had got drunk together in Polly’s flat. The bride and the bridesmaids and too much fizzy wine. An essential ritual.

  ‘You do realize that it’s not too late?’ Polly had said, after Caroline had fallen asleep in a chair in the corner, her mouth open, snoring. ‘You don’t have to go through with it. Pull out now and I’ll sort out the practical stuff for you.’

  ‘Of course I don’t want to pull out.’ Eleanor had been horrified, had looked at Polly as if she hardly knew her. ‘Ian’s what I want and what I need. I can’t imagine not spending the rest of my life with him. What’s wrong with you? Can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous that I’ve found someone special at last?’

  That had been three years ago and it still seemed to Polly that their friendship was strained. Caroline hadn’t noticed, but Polly had been aware of the tension, of having to choose her words carefully. She couldn’t spill out her feelings to Eleanor as she had in the old days, when they’d both been single. She’d hoped this trip to Unst might make everything between them right again.

  Of course Eleanor’s wedding to Ian had taken place and Polly had been there as the witness, smiling for the camera outside the registry office on a breezy March day. Eleanor had changed her name to her husband’s, although few of their friends did that any more. In the afternoon they’d gone up in the London Eye and had drunk a toast in champagne to Mr and Mrs Longstaff. Then Eleanor had sent the guests away to party without them. ‘My husband and I want to be alone.’ A radiant smile.

  Caroline’s marriage had brought back all the memories of that time, and Polly remembered Eleanor’s wedding again as Ian stood, solid and angular, in the doorway of the house. She had a brief and ridiculous idea. Two weddings and a funeral. She realized that the start of a grin was appearing on her face and knew it was caused by stress, but was horrified all the same.

  The police officer with the Spanish name spoke first. He stood up and introduced himself to the newcomer. ‘You didn’t see anything of your wife on the island?’

  Ian shook his head. He was always a man of few words. Now he seemed frozen. ‘I went up to Lowrie’s house, but there was nobody there. I tried phoning, but it went straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Our volunteer coastguards are out looking,’ Perez said.

  Ian nodded, but didn’t move from his place by the door.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Perez said. ‘I always find it easier to think when I’m walking.’

  Polly thought that he was a sensitive man. He wouldn’t want to tell Ian about the email from Eleanor in front of an audience.

  Ian turned and the two men left the house. Polly and Marcus stayed in the living room with Perez’s younger colleague. Marcus got up to make more coffee. He collected the tray from outside and walked with it to the kitchen. Polly wanted to apologize to him. I should never have brought you here. I thought it would be fun and a good way to get to know my friends. Now it’s turned into the worst sort of nightmare. But Wilson, the young sergeant, was watching and listening, and in these circumstances anything she said might be misinterpreted.

  She still felt insecure when strangers were in the room, socially awkward, despite her two degrees and her brilliant job at the Sentiman Library. It was to do with her voice and her modest suburban background, a fear of the educated classes learned from her parents. Sometimes she was convinced that Ian suffered in the same way; they were both from the north and they both lacked the confidence that Marcus and Eleanor had inherited along with their clear voices and their savings accounts. Perhaps they’d have been better suited together, leaving Eleanor and Marcus to make a stylish celebrity couple.

  ‘It’ll have been a fine wedding,’ the police officer said. It was the first time she’d heard him speak and though he spoke slowly she struggled to understand. Lowrie had been in England since university. They laughed at his accent sometimes, but it wasn’t as dense as this. ‘Unst folk always throw a good hamefarin’.’ Polly thought he sounded wistful, as if he wished he’d been invited.

  ‘I don’t think Eleanor came inside again last night,’ she said. ‘The door was still unlocked. If you’re from London you always lock the door. It’s a habit.’ She’d been thinking ab
out that.

  ‘These midsummer nights some folk find it hard to sleep,’ Wilson said. ‘And the weather’s so fine your friend might have gone for a walk. You see the stars here in a way you can’t in the city. Lowrie and his family will be back tidying up in the hall at Meoness now. Perhaps she’s there.’

  ‘But the email?’ Polly cried. ‘Why would she send that?’

  ‘A kind of sick joke? Or maybe someone else hacked into her account?’

  Polly shook her head. Eleanor loved mischief and practical jokes, but she wouldn’t put her friends through this kind of anxiety. If she’d sent the email she’d have been watching through the window and would come bursting in with a Ta-da, that had you fooled grin on her face before they had time to be worried. The email disturbed Polly almost more than anything else. She supposed it was possible that Eleanor’s account had been hacked.

  ‘Is it OK if I go and check in the hall?’ she said. ‘We never thought that Lowrie and Caroline might be there.’

  Sandy Wilson looked confused. She could tell that he didn’t know what to do – he wasn’t a man used to making decisions and he wanted to ask his boss. So she took the responsibility from him by grabbing her jacket and leaving. ‘Thanks. Tell Marcus where I’ve gone.’ And she walked out of the house.

  Outside it was clear and the sea was sparkling with reflected sunlight. Polly saw that Ian and Perez were still strolling along the beach, deep in conversation, but she turned in the opposite direction, away from the shore, and neither man noticed her. The road was narrow, with a fence on one side and occasional passing places on the other. A sheep wandered into her path. She could smell the grease on its fleece before it scrambled away, and the scent of crushed grass. A great skua, sitting on the hill, hook-beaked and scary, seemed to be staring at her. Meoness was a sprawling community of croft houses with land attached and an occasional new-build. Between Sletts and the other houses there were skeletons of old buildings, walls and boundary dykes half-hidden by cotton grass and wild iris. Where the track joined a slightly wider road, there stood an old red telephone kiosk and the community hall. A couple of cars were parked outside and there was the noise of a Hoover coming through the open windows. She pushed on the door and went inside. Lowrie stood on a stepladder in the main hall and was taking down the bunting. In London he worked as an accountant for a big retail chain, and was always very respectable in jacket and tie. Now he was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and a round Fair Isle hat shaped like a pork pie. He grinned and waved. The sound of the vacuum cleaner came from a smaller room, where they’d eaten supper the night before. It stopped and Caroline came through.