Thin Air: (Shetland book 6)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘We don’t know yet. The pathologist has flown in from Aberdeen. He’ll take her south tomorrow for a post-mortem.’

  ‘Was it suicide?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say at this point.’ Willow saw now that the three English people were out of their depth. They were accustomed to being in control of their lives. They were the ones who felt as if they were in alien territory. They’d come to Shetland expecting a great cultural experience, to meet the locals and experience the traditions. Then they’d expected that they’d all go home. They’d be full of stories to share with their friends in the smart cafes and wine bars, but like visitors to a zoo they’d be untouched by the stay. Instead when they returned to London their lives would never be the same again.

  ‘Who are you, please?’ It was the man who hadn’t yet spoken. Polly Gilmour’s partner. He had dark curly hair and an unfashionable beard, the sort of voice that made you think of public schools and smart universities. Polite enough, but confident that he’d be answered. His face was tanned and she wondered if he’d just come back from holiday.

  ‘My name’s Willow Reeves. I’m a chief inspector with the Serious Crime Squad based in Inverness, and I’ll be in charge of this investigation.’

  ‘You think Eleanor was murdered?’ It was the husband, aggressive now, his head thrust forward towards her. The regional accent was stronger. She wondered if he felt like an outsider in this company too.

  She kept her voice calm. Grief took people in different ways. ‘It’s an unexplained death,’ she said. ‘We won’t know until Dr Grieve does the post-mortem what the cause might be.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Where she was found.’ Willow turned slowly to face the woman. ‘By the standing stone on the hill behind the house. She’ll be moved in the morning.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’ It was the husband again. ‘We walked that way this morning looking for her.’

  ‘She was found by Lowrie Malcolmson,’ Perez said. ‘He could identify her. And if you searched along the cliff you wouldn’t have seen her. She’s lying in a small loch, hidden from the footpath.’

  Willow thought Eleanor had probably been lying there since the early hours of the morning; even if the search party had looked in that area they must have missed her. On a fine Sunday in June a murderer wouldn’t take time to arrange the body so carefully when there might be walkers around. ‘We’ll need to take detailed statements,’ she said, ‘but that can wait until the morning. Try to get some rest.’ These people had already had time together to prepare any story. Another night would make no difference.

  Out on the deck the light was fading. It was nearly midnight. Inside, Polly had lit candles on the table where they’d been sitting. Looking in at them through the window, Willow saw the English people as a beautifully composed painting. It could be a scene from a Parisian bar: Marcus Wentworth, with his dark hair and beard, leaning back on his chair to one side of the table, faced by the woman whose hair looked silver in the candlelight. The clutter of bread and fruit on the white cloth. And staring out, squat and brooding, the dead woman’s husband. What might the title be? Three Friends. Except, Willow thought, that Eleanor had been the person who had held the friends together and now they were almost three strangers, caught up with their own preoccupations.

  Chapter Nine

  George Malcolmson didn’t like chaos. He’d been a keeper at the Muckle Flugga Light until it had been automated in 1995 and that had suited him well. Lighthouse work was all about routine. There were seasons for painting and seasons for maintenance. A time for being sober, when you were on duty, and a time for drinking, during the month onshore. The helicopter had brought them to the rock for their shift every four weeks and had taken them away at the end of it, as long as the weather allowed. George had always been more upset about being grounded onshore than about being stranded on the rock. In Muckle Flugga the keepers had worked in threes. If you had two men on their own in a small space that could be the recipe for disaster – for ill will, fighting and madness. George had a reputation as a peacemaker because he was controlled and never lost his temper. The other men had liked to work with him. He was calm, methodical.

  The patterns and rituals of his lighthouse life had made him superstitious. It had pleased him that the rock was the most northerly station in the UK. There was clarity about the fact and that gave it special significance. He still thought that three was a lucky number, didn’t whistle in a boat and sometimes planted his crops at full moon – he knew the power of the tide.

  Now he sat in the bar of Springfield House with a pint on the table in front of him. His house at Voxter was in chaos because a woman, a friend of his son, had died. He tried to work out what might have been behind the death. George hated random tragedy and looked for patterns here too; for whatever could lie behind Eleanor Longstaff’s dying. He couldn’t imagine that anything they’d done could have led to the woman being killed, but it was a difficult time and he couldn’t be certain. Lowrie had been influenced by the woman when he was a student, but surely all that nonsense was long finished. George went over and over the events of the previous day in his head, searching for a reason, for any small episode that might explain what had happened.

  His wife couldn’t understand his need to organize his life into patterns and rhythms and he no longer tried to explain his obsession to her. Grusche would have liked more children, but he’d known that three was a good number for a family and had made excuses to stop after Lowrie was born. He’d tried to discuss his worry that another child might not be healthy, that she was getting on in years and he feared for her safety too, but she’d laughed at his anxiety. In the end, though, she’d stopped trying to persuade him. He could be stubborn and his wife had had to come to terms with what she called his ridiculous superstitions. And she was so close to Lowrie that perhaps she realized that another child might feel left out.

  All the strangers in Voxter and the break in his routine had made George jittery. The fuss of the hamefarin’ had been disruptive enough, but he’d been prepared for that. It was the death of the woman with the dark hair and the flashing eyes that had disturbed him. If he’d stayed in the house he’d likely have taken more drams than were good for him and that would have got him into bother, so he’d mumbled an excuse and come here, driving very carefully up the track because he suspected he might still be a little drunk from the night before. He’d been told that Mary Lomax had gone south and so there’d be no police officer to stop him, but he didn’t want an accident. That would only provide another reason for his wife to be angry with him. He loved Grusche and he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Then Sandy Wilson, the young detective from Whalsay, arrived in the bar and George had felt uncomfortable all over again. He got up to leave when he heard the man say that his team were looking for accommodation in Springfield. Suddenly there were too many associations with the past, with this building, and George wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. Driving slowly back to Voxter, he wished again that the lighthouses had never been automated, that he was back with his old life of whitewashing the tower and polishing the lenses, of taking his shifts with his pals. Of returning each month to his exotic foreign wife and his growing son. Back then his world was much simpler.

  Chapter Ten

  Willow was surprised by the opulence of their temporary accommodation. Sandy had found rooms for them in a hotel just south of Meoness. The house was Georgian, large and very grand, beautifully restored with period furniture and paintings. Peerie Lizzie had grown up here, not far from the cliff where Eleanor’s body was found, and she’d drowned in the voe, the inlet that cut into the land from the sea. The legend was that she’d been caught out by the tide in a thick fog. Now it was the darkest part of the night, the stars were out and the water reflected a sliver of moon. The house stood on a slight rise and had a view of water and, in the distance, the standing stone, breaking the line of the horizon. Lizzie’s father had been
an English laird and now it was mostly English tourists who pretended to be masters of their island universe, or at least this house and its surrounding garden. Locals came here too, but to the public bar that had been built in the old stables at the back of the house, and on special occasions to eat in the dining room.

  Sandy was apologetic. ‘It’s a bit pricey, but everywhere else was full. I got them to give us a discount.’

  Willow could see that he was uncomfortable in this house, overwhelmed by its grandeur. ‘Hey, it’s fab. Really convenient and enough space for us to set up a base if we need to. Good choice!’

  It was past midnight and they had the lounge to themselves. The owners had left food for them in the kitchen, and Sandy brought in trays of sandwiches wrapped in cling film and a plate of cakes and biscuits. Willow had been given a double bedroom. It had brocade curtains, a huge ornate mirror and delicate chairs that looked as if they would snap under her weight. She’d always been clumsy and had a horror of breaking things. She’d dumped her holdall there and pulled out a bottle of the island malt whisky that always reminded her of home. She’d brought some to the islands with her when she was last in Shetland and had thought it might be the start of a good tradition.

  In the lounge they switched on a couple of table lamps and began to eat. Willow found glasses in a sideboard and poured out the whisky. James Grieve raised his glass to her. ‘I’ve spoken to the funeral director. We’ll get the body south on tomorrow evening’s ferry.’

  ‘And you really have no idea about the cause of death?’

  She always felt untidy and awkward in comparison to him. Unsophisticated and gawky. She suspected that he regarded her with amused resignation, as if he saw her as an example of how the police service had deteriorated in the time he’d been working as a forensic pathologist.

  ‘Are you asking me to speculate, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare, Doctor.’

  He laughed. ‘If I were a betting man I’d guess that we’ll find some form of blunt-force trauma on the back of her head.’

  ‘And that’s why she was posed in that way?’ Willow was talking almost to herself. ‘So she still looked perfect.’

  ‘Ah, that’s psychology or some other magic, and beyond my area of competence.’ The small man drained his glass. ‘I just can’t see any other cause of death until we move her.’ He stood up. ‘I’m away to my bed. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.’

  Sandy Wilson seemed to have been drowsing throughout the conversation and he stood up and left the room too. Willow reached out and tipped a little more whisky into Perez’s glass and then into her own. ‘So how have you been, Jimmy?’ She thought she wouldn’t have had the nerve to be so personal without a drink inside her. ‘And how’s Cassie?’

  ‘She’s well,’ he said. ‘Fewer nightmares at least.’

  ‘And are you sleeping better these days?’ When she’d last been in Shetland Perez was still on sick leave, depressed and struggling to survive after the death of Cassie’s mother.

  ‘I’m fit for work,’ he said quickly. ‘Signed off the sick months ago.’

  ‘You’ve always been fit for work, Jimmy. I’ve never been teamed with a better detective. But that wasn’t what I asked you.’ She should have been tired, but her brain was still fizzing. It was almost like having jetlag. Two island groups and you’d think they’d be similar, but arriving in Shetland she always felt that she was in another, more distant country.

  He shrugged, a kind of apology for being so sensitive. ‘There are good days and bad days. More good now.’

  ‘And you’re OK with working on this? Eleanor Longstaff would be about the same age as Fran when she died.’ She looked at him, wondering if she’d overstepped the mark again, trespassed into his personal grief.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘There’ll be no tantrums this time, I promise. I’ll behave myself.’

  Willow wasn’t sure how to answer that. They stood and climbed the impressive stairs and at the top turned to go their separate ways.

  The next morning she returned to Sletts. Perez’s colleague Mary was still there. She’d made up a bed for herself in a small boxroom that had been advertised in the holiday brochure as being ideal for children. ‘It was quiet all night,’ she told Willow, ‘but I’m not sure how much sleep they had. They all look exhausted this morning.’

  ‘Where are they?’ The house seemed empty. ‘Are they out?’

  ‘No, they’re having breakfast outside. Not quite sure why when there’s a perfectly decent table in here. But they’re English. A thing about fresh air maybe. I guess they don’t have so much of that in London.’

  Willow found them on the deck. They were arranged much as they had been the night before, with Polly and Marcus on either side of the white picnic table and Ian in the middle, staring out at the water. She thought he was built like a bull, with all the weight in his shoulders and neck. His legs and feet were almost dainty.

  ‘We don’t know what to do,’ Polly said. ‘We were thinking that we might go home.’

  ‘That’s what you were thinking.’ Ian Longstaff’s words were brutal, even cruel. It was as if he despised the woman. ‘I’m staying here until I know what’s happened.’

  There was a moment of shocked silence. ‘Then we’ll stay too,’ Polly said. She seemed close to tears. ‘Obviously. We won’t leave you here on your own.’

  Ian put his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was rude. But I can’t think straight. Everything’s so crazy and out of control. We came for a party, and now Eleanor’s gone.’

  To Willow the words didn’t sound entirely convincing. She’d had him down as a strong, silent type and wouldn’t have thought it was his style to apologize.

  ‘We’d be grateful if you’d stay for a couple of days,’ she said mildly, ‘until we have more information about Eleanor’s death. We’ve set up a base in Springfield House on the island here and I’d like to start taking statements there this morning, if that suits you. You haven’t made any other plans?’

  ‘I keep expecting her to appear.’ Ian said. ‘Like those ghosts that seemed to fascinate her in the last weeks of her life. She’ll wander down the beach in the dress she was wearing on Saturday night, and she’ll pull me by the hand and expect me to dance with her.’ There was a moment of silence and then he turned to Willow. ‘Of course we’ll all help you if we can. Who do you want to speak to first?’

  ‘Mr Wentworth.’ She turned to the dark man. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ She’d thought about it on the way to Sletts and had decided that he’d be the most objective witness. He might be shocked that a woman he’d known had died, but he wouldn’t be as emotional. They’d been almost strangers. ‘In half an hour, if that would suit you. Would you need a lift?’

  He shook his head and said he had his own car. She gave him directions, and when she left the English people were still sitting in silence.

  He arrived at Springfield House at exactly the agreed time. She’d taken over the small morning room as an office. The sun shone directly in through the large sash window and the room was filled with light. There were cut flowers in a glass bowl on the mantelpiece and she felt like a Victorian lady of the manor sitting at the mahogany table. Jimmy Perez was with her, but they’d agreed that she would lead the interview. Perez seemed subdued and distracted and she wondered if he was actually sleeping as well as he’d claimed the night before. Or perhaps he was anxious about Cassie. He’d arranged for her to stay with her natural father for a few days, and Willow knew the relationship between the two men was difficult.

  Marcus Wentworth sat on a yellow brocade sofa. He seemed quite at ease and not to mind the silence that followed his entrance in the room. Willow saw that as a kind of arrogance.

  ‘Tell me how you fit into the party at Sletts,’ Willow said. ‘You didn’t know Caroline or Lowrie well, yet you were invited to the hamefarin’.’

  ‘I didn’t know Caroline and
Lowrie at all actually,’ he said. ‘I think Polly swung the invitation. You know how it works. Do you mind if I invite Marcus along? That must have been how it happened. And I was delighted. I’d never been to Shetland, and a wedding this far north was always going to be something special, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How long have you known Ms Gilmour?’

  ‘About six months.’ He paused, looked up and smiled. ‘We’ve become very close, though. She’s quite reserved and I’m only just getting to know her properly. Polly’s a very gentle person, actually. I love that in her. Rather shy too. I hope you’ll remember that when you talk to her. And the fact that she’s just lost a very dear friend.’

  Willow decided he was one of those public-school boys who never really grew up. He’d be given to sentimentality, to ideas of honour and protecting his woman. She’d gone out with an army officer once who had a similar view of the world. The relationship had been destined to fail from the start. ‘How well did you know Eleanor?’

  Marcus looked across to Perez. ‘I explained to your colleague that I was very much the outsider of the group. The four of us had dinner a couple of times, and of course we spent time chatting on the ferry from Aberdeen. She seemed lovely, but she was Polly’s best friend, so I was disposed to like her.’

  There was a pause. Willow wondered why she’d taken such a dislike to the man. Perhaps it was just because he reminded her of a former lover and she should learn to be more objective. ‘Tell me a little bit about yourself, Mr Wentworth. What do you do for a living?’ She made her voice warm to compensate for the antipathy.

  ‘I run my own tour company. Specialist travel to North Africa and the Middle East for people who want to stray off the beaten track, but are a little nervous about doing it on their own.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, that sounds like a sales pitch. I took a gap year before university and got the travel bug. Worked for other people for a while, then I set up for myself. I don’t need to advertise these days. Most of my work comes from word-of-mouth recommendation. I specialize in elderly Americans. Very wealthy elderly Americans.’ He gave her a quick grin, but she didn’t respond.