by Ann Cleeves
In the lounge he poured the tea and offered milk and sugar as if it was his place. Willow and Vaila were already talking.
‘We’ve found Eleanor Longstaff’s digital recorder,’ Willow said.
‘You heard my piece then. What do you think it sounded like?’ She looked at them, demanding their approval.
‘Very good.’ Willow smiled. ‘Brilliant in fact.’
‘So do you think they might still use it for the telly?’
‘That’s nothing to do with us.’
Perez could tell that Willow was starting to lose patience with the young mother. Eventually she’d come out with a sarcastic comment that would alienate their witness. ‘There was something else on the recorder,’ he said gently. ‘A piece of music. Can you tell us anything about that?’
Vaila looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Eleanor didn’t play any music to me.’
‘Did she ask you about Peerie Lizzie’s song?’
‘Marty Thomson’s tune? No, nothing like that. Just about my story.’
‘We’re interested in the children who live in Meoness,’ he said. He thought she would ask why they wanted to know, but she seemed strangely incurious about anything other than the possibility of appearing on television. ‘Are there any kids aged between seven and twelve here?’
‘There are bairns from the north of the island who come to the school, but nobody of that age living just around here.’ She frowned with concentration as if she wished she could conjure them from thin air just to please him.
‘You’ve got a climbing frame in your garden,’ he said. ‘Your Vaila’s a bit young for that just now. Are you thinking ahead?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Kind of. Every day there’s a change in her, and you know she won’t be tiny for very long. But nah, we got that for Neil’s boys. He was married before and they come to stay with us every other weekend.’
Perez thought about that. He’d assumed that a girl had been singing on the recorder, but young boys’ voices sounded very similar. Willow was looking at him, impatient for him to continue.
‘When were they last here?’ he asked. ‘Were they here for Lowrie’s hamefarin’?’
Vaila shook her head. ‘Neil’s a Yell man and he’s no relation to Lowrie or his family. Grusche invited the boys out of politeness, but it wasn’t their weekend for staying and they’re kind of wild. I didn’t need the added complication of keeping them under control. Neil’s bringing them back for the weekend tonight with a peerie friend. That’s the end of my peace for a few days.’
So it hadn’t been either of her stepsons singing for Eleanor.
Willow stood up, eager to move on. Perez thought she’d been restless all day, anxious to have positive information to pass on to her boss to justify their staying in Springfield House. They stood in the front porch, ready to leave. The baby was asleep now and, on impulse, Perez reached out to touch her hair. It was as fine as down and he could hardly feel it. Her mother smiled at him – it was quite natural to her that he’d want to stroke her baby.
‘Do you want a cuddle?’
‘No!’ He felt himself blushing. ‘I wouldn’t want to wake her.’
‘Ah, once she gets off she sleeps like the dead.’
Vaila held out the sleeping baby as if she was a gift. Perez took her in his arms, felt for a moment how smooth and fragile she was and then handed her quickly back. He was worried that he might cry in front of Willow. He’d always thought he and Fran might have a child, though it had never been discussed.
Outside Willow stared at him. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I’ve always been soft about tiny bairns.’
‘Jimmy Perez, you never fail to surprise me.’
They left the car where it was and walked towards the old croft house. It was mid-afternoon and suddenly still and humid, with the smell of flowers from the in-bye land that was no longer grazed or cultivated. He was reminded of Fair Isle and wondered when he’d be brave enough to take Cassie to see where her mother had died. He’d promised they’d go before the end of the school summer holidays and he hadn’t yet broken a promise to her. He’d wait for a still day like this, and they’d sail in from Grutness with his father at the helm of the Good Shepherd, so that Cassie could sit out on deck and watch the island get closer.
Willow was walking ahead of him and waited for him by the door. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What brought Charles Hillier to this place the day that he died?’
‘Money.’ Once the word was spoken it was obvious to him. ‘He and David might not have had a conversation about how hard up they were, but both must have known that the business was failing. And they were desperate.’ He imagined the men skirting around the subject, not wanting to face the difficult decisions that would have to be made, trying to be kind and not to blame the other.
‘You think he might have tried his hand at blackmail?’
‘Maybe.’ But Perez had other ideas swirling around in his head.
‘The English people all had the money to pay up,’ Willow said. ‘But what could Charles have that might hold them to ransom? Eleanor’s digital recorder? All it tells us is that Vaila Arthur was telling the truth about being interviewed. And that a child sang a song about Lizzie Geldard to Eleanor Longstaff before she died.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t the recorder at all.’ Out at sea a flock of gulls followed a small fishing boat. ‘Perhaps it was information. Perhaps he knew who’d committed the murder of Eleanor Longstaff.’
‘He saw her being killed, you mean?’
‘Or saw enough to guess.’ Perez still wasn’t sure how that might work out.
‘So you think Charles had arranged to meet someone here?’ Willow opened the door of the old house, but remained outside. Perez smelled damp stone and peaty soil. ‘And Polly and Ian disturbed him?’
‘It’s possible.’ In his mind he was running through a theory that seemed at once too elaborate and too simple.
‘Shall we bring Vicki Hewitt back? See if we have evidence of a fourth person in the place?’
He was about to speak when there was a noise inside, something scrabbling and clawing, and a cry, piercing like a child’s. Willow was about to go in, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her, and a creature shot past them.
‘Feral cat,’ he said. ‘There are colonies on the cliffs throughout the islands. It probably got in down the chimney and couldn’t get out. Trapped.’
His hand was still on her arm, which was downy like the baby’s head. He could feel her shaking from the shock. A little embarrassed, he took his hand away.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the hill near the small loch where Eleanor Longstaff’s body had been found, George Malcolmson stopped for a moment to watch what was happening in Meoness. This was a part of his daily routine. Every afternoon he’d walk the hill to check his sheep. Always in the same direction, quartering the hill in the same way, and always counting. It seemed there’d been another man killed. Another outsider. George couldn’t pretend to be upset by that. He’d met the man a few times in the bar at the Springfield House, but didn’t really know him. It wasn’t like losing a family member. It wasn’t enough to keep him away from the hill.
Now he looked down at Utra. He wasn’t old enough to remember anyone living there, but when he’d been a boy the house was much as it had been left when the last inhabitant died. There’d been scraps of furniture inside and a couple of sheepskins. George’s father had finally taken them to Voxter when it became clear that the roof was letting in water, and now one of the chairs stood in his and Grusche’s bedroom. A car pulled up and two people climbed out: Jimmy Perez and the female detective who dressed a bit like a scarecrow. George thought professional people should be tidy. He’d enjoyed wearing his lightkeeper’s uniform and it still hung in the cupboard at home. The two detectives stood in the door of Utra and looked about to go in, then stopped for a moment. He couldn’t see why they hadn’t just gone inside.
Then they disappeared
into the house and the settlement was empty. George was about to continue walking when he saw a car pull up outside Spindrift, the new house built by Vaila’s man. Neil was driving and then the kids got out of the back and chased round the house and started to swing on the climbing frame. Neil let himself into the kitchen. After a while the bairns went inside too – perhaps Vaila had called them in for their tea.
George thought back to the time when Lowrie was young. He’d never been a boy for shouting and chasing. Whenever George remembered him he was sitting at the kitchen table, doing his school work. He’d always been fascinated by numbers and had shouted for Grusche to give him sums to do, just in his head, as if the quiz was the best kind of game there was. Sometimes when George came home from the lighthouse he felt like an outsider in his own house, because Lowrie and Grusche understood each other so well. They shared silly jokes that George couldn’t understand. Then Grusche had told him that Lowrie had got his love of numbers from his father. ‘I was always stupid about maths,’ she’d said. ‘He certainly didn’t get that from me.’ And that had made George feel better. Proud.
He shifted his gaze to Voxter. Caroline was in the garden, carrying a small wicker basket. She opened the door into the hen house and, though George was too far away to see, when she came out again he thought that the basket must now hold a few eggs. He wasn’t sure what he made of his new daughter-in-law. Grusche said she was a clever woman and that she’d be good for Lowrie. George was just pleased that his son hadn’t married Eleanor, with her long, dark hair and her secret witch’s smile. He thought now it was a good thing that the woman was dead. She wouldn’t be able to trouble the boy again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sandy met Louisa Laurence outside the school. She walked through the yard carrying a smart briefcase and an armful of exercise books. A small red car was parked in the road outside and she stopped there when she saw Sandy.
‘I’m afraid I have a few more questions.’ He had the sense that she was in a hurry and his voice was apologetic.
‘I can’t stop now, Sandy. The carer leaves at five and my mother gets into such a panic if she’s left on her own for too long.’ She’d already tipped the books into the passenger seat of the car.
‘Could I follow you down?’ He could tell there was no point trying to talk to her here. Even if she stayed long enough for him to ask a question, she wouldn’t concentrate on the answer. ‘We could chat at your house. Once you’ve settled your mother.’
She paused for a moment and then she smiled. ‘Why not, Sandy? I could use some adult company.’
Louisa’s parents had retired to Yell when they sold their grocery shop in Lerwick’s Commercial Street. Sandy seemed to remember that Louisa’s mother, Mavis Laurence, had been born and brought up there, and that was why they made the move. The house had probably been specially built for them at the time, and he imagined it would have been the couple’s pride and joy. It was a neat square bungalow with white render and a grey-tiled roof. The front door was locked.
‘Sometimes she wanders,’ Louisa said. ‘It’s a worry.’
Sandy followed her in, the pile of books in his arms.
The woman sat in an armchair looking out of the window over a tidy little garden and towards Unst in the distance. She’d been strong and fierce when Sandy had known her, running the business and acting as host in one of the halls at Up Helly Aa. Her husband had been a fine singer, Sandy remembered, and religious, but not in a strict or a hard way. Mavis Laurence had lost weight. She must have been middle-aged when Louisa had arrived, but now she looked very old and frail. Older, surely, than her years. A walking frame stood in front of her. She turned towards Louisa and gave a wonderful smile. ‘Where have you been? I was just about to send your father out to look for you.’
‘Father’s not here any more, Mum. And I’ve just come back from work. This is Sandy. Do you remember him? Sandy, one of the Wilson boys from Whalsay.’
The woman turned towards him, her eyes kind of smeared and vague. ‘Is this the young rascal that broke your heart? Your father threatened to beat his arse.’
Louisa blushed suddenly and deeply, and Sandy felt a stab of guilt and pain. He hadn’t realized. He’d been so careless with his girlfriends when he’d been a young man, and now he was single and it served him right.
‘You’re confused, Mum,’ Louisa said, giving a little laugh to hide her awkwardness. ‘You’re thinking of someone else. I was going to make Sandy a cup of tea. Would you like some? And maybe a piece of that ginger cake that we made together last night.’
Mavis clapped her hands as if she were a very young girl. Sandy sat with her while Louisa went into the kitchen to make tea. A sort of penance, and because he knew that Louisa would want him to.
‘Your grandmother was Mima Wilson,’ Mavis said. ‘My mother knew her. She was wild too in her time.’ Then she lapsed into silence. There was a bird table in the garden and feeders hung from it. She seemed to take great delight in watching the small birds come to take the seed.
‘I used to come into your shop,’ Sandy said. ‘When Mima brought me to town for the day. I’d choose a bag of sweeties to take back on the bus.’
She looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. ‘All the bairns came in for their sweeties.’
Then Louisa came back in again with a tea tray and slices of cake. She put a napkin over her mother’s lap and cut the cake into small pieces so that she could eat it easily. Mavis ate a few squares and then seemed to drift off to sleep.
‘So what questions do you have for me, Sandy?’ Louisa seemed to have recovered her composure. She was sitting on the floor by her mother’s side, her mug and plate on a small coffee table within easy reach.
‘How do you cope with this?’ He nodded towards the elderly woman. ‘The stress of it. Every day.’
‘We get on very well usually. Mother’s in fine form today. Mischievous. As you noticed.’
‘But with your work too. And all on your own. At school and here.’ Sandy couldn’t imagine what that could be like. Turning up to work every day and not finding colleagues and friends to chat with.
For a moment she didn’t answer. ‘It’s easier than being in Edinburgh and worrying all the time about what was going on here.’ Another pause. ‘And I owe her, Sandy. Big-style.’ She looked out of the window and he thought she was out of practice at making conversation with grown-ups. Then he realized that she intended to confide in him. ‘I was adopted. Mum and Dad were middle-aged when they took me on. Not because they were desperate for a child. I don’t think Mum was ever especially maternal. But because they heard about me through the kirk – about my mother being in a bad way in Aberdeen and not being able to care for me. And they took me into their home and loved me as if I were their own.’
‘They wouldn’t expect anything in return,’ Sandy said.
‘Of course they wouldn’t, but it’s a small way that I can pay them back for their love and their kindness. Do you see that?’
He nodded, but thought he’d never be able to give up his life for an old woman who hardly seemed to notice he was there. He’d end up resenting the demands she placed on him.
‘So are you going to ask me those questions, Sandy?’ Her voice was slightly impatient and he thought she was already regretting giving so much of herself away. When they were at school together she had never let on that she was adopted, even when the lads made fun of her older parents and the way they ran the shop.
‘Peerie Lizzie’s song,’ he said. ‘You know the tune written by Marty Thomson. Have the kids in your school learned it?’
‘I haven’t taught it to them. But then I don’t teach music, and they might have learned it before I arrived at the school.’ She was still sitting on the floor and looked up at him. ‘Why is it important?’
‘It probably isn’t, but that old story of Lizzie seems to weave its way through the inquiry.’ He knew he couldn’t be specific, but still he valued her opinion. ‘You
don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’
She laughed. He was glad to see it; he had the sense that she didn’t laugh very often. ‘Not the sort that walk through walls. But maybe I think that sometimes the past comes back to haunt us.’ She paused and he knew better than to speak. He’d learned some tricks from Jimmy Perez. Louisa went on. ‘Last year I was contacted by a social worker. My birth mother was trying to get in touch with me.’
‘Did you meet her?’
‘Once. But she was very needy. Still an addict, after all these years. Thinking that, with my good job and my settled life, I could help her get straight.’
Or fund her habit, Sandy thought.
‘And I only have so much to give, Sandy. I had to make a choice. Between my birth mother and the mother who took me on thirty years ago.’
‘You made the right decision.’ He wished he could tell Louisa how much he admired her, but it was all he could think of to say.
‘I’m sure I did, but it doesn’t stop me thinking about the other woman occasionally.’ She got to her feet. Obviously she’d decided it was time for him to go. ‘This was the easy choice. Running away north to be in my comfort zone. It feels a bit cowardly.’
‘You made the right decision.’ He repeated the words slowly, hoping that she might believe him this time.
‘Is this all you came for, Sandy? To ask me about a children’s song. You could have done that over the phone.’
‘I was glad of the excuse to spend some time with you,’ he said. ‘And pleased to escape from the investigation for a while.’
There was another awkward silence, broken by the sound of Mavis’s gentle snoring. He glanced out to the garden to see if her birds were still feeding on the table, but the mist had come in again and it was hard to make out anything other than grey shapes that looked more like bats than birds. Louisa walked with him to his car. There was a chill in the air and he thought some years there was no real summer at all.