Thin Air: (Shetland book 6)

by Ann Cleeves

  Outside, after the dense darkness of Utra, it seemed that dawn had arrived. There was that cold, grey sky and the stars had disappeared. Birds were singing. Perez ran on. He’d been infected by Sandy’s anxiety and by the thought that he’d misjudged the situation. He’d been following the wrong person all the time and hadn’t considered that he should be looking out for a car.

  Sandy was waiting for him, curled into the hillside, so well camouflaged that when he moved, unrolling his body until he was standing, Perez was startled.

  ‘Willow’s on the beach.’ Sandy’s voice was low, a whisper, though from inside the house surely nobody would hear. ‘With David Gordon. I saw them from the hall.’

  Perez nodded. One less thing to worry about. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘A scream. A shriek. High-pitched.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Woman, I think. But hard to tell. And because we’re looking for Polly Gilmour, I assumed it must be her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Expectation altered perception. That was how magicians could so easily confound their audience. ‘That’s natural—’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. There was another scream. Terrified, and still impossible to identify as male or female. Perez found it unbearable. ‘Wait here. Stop anyone who leaves. Whoever it is. And don’t let anyone else in.’

  Bent double, he ran round Voxter, past the hen house and the shed where George Malcolmson kept his old tractor. The man’s car was parked outside. Perez touched the bonnet and felt that it was still warm. From this side of the house he had a view into the kitchen through a small window in the back door. There was no sign of George.

  Inside stood Polly Gilmour. She looked pale, but strangely calm. Even with an arm around her neck and a knife to her throat. Even when she opened her mouth and screamed again, her nerve cracking and tears running down her cheeks.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Inside the Voxter kitchen Polly thought she was melting at the edges. She decided she must look as Eleanor had done when she’d sat on the deck, the last night of her life, when the mist had eaten into her and made her slowly disappear. If Eleanor had come inside then, after sharing those silly stories about Marcus, everything would have been well. Her friend would still be alive. The malicious man from the hotel would still be alive. And Polly wouldn’t be here in this strange house by the sea, hardly able to breathe, a knife at her throat.

  She thought again that this was like being in the middle of a terrible nightmare and soon she would wake up and everything would be well. As the arm tightened around her throat, she began to slip into unconsciousness and the events of the evening drifted through her mind, very slowly, like shadows in the fog. She watched the action as if from a great height, as if she was Eleanor filming it in a wide-angle shot for her show.

  The five of them had walked along the cliff towards the boat club. Ian had been striding out ahead of them, as if he wanted to pretend they weren’t there, that he was quite alone. Marcus had been strangely silent. Polly had turned to him. ‘Is anything wrong?’ She’d been frightened that he might tell her the relationship was over and that he preferred Eleanor’s mother. Because deep down Polly knew that Eleanor had been telling her the truth about the affair. Behind them Lowrie and Caroline were quiet too, as if Marcus’s mood was contagious.

  Then the scene in her head shifted to the boat club, and the tone was quite different. Here everything was music and partying. It had felt as if the whole room was celebrating Eleanor’s death, that Polly was the only person there sad that she’d gone. And then she’d seen the girl dancing. Peerie Lizzie, who couldn’t be a ghost, because Polly had heard her singing. She’d been captured as if in a spotlight, as if the camera had zoomed in on her and all around her the scene was blurred. Polly had followed her out into the night and the fog had come down. For a moment she had thought seeing the girl had been a warning, a premonition. Perhaps Polly would drown too, like Elizabeth Geldard, and her body would be washed up on the shore. And nobody would care. Not even Marcus.

  At the worst point of the panic, when she was remembering the night of Eleanor’s disappearance, Polly’s phone had rung and a sensible voice at the other end had come to her rescue. ‘Don’t you dare try to find your way back along the top of the cliff. Not in this weather. Walk back along the track to the boat club and we’ll come along and pick you up in the car. It might take you a while but that’s the safest thing.’

  And now, as the life was being squeezed from her and the point of the sharp knife was pricking her skin, she relived her relief as the car drew up. Lowrie’s father George had leaned across and opened the door for her, and she remembered that first time they’d danced together, the strength in his arms as he’d almost swung her off her feet, the tingle of excitement when the music had stopped.

  ‘Come along in out of the cold,’ he’d said. ‘You must be frozen. Grusche says I’m to take you back to Voxter. She has some soup on the stove for all of you. She’ll let the others know, and you can have some supper with us before you go back to Sletts.’

  But when they’d arrived back at Voxter there was no sign of the others. There was just Grusche in the kitchen wearing a strange white nightdress, with a hand-knitted shawl tied around her shoulders. And George disappeared, saying something about needing to get to his bed. And suddenly Grusche was standing behind her, muttering about Eleanor and Lowrie, and the arms that had gained their strength through lifting sheep and kneading dough were holding her as if she were in a vice, and Polly began to scream and at last everything went black.

  She regained consciousness briefly and thought she saw a figure at the window. Perhaps it was Peerie Lizzie coming to fetch her into the water. But when the door opened, it wasn’t Lizzie standing inside, but the detective with the wild black hair. Polly had thought that sometimes he looked haunted too.

  He walked up to Grusche and his voice was gentle, as if he was talking to a child. ‘This won’t do now, will it? You don’t really want to hurt Polly. What has she ever done to you?’

  Polly felt the grip on her neck relax a little.

  Then an inside door was opened. George stood there. ‘Woman, let that lass go!’ His voice was as clear as a foghorn and roused Polly completely. Grusche turned to face him. Polly felt the movement of Grusche’s body against her shoulders and again a slight release of tension.

  ‘It was for Lowrie,’ Grusche said.

  ‘Was it?’ This was the detective again. ‘You’ve always been honest. That class you did with Fran. The final assessment. She said your art was uncompromising, truthful. Didn’t she?’ He paused briefly and when he spoke again his voice was easy, conversational. ‘So let’s be honest now, shall we? This was about you. About not wanting to end up a lonely woman. Needing Lowrie and Caroline for company and conversation. I know about loneliness. I can understand that. But it has to end here.’ He held out his hand. There was a moment of hesitation, a sudden tightening of the hold on Polly’s neck, then Grusche reached out, twisted her wrist so that the handle was facing the detective and dropped the knife into his palm. Polly saw that his skin was dark, as if he’d been in the sun, and his hand was bony like Marcus’s.

  Then Willow Reeves was there, wrapping Polly up in a blanket and asking if she was all right, or if they should get Oscar Charlie, the rescue helicopter, to take her to hospital. Saying they’d take her back to her friends in Sletts. Polly turned for a moment and saw Grusche staring at her with eyes that were still full of hatred.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  In Springfield House, Willow sat in the corner of the yellow morning room and watched the conversation between Jimmy Perez and Grusche Malcolmson. Sunlight was streaming through the window and outside there was the sound of birdsong. Jimmy had rustled up coffee from somewhere and the smell of it filled the room. On a plate was a pile of little round biscuits dusted with sugar. They’d probably been made by Grusche herself.

  ‘Why did you kill Eleanor?’ The inspector’s voic
e was so soft that Willow strained to hear.

  They’d allowed Grusche to get dressed. She was wearing wide linen trousers and a hand-knitted sweater. Willow thought that she herself would probably look very similar to Lowrie’s mother when she was in her sixties. She would be tall and angular and would wear charity-shop clothes.

  Grusche looked up sharply. ‘She was evil. You know that, Jimmy. She was flirting with Lowrie, trying to steal him from Caroline, trying to steal him from me.’ The voice suddenly very sharp and shrill.

  ‘I don’t think she was doing that, Grusche. She was faithful to her husband. Always had been.’

  ‘No!’ The word exploded from her like a gunshot. ‘I had proof. The two of them were here in Shetland together just a week before Lowrie’s wedding. I saw a photograph on his laptop, the day of the hamefarin’. It was of Lowrie with his arm around that woman, and the museum in Lerwick behind them.’ She stared at Perez, her eyes like steel, forcing him to understand the implication of her words. ‘That afternoon Lowrie was in his room, staring at the picture, when I took in his clean shirt for the party. He shut his computer, but not before I’d seen the image.’

  ‘You printed it out,’ Perez said, ‘on photographic paper.’ Willow thought none of this was coming as a surprise to him.

  Grusche nodded. ‘While he and Caroline were hanging up bunting in the hall. Think of what it meant, Jimmy. Think of the spell that woman must have had over him. He was only married for a week, and yet he was obsessed by the photograph of himself with another woman. She must have been some kind of witch.’

  ‘So why did you print out the photo, Grusche?’ Perez took a little sip of coffee and seemed to savour it.

  ‘I wanted to confront the woman. To prove to her that I knew what her game was. I wanted something in my hand – something concrete.’ The German woman paused as if she was looking for the right words, as if she was desperate for Perez to understand. ‘Something real. I couldn’t carry Lowrie’s computer across the sand to Sletts now, could I, Jimmy?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened,’ Perez said. He leaned back in his chair and waited. Outside a curlew flew overhead, calling. He shut his eyes and for a moment Willow wondered if he was drifting off to sleep.

  ‘I had to speak to Eleanor Longstaff, to make her see what she was doing. All that evening, while she was dancing and laughing and flirting, the truth was eating away at me. She was going to make Lowrie unhappy again. You must see, Jimmy, that I had to do something. You’d be the same if anyone treated Cassie badly. Eleanor would ruin my son’s marriage and he’d become ill and depressed. He might disappear south with her, and then I’d never see him again. I could tell that she would never consider living in Shetland.’

  Perez had his eyes open and leaned towards her. ‘Eleanor never planned to steal your son from you. You must know that now.’ But it was spoken in a whisper, almost to himself.

  Grusche didn’t seem to hear him and continued talking. ‘After the party we tidied up a bit and then George went to bed. He’d been drinking all night and I knew that he wouldn’t wake up until the morning. I could hear him snoring, like a great big bear. Then Lowrie and Caroline went off too. I let myself outside and walked down to the beach. I could see all the people from Sletts sitting on the deck. They were talking and laughing. After a while the men went inside. Then a little later Polly disappeared too, and only Eleanor was left. And that seemed like a sign that I should go and talk to her. It was just getting light and she saw me coming. She waved to me. “Can’t you sleep either, Grusche? Shall we go for a walk?” Not waiting for an answer. I don’t think she ever really listened to what people said to her.’

  There was a moment of absolute silence in the room before Grusche continued.

  ‘I didn’t know where we were going until she said: “Do you believe in ghosts? Do you think Peerie Lizzie exists?” That was like another sign. I said I’d show her where Vaila had seen Lizzie, and I led her up the footpath to the standing stone.’

  Another silence. Perez drained the coffee in his mug. ‘Were you planning to kill her at that point, Grusche? Please tell us. It is important that we know.’

  ‘No! I wanted to make her see that she had to leave Lowrie alone.’

  ‘So you’re walking up the footpath towards the standing stone and it’s just getting light.’ Perez gave an encouraging smile. ‘What happened then?’

  Willow felt as if she was almost dozing. She’d had very little sleep in the last few days and the tension had drained from her. The sun was strong now and the room was very warm.

  ‘We sat close to the cliff edge,’ Grusche said. ‘We talked. She said she hadn’t been this happy for years and at last it seemed that everything was going right for her. Perhaps she’d been silly to place so much importance on having a baby. She’d finally found the man she loved and nothing else seemed important.’

  ‘You thought she was talking about Lowrie?’

  ‘Who else could she be talking about?’

  ‘Her husband,’ Perez said. ‘I think she was talking about her husband.’

  ‘I showed her the photograph.’ Grusche was almost screaming. Willow thought she didn’t listen much, either. ‘I laid it on the grass. I demanded to know, Jimmy, what was going on here. I had that right. What had she been she doing in Lerwick with my Lowrie the week before his wedding?’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  Again Willow had to strain to hear Perez’s words.

  ‘She said it was a secret. “But don’t worry, Grusche, I don’t really have designs on your son. Besides, he’s quite grown-up now. He doesn’t need you to look out for him.” Then she laughed. As if I was ridiculous for caring what happened to my boy.’

  ‘So you killed her,’ Perez said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Talk me through exactly how that happened, would you, Grusche? For the record.’

  ‘I wanted to stop her laughing,’ Grusche said. ‘And I wanted to be sure that she’d never make Lowrie so unhappy that he wanted to kill himself again.’

  She paused and Willow listened carefully, imagining how the scene might have played out. They were recording the interview, but this first telling might help her to understand.

  Grusche continued, ‘We were sitting at the top of the cliff, Jimmy. There was that strange early morning light, which you only get at this time of the year. There was so much noise. All those seabirds shrieking around our heads. But I could still hear the woman laughing. I picked up a boulder and I hit her with it.’ Another pause. ‘She fell awkwardly and seemed somehow crumpled and disfigured. I like lovely images. You know that, Jimmy. You know I could have been an artist myself. Fran always told me I had great potential, but I was happy to sacrifice that for my son. I dragged Eleanor into the middle of the loch, so that she looked like a picture. Someone might take some pleasure from the striking image, at least. She was a beautiful woman.’

  ‘What did you do then? After you’d thrown her cloak and shoes over the cliff and you’d torn the photograph into little pieces.’

  ‘I went home,’ Grusche said. ‘I lay next to my snoring husband. I went to sleep.’ She reached out and took one of the biscuits, then nibbled it as if she was judging its quality. Willow was astonished at how calm she seemed. There was another minute of complete silence.

  ‘Did you tell Lowrie what happened?’ Perez’s voice was sharper now. ‘I mean, has he known for the last week that his mother is a murderer?’

  ‘No!’ The same explosive retort. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But you must have asked him what he was doing with Eleanor in Lerwick. You would have wanted to know.’

  For the first time Grusche seemed less sure of her ground. ‘He said he was there as a friend, helping Eleanor with some project at work. I told him that he must keep that secret, that you would suspect him of killing her if you knew that he’d met her in Lerwick without telling anyone.’

  ‘And Lowrie did what he was told,’ Perez murmured.
‘Of course he did. First you and then Caroline making decisions for him. He’d never had to think for himself.’

  Willow wondered if Lowrie had guessed at his mother’s involvement in Eleanor’s death. Perhaps she was so perfect in his eyes that he couldn’t contemplate the possibility of her being a murderer. Certainly he hadn’t asked Grusche any awkward questions. Willow was reminded of the way that Charles and David had kept their relationship intact by ignoring unpleasantness – anything that was difficult or uncomfortable.

  ‘What about Hillier?’ Perez was saying. ‘Why did he have to die?’

  ‘He was there that night,’ Grusche said. ‘He saw me walk up the path with Eleanor. And come down all alone.’

  ‘He was blackmailing you?’

  ‘And that shows just how ridiculous he was!’ Grusche spat out the words. ‘As if we’d have any money to give him.’

  ‘Did Hillier tell you that he was in Lerwick for that meeting in the museum? With Lowrie and Eleanor and Monica Leaze?’

  She nodded reluctantly. Willow had no idea what Perez was talking about. He seemed to her like a magician himself, fanning random cards on the table until they made sense, at least to him. But she knew better than to interrupt. Let him explain to her later.

  ‘So you’ll know that Eleanor was telling you the truth,’ Perez said. ‘That there was no affair. Lowrie was there as her friend.’

  ‘That wasn’t how Lowrie saw it.’ Again she was almost screaming. ‘You didn’t see the way Lowrie stared at that picture. He would have done anything for that woman. He was as infatuated now as when he first met her.’

  ‘Even if he was,’ Perez said and his voice was sad, ‘I don’t think it was your place to interfere.’ Then he changed his tone. ‘Hillier. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I arranged to meet him on the shore at Springfield. I said I had some savings, a family inheritance, and we might be able to do a deal. I went to the book club in Baltasound as usual that night, but I stopped at Springfield on my way home.’