by Ann Cleeves
He always suffered a mild depression at the end of the autumn. Winter birding was more predictable and lacked the excitement of the migration season. And it meant leaving Fair Isle and Angela. This year there would be no contact from her to look forward to, no emails, no tipsy phone calls in the middle of the night as she called him for reassurance. You care about me, don’t you, Dougie? You’ll always be there for me. And he would have been. It came to him now, struggling against the stiff northerly breeze, his face scarlet, his eyes and nose streaming, that his failure to make any real relationship with the women at work had been of his own doing. He’d begrudged the time in cinemas and restaurants. What if Angela should call him at home while he was away? She’d controlled his life, just as she’d controlled the lives of her lovers.
Perhaps now he’d feel free to develop other friendships, perhaps even find himself a woman. Someone who liked the outdoors, he thought. She wouldn’t be a beauty; it would be unreasonable to expect that. But someone kind. Generous with her time and her body. A simple woman without an agenda.
When he pushed open the door into the field centre, the depression remained, but he felt comfortable with it. At this time of year he would have missed it if it weren’t there.
Inside, there was the smell of cooking. After the effort of walking all the way from the Havens, the centre seemed very warm. Dougie hung up his coat and took off his boots. He wondered if he’d come back to the Isle next year. Perhaps he’d have a woman to bring with him; he pictured someone big and soft, in a hand-knitted sweater and a woolly hat, a huge smile. He’d show her the common birds, start a list for her. Or perhaps she’d prefer somewhere gentler for a holiday. It had been years since he’d been to Scilly and he still needed on his list some of the American migrants that turned up there in strong westerlies. They could rent a little cottage. She’d cook for him.
John Fowler was in the common room, a laptop on his knee, tapping away. Fowler had made a fuss when the police team from Inverness had insisted on looking at it. ‘This is my livelihood.’ All pompous as if none of the rest of them had to earn a living.
‘And this is a murder investigation,’ the leader had said. ‘If you prefer I can get a warrant and we’ll take it south with us.’ Fowler had handed over the machine quickly enough then. Dougie couldn’t see the point of paying to go away on holiday if you were just going to work.
Fowler looked up when Dougie walked into the room, logged off and shut down the computer.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Dougie said. As usual, Fowler looked very clean. As if he’d just stepped out of the shower and put on clothes fresh from the washing line and the iron. Hugh had looked very dapper recently too. Who was he trying to impress? Dougie didn’t really do ironing and he’d been here so long that all his clothes were dirty anyway. He’d need a trip to the launderette first thing when he got back. He didn’t mind the launderette. A couple of back copies of British Birds or Birding World and he was sweet.
‘No problem.’ Fowler shut the computer, put it away in the case. ‘I probably won’t sell it anyway.’
‘What are you writing then? A book?’
‘No, just an article. A travel piece on the field centre. It seems in poor taste now Angela’s dead.’
‘I don’t see why.’ Dougie thought the place would need all the visitors it could get after two unsolved murders. Because it seemed to him that the police were no closer to finding out what had happened to the women. Or were people such ghouls that they’d want to come just to see where Angela had died? He’d done his bit for the island anyway. There’d be birders who’d be attracted to Fair Isle because he’d seen the trumpeter swan there.
Lunch was pizza. Dougie liked pizza and positioned himself on the seat nearest to the serving hatch so he could be first in the line for seconds. Perez’s fiancée was there. She’d laid the tables and now she was standing beside Sarah Fowler and dishing out. Because his attention was on the food, it took him a while to realize that there was an argument. Ben, the assistant warden, and Hugh, bickering away like kiddies. Something about mud on the bird room floor. Though it seemed to Dougie that wasn’t really what it was about at all. The tension of the situation had finally got to them.
‘Didn’t it occur to you to clear up your own mess?’ Ben, flushed and indignant, half-stood and leaned across the table.
‘Hey! You’re paid to be here. It’s cost me good money,’ Hugh said, with the usual bloody smile that seemed to imply that the words were a joke. The smile that made Dougie feel like slapping him in the face, that was calculated to provoke violence. ‘In fact, I’m paying your wages.’ He looked around the table, in the hope of gathering support and an audience.
‘What were you doing in the bird room anyway?’ Ben demanded. ‘It’s not as if you’re a ringer. It’s not as if you do anything useful.’
‘I was using the computer. There was something I wanted to check out.’ For a moment the smile slipped. ‘If the police can’t find Angela’s murderer, I thought I’d do something. We can’t stay here for ever. I need to be moving on.’ The last words sounded like something from a bad Country and Western song and Dougie couldn’t help grinning.
Then Sandy Wilson, the second cop, the one who had been staying in the centre, stood up. He moved quite slowly, but still somehow he captured their attention.
‘Just sit down, boys.’ He spoke with an easy kind of voice. Like he knew what it was to lose his temper and it had never done him any good, so they’d do well to take notice of him. ‘It’s a tough time for everyone, trapped in here. But it won’t be for long now. It’ll soon be over.’
Dougie wondered if he had any reason for saying that, or if they were just words to calm the young men down. He thought Sandy was playing a dangerous game if he had no evidence to charge the murderer, because he was raising expectations and people would be even more frustrated if nobody was arrested. As it was, he supposed they were all under suspicion. It wouldn’t be easy, Dougie thought then, to find a kind and respectable girlfriend if she believed he might have stabbed two women.
After lunch, people scattered. Dougie had eaten far too much and after the exercise of the morning all he really wanted to do was rest. He liked to sit in the common room with a field guide and a cup of tea; soon he knew he’d be snoozing. But John Fowler was back there with his laptop and the sound of it, the staccato and irregular tap-tap of the keys, really got on Dougie’s nerves. Anyway, if this was going to be his last day maybe he should make the most of it and get out into the field.
He found Ben in the bird room. He was still angry, Dougie could tell. Still kind of smouldering.
‘Want some company on the trap round?’
‘Sure.’ Not exactly welcoming, but that was because of the mood he was in, not because he resented Dougie asking. Ben gave Dougie a pile of bird bags and they went out to the Land Rover. Just driving away from the North Light, they had to pull in to the side of the road to let Perez past. He was in Big James’s car and there was a strange woman in the passenger seat.
‘What was all that about at lunchtime?’ Dougie asked.
‘Nothing. Hugh’s really starting to piss me off. That’s all.’
Fine, Dougie thought. Bugger you then if you don’t want to talk. He’d always thought the tabloid papers were right when they said prisoners had it easy. A warm cell with a telly and someone to bring you food. What punishment was there in that? Now he thought the hard bit would be keeping sane, surrounded by all those strangers. No privacy. No wonder living in the centre had driven Angela crazy. Dougie had only been stuck here for a few weeks and he was already going mad.
They parked by the double dyke and did the rest of the trap round on foot.
In the gully trap, Dougie walked through the vegetation, pishing and knocking against the stunted sycamores, to push any birds resting there towards the catching box. There was always a chance of something unusual, but today they only caught two meadow pipits that had already been ringed two days earlie
r. Ben held them for Dougie to see, then let them go.
‘Would it have hurt some eternal plan if one had been an olive-backed?’ Dougie said. ‘I mean, I know we’ve all seen olive-backed before, but it would have been something, wouldn’t it? Something to cheer everyone up.’
They scrambled back on to the road and moved on to the plantation trap. When Dougie had first come to Fair Isle the plantation had been a joke, the name ironic. A few straggly pines planted in a fold in the land, with the trap built over them. Now the trees had grown up, some of them through the wire mesh. Inside it smelled and felt like a real wood. There were pine needles on the floor. Dougie walked through it rustling the lower branches, felt the same expectation, hope and excitement as he always did. The plantation was where he’d seen the brown flycatcher. There was a small bird somewhere ahead of him. He heard it fluttering, just caught a glimpse of movement. Then he tripped on a root that had grown out of the thin soil, fell hard and couldn’t stop his cheek from hitting the ground. There’d be a cracking bruise later. He swore under his breath. On the other side of the wood, Ben yelled to ask if he was OK.
Dougie pushed himself to his feet. There’d been a sharp sting on his palm and when he looked, he saw that there was blood on his hand, trickling through his fingers. For a moment he felt a bit faint, then he looked down to find what had caused it. A knife, half hidden by the pine needles. The search team had been on the island for two days, looking for the knife that had killed Jane Latimer. But they’d been on the hill, taking the direct route from the Pund to the field centre, and after that they’d looked along the road. They couldn’t have searched the whole island even in two years. It had taken Dougie to stumble on it by chance.
Chapter Thirty-five
‘Just an ordinary kitchen knife,’ Perez said.
‘I suppose it could have been here for years.’ Sandy pulled up his collar to stop the rain dripping down his neck. They stood under the only real trees on the island. ‘Did you know they take school kids to that copse that they’ve planted in North Mainland? To give them a feel of what it’s like to be in woodland. In the summer they had a teddy bears’ picnic. It was in the Shetland Times.’
Perez didn’t answer the last point. Sometimes Sandy’s brain worked that way: he opened his mouth and let out the words without realizing they weren’t relevant to the matter in hand.
‘The knife hasn’t been here for very long. There’s no rust. The blade’s still sharp.’ He squatted to look at it better, smelled the damp earth and the pine, thought it wasn’t such a daft idea to give Shetland kids the experience of a forest.
‘I suppose any blood on it will be Dougie Barr’s. It’s typical that the search team has just gone out. We could have got them down here to do a fingertip through the trees.’ Sandy had an almost religious faith in forensic science. Fibres. DNA. Perez thought he watched CSI on the quiet. ‘Do you think it came from the centre’s kitchen?’
Perez straightened. ‘I think Jane Latimer would be the only person to tell you that. But probably. If it came from anywhere else on the Isle it’d likely have been missed. And everyone here knew we were looking for a murder weapon.’
He scooped it into an evidence bag, taking care to include some of the soil and debris from the plantation floor. It could go out on the boat the following morning; he’d get Morag to meet the Shepherd and send the knife south to forensics.
Perez got the call about the discovery just after the afternoon plane had taken off. Stella Monkton had thanked him in her quiet, polite way, before taking her place behind the pilot, but he hadn’t known what she was thinking. On the drive from the North Light to the airstrip she hadn’t spoken. After the birdwatchers had come across the knife, Ben had driven back to the centre to find Sandy, leaving Dougie to stand guard. Now the two detectives were on their own. The light was fading and a steady drizzle had set in.
‘Why did the murderer leave it here?’ Perez said. He was quite certain that this was the weapon that had killed Jane. ‘As you said, it would have been easy enough to throw it over a cliff. Then probably, it would never have been found.’
‘Does it matter? I mean, if it came from the centre they’d all have had access to it. If they manage to get a fingerprint it’ll be: Yeah, I touched it. I helped with the washing-up.’
‘But it was removed from the scene. Not like at the first murder.’ Perez was still haunted by the second murder scene, saw it again, as clearly as a photograph: the body, the stained sheepskins, the tiny white feathers. He’d missed something. Perhaps it was simple – the killer had removed the knife to replace it in the centre kitchen, not sure if its absence would be noticed, if its loss would be traced back to him. Perez tried to picture the route the murderer would take from the Pund to the North Light. The most direct way would be over the hill, but that was heavy going: a steep climb and bog and heather moorland. Much easier to walk to the road past the house at Setter and go north that way.
‘He was scared,’ Perez said. ‘He heard someone coming along the road and didn’t want to be seen. He wouldn’t want anyone to know he’d been so close to the Pund once Jane’s body was discovered. It would be easy enough to hide in the plantation. Then perhaps he lost his nerve. Jittery. The state he was in, he couldn’t imagine walking into the kitchen, rinsing the knife under the tap, putting it back in the drawer. That was his plan but he didn’t have the nerve to carry it out. Though he still had the pillowcase in his pocket. Did he forget about that in his panic?’
‘Or she.’ Sandy was already walking back towards the road. Perez could tell he wasn’t comfortable here in the trees. He wasn’t used to them. Maybe he felt claustrophobic. ‘It could have been a woman. You’re the one who said to keep an open mind.’
Perez knew Sandy was right, but he thought the murderer was a man. The victims were women. But perhaps he just didn’t want to believe in a female killer. He followed Sandy away from the trap.
‘There was a bit of a ruckus at lunchtime.’ Sandy stepped across the ditch and on to the road, then began to walk back to the car. ‘Ben and Hugh. I thought it might come to blows.’ He opened the passenger door and got in.
‘What was it about?’
Sandy shrugged. Perez could see the droplets of rain on his jacket, smelled wet wool. ‘Something and nothing. Hugh had left the bird room in a mess and Ben had a go. He’s an arrogant bastard though, that Hugh. None of them seem to like him much.’
‘A scapegoat, maybe,’ Perez said. ‘They all want someone to hate and he’s starting to get on their nerves.’
Sandy turned his head quickly. ‘Like The Lord of the Flies?’
Sandy could always surprise him. ‘Aye, something like that.’
‘We did it for English Highers,’ Sandy said. He paused, while Perez started the engine. ‘Everyone staying in the North Light knows that one of them is a murderer. They’d like it to be Hugh. He’s the loner really, isn’t he? I mean, he puts on the charm, but he hasn’t got any real friends there.’
Perez supposed that was true. The Fowlers had each other, John’s calm and Sarah’s anxiety meeting the other’s need. Dougie had been coming to the field centre for so many years that he was something of an institution. Maurice and Ben had worked together all season. Nobody knew Hugh. All they had were the stories he told about himself and now his humour was probably wearing a bit thin. And all I have is the stories he’s told about himself. Perez pictured Fran as he’d last seen her, sitting in the centre kitchen chatting to Hugh. It was time to get her away from the lighthouse and back to the safety of Springfield. He thought he should spend some time at home this evening. His mother would have prepared a special supper. They might even get an early night.
Am I like the other field centre residents? Would I prefer Hugh Shaw to be the murderer? Because Perez realized that he too disliked Shaw; the dislike hit him now with a surprising intensity.
They’d just started the drive north when Sandy’s mobile rang. Perez pulled into the side of the roa
d, so he could take the call without risk of losing reception. He couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation but he could tell Sandy was excited. ‘Sure? Yeah, thanks. You’re brilliant. I definitely owe you a few drinks next time we’re in town. But keep it to yourself, yeah?’
‘What was all that about?’ Perez played the game. Let Sandy prolong his moment of triumph.
‘I know what happened to the money Angela withdrew from her bank.’
‘Well?’ It wouldn’t do to show impatience. That only made Sandy worse.
‘She didn’t have another account in her own name; she paid the cash into a third person’s. She had the number and the sort code.’ He paused. ‘You’re really going to like this! It was Hugh Shaw’s account. For some reason she paid him two thousand five hundred quid.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Perez didn’t expect a useful answer. Again he was musing to himself.
‘Could it be something to do with the baby?’
‘You mean she bought Hugh’s sperm?’ Perez looked up. He found himself faintly disgusted by the idea. ‘But we have no evidence that they knew each other before he came to the North Light.’
‘They must have known each other,’ Sandy said. ‘You don’t give thousands of pounds to a stranger.’
‘He could have been blackmailing her,’ Perez said. ‘But what about? Not her sexual exploits. They seem to have been common knowledge.’
‘Only among birdwatchers and some of the islanders,’ Sandy said. ‘Maybe the field centre trustees would have been less than pleased to hear she was seducing her younger staff. Couldn’t that be seen as sexual harassment? Probably against the law.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Perez said. ‘We’d better chat to young Hugh Shaw. See what he has to say for himself.’ He started the engine and drove too quickly up the narrow track. He remembered Fran and Hugh standing in the kitchen. He told himself there could be no real danger, but he wanted to know she was safe.
