Blue Lightning

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘So he found this curlew before Angela Moore did, but she claimed the credit.’ Rhona looked at her watch. Her sympathy hadn’t lasted for long. Perez thought the Fiscal just wanted the facts; she’d never been much interested in the background. That’s what social workers were invented for, Jimmy.

  ‘He worked out where he thought the birds might be breeding,’ said Perez. ‘Something to do with the insects they feed on. He looked at the maps, sought out likely search areas. They call it ground-truthing.’ Perez had liked the idea of ground-truthing when he’d heard about it, thought it was a useful concept in policing. It was about testing theories, keeping it real. Now he wondered how it could have excited him; it was an irrelevance.

  ‘It must have been galling for him to miss out on the credit,’ Laing said, showing some understanding at last. She would understand about professional jealousy. Perez had never met anyone quite so ambitious. ‘The woman became a real celebrity as a result of that book.’

  ‘Of course.’ Perez imagined Fowler trying to keep his business afloat, but everywhere he was hearing of Angela Moore’s success, while he scratched a living taking orders for books over the Internet, meeting up with the occasional eccentric in his shop. ‘Angela was on the television every five minutes, warden of Fair Isle, the most prestigious field centre in the UK. Of course it ate away at him. That should have been him. He woke up thinking about it and he dreamed about it at night.’

  Rhona raised her eyebrows. Perhaps she was thinking that Perez knew something about obsession. He must wake up thinking about Fran dying in the dark on Fair Isle and no doubt he dreamed about it too.

  ‘Did the wife know what was going on? I still haven’t decided how we should charge her.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ And it was true. Of all the aspects of the case, this was the one that haunted him most. Sometimes he saw Sarah as a figure like Lady Macbeth, the malign influence behind Fowler, feeding him poison, persuading him with her words and her unhappiness that Angela deserved to die. Had she lured Fran out of the lighthouse, so Fowler could kill her? At other times, he saw Sarah as a victim. ‘I don’t think she was unhappy when Angela died. She was desperate for a child. They’d been through the stress of IVF and then lost a baby late in pregnancy. Angela was pregnant. Sarah was jealous too.’ What a couple the Fowlers must have been, Perez thought. Both of them wrapped up in their disappointment and envy. How did they live their lives? By making small efforts at conversation and normality? Bizarrely, he found himself wondering if John and Sarah ever had sex at the end. There was something almost sensual in the way the women’s bodies had been displayed. Another example of John Fowler’s odd repression?

  ‘Sarah Fowler knew about Angela’s pregnancy?’ Rhona’s question startled Perez, brought him back to the tasteful room, with the high ceiling and the photographs of old sailing ships on the walls, the immediacy of the investigation.

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Hugh Shaw claims he heard the Fowlers discussing it. She’d trained as a nurse. And she’d be hypersensitive, wouldn’t she, when she longed so much for a baby for herself?’ He found himself wondering if Rhona Laing had ever wanted a child.

  ‘Do you know who the father was?’

  ‘Ben Catchpole,’ Perez said. ‘The timing doesn’t work for anyone else.’

  ‘I can understand why Fowler killed Moore.’ Rhona reached out and took a piece of shortbread from the white china plate. She seemed disappointed in herself as if she’d given in to a terrible temptation. It seemed to Perez that she had a strange attitude to food. Did she maintain her figure because she was on a perpetual diet or was it all about self-control?

  She went on: ‘At least, I can just about understand it as an elaborate act of revenge, conceived by a twisted mind. But he had nothing against Jane Latimer.’

  ‘That was to do with survival,’ Perez said. ‘It was clear from the beginning that Jane was killed because she’d decided Fowler was the killer. I think she was playing detectives. She liked puzzles.’

  ‘A dangerous game.’ The Fiscal licked her index finger and scooped up a biscuit crumb from the plate.

  ‘The keys to the lighthouse tower were kept in the kitchen,’ Perez said. ‘That’s where Fowler went to watch people moving around the island. Jane might have seen him take them or replace them. She searched his room. There was the draft of his original article about the possible search areas for the curlew. He’d brought it with him to confront Angela. She’d been reading it in the bird room and was frantic when Fowler took it back. Of course, she didn’t want anyone else to read it. It meant nothing to us, but Jane had spent a season in the field centre and understood the implication of it.’ He paused. He tried to imagine Jane’s exhilaration when she’d thought she’d put together the pieces. When was she planning to tell him?

  ‘She wasn’t foolish enough to confront Fowler with her suspicions?’ Rhona looked at her watch again. How much time had she allowed him? When was her next meeting due to begin?

  ‘No, Fowler went back to the North Light when Jane wasn’t expecting him. I think he saw her searching his things. It was partly my fault. It was the morning Angela’s body went out on the helicopter. I sent Sarah and Fowler away from the hall where I was conducting the interviews and told them to come back later. You can see into all the bedrooms as you come into the centre. The ground’s a bit higher there and there’s a perfect view into the rooms of the first floor. Jane wouldn’t have expected them back so soon.’

  ‘He killed her?’ Rhona said. ‘Just for that?’

  ‘By then,’ Perez said, ‘he’d lost all reason and all perspective. Perhaps she gave something of her suspicion away. The bookshop name would have intrigued her too and I’m sure she would have looked it up. Perhaps in his mind she was implicated in Angela’s betrayal just by being part of the field centre. The fact that the crime scene was decorated with feathers would indicate that. Fowler watched her from the lighthouse tower and saw her go towards the Pund. Jane knew Angela used it as a place to take her men and to keep her secrets. I guess she hoped to find more evidence of Fowler’s guilt there. He picked up a pillow from the laundry room, stuffed it into his day sack and hurried over the hill after her. At least, I’m guessing that’s what he did. You know more about it than I do. What does Sandy’s report say?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Rhona said. ‘Of course you’re right. You’re the best detective I’ve ever worked with, Jimmy.’ She looked up at him before continuing. ‘What happened then?’

  Perez thought he knew, but suddenly he was tired of talking. This wasn’t his story. He forced out the words. ‘He found Jane in the loft. I suppose she was searching for letters, a diary, anything that would give more details of Angela’s fraud. That’s where he killed her.’ Rhona turned over a printed report on her desk and read from Fowler’s confession. ‘It was very quick. She must have heard my footsteps coming up the ladder behind her, but she didn’t even have had time to turn round. I like to think she wouldn’t have suffered.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Perez said angrily. ‘There were defence wounds on her hands and arms. She fought him off and of course she suffered. I even think he enjoyed that. He didn’t have to kill Fran. He must have realized it was all over for him by then.’ He paused. ‘He killed Jane with a knife he’d taken from the kitchen.’

  ‘You must hate him, Jimmy.’

  Perez ignored the observation. He felt drained and he wanted this over as soon as he could. He thought almost with pleasure of his house by the shore, where his father would be waiting with a bottle of whisky and a simple meal.

  ‘Angela had told Stella Monkton that she’d stolen Fowler’s research,’ Perez said. ‘I think Angela did have scruples where her academic work was concerned and she regretted it. When Stella came into Fair Isle she passed on the information to Maurice. He could decide what was most important – to destroy Angela’s reputation or use information that might lead to her killer.’

  ‘He decided t
o tell you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Perez looked up at her. ‘If I’d listened to him sooner, Fran might be alive.’

  ‘You can’t believe that, Jimmy.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I can.’ He looked up at her. ‘Of course I’ve decided to give up my job. I can’t face this responsibility any more. And every day I’d be reminded of her.’

  ‘What will you do?’ She didn’t try to talk him out of it. She could see his mind was made up.

  ‘Something useful,’ he said. ‘Practical. I’ll make furniture or keep sheep.’ It wasn’t as if he needed much money. Now he only had himself to care for.

  ‘You’ll always be a detective, Jimmy, in your heart. You’re too curious to walk away from things.’

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘Will you go home to Fair Isle to live?’ she asked.

  He answered immediately. ‘Oh, no. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back there.’

  Chapter Forty

  Yet two days later he found himself on the Good Shepherd on his way home. He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d allowed himself to be persuaded. He’d arrived back at his house by the harbour after the interview with Rhona Laing, exhausted. It was as if he’d relived the nightmare days on the island; he felt again the claustrophobia, and the tension hit him as a headache, so fierce that he could hardly see.

  His father had greeted him with the small whisky that had become a habit. They both allowed themselves just the one. ‘Your mother phoned.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Mary phoned every evening. She’d been a bit earlier than usual, but that was hardly worthy of comment.

  ‘She wants us home.’

  That was hardly worthy of comment either. Mary liked her men around her; she thought they were incapable of caring for themselves.

  ‘You go if you like,’ Perez had said. In fact he felt a sudden panic. Left to himself he thought he would sink into a depression he’d never get out of. But in the end, he thought, did that really matter? And his father couldn’t live with him for ever. The Shepherd crew would need their skipper back and though it wasn’t a busy time for the croft, there was always work to do.

  ‘You come,’ James said. ‘Just for a day. We’ll make sure you get off on the plane on Wednesday. One night. You can stand that.’

  In the end Perez hadn’t found the energy to fight them. His father drove them south to Grutness in Perez’s car. They had to pass Fran’s house in Ravens-wick, could see it down the bank. Hunter’s 4x4 wasn’t there. Perez hoped Cassie was in the school close to the beach, that somehow with her friends and her teacher she was coping.

  ‘That’s where Fran lived,’ Perez said. ‘That little house. The old chapel.’

  ‘Do you want to stop?’

  ‘No!’ He thought Fran’s parents might be inside. He got on with them well enough. They were friendly, intelligent. But he couldn’t think what he might say to them. They’d left a message on his phone asking if he’d ring them, but he hadn’t responded. He couldn’t imagine what might be worse: that they blamed him openly for their daughter’s death or that, prompted by their liberal principles, they were sympathetic and understanding.

  The Shepherd was already at the jetty when they arrived. The crew were loading sacks of mail from the post van, and boxes of vegetables for the shop. They stopped when they saw Perez and one by one, put their arms around him. No words needed. It was a chilly afternoon with a bit of a northerly breeze, but fine enough for him to sit outside on the deck all the way across. James took his place in the wheelhouse and Perez watched Fair Isle approaching over the water with something like dread.

  Mary met them at the North Haven with the car. Maurice and Ben were there to unload the boxes for the field centre; Ben had flown back to the Isle as soon as the police in Lerwick had finished with him. He and Maurice were the only people left in the North Light, there would be no more visitors now until the spring. The men had shared the woman who had dominated their lives; now they seemed to have negotiated a way of living together. Perez thought he should ask Maurice about Poppy. Had she settled back into life at school? What had happened with the unsuitable relationship? But he wasn’t sufficiently interested to make the effort to form the question. These days he didn’t bother if folk thought him rude.

  At home, Mary made them tea. She looked as if she’d been baking for days, all his favourites. They took their usual places at the table and sat for a moment looking out over the South Harbour. Perez sensed his mother was building up to saying something. He thought: Oh, please! Not a speech about Fran. Nor a plea for me to come home to live. If that happened he’d have to walk away. Otherwise he’d say something he’d regret later. They sat in an awkward silence, until James nodded towards his wife, prompting her to get on with it. This was something his parents had cooked up between them.

  ‘I need to show you this.’ Mary set a big notebook in front of him. It was Fran’s sketchpad. She’d been working in it all the time they were on the island. Notes and doodles and ideas for paintings. Including the picture of Sheep Rock she’d planned to make for his parents.

  Perez was relieved. They’d found the book and thought he would want it as a memento. Then worried that it might upset him. No big deal. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d found scraps of her work all over his house. There’d be more in her place in Ravenswick. One day, perhaps, he’d collect her stuff together, have an exhibition in the Herring House gallery in Biddista.

  ‘I was tempted just to throw it away,’ Mary said, ‘but James said I shouldn’t. He said we should leave the decision to you.’ She opened the book and turned the pages, put it back on the table again.

  It was a page of writing, large and bold and obviously Fran’s. Done in charcoal. She’d often left notes for him in the kitchen at Ravenswick in exactly the same form. Just dropping Cass at Duncan’s. Wine in the fridge. Can you make a start on supper? For a moment he couldn’t bring himself to read it. It brought her so close to him, made him realize all over again what he’d lost. And when he did read it he could hear her speaking in his head. Making a joke, but serious at the same time:

  To whom it may concern. In the event of my sudden death, for example in that bloody little plane or if the boat should capsize, I entrust my daughter Cassandra to the care of James Alexander (Jimmy) Perez. He thinks of her as his own and I can think of nobody better to look after her.

  Then came the signature that Scottish art experts and gallery owners would recognize.

  That was it. Two sentences. Perez could hear the gulls calling outside. He said nothing. Had Fran realized that he thought of Cassie sometimes as a replacement for his unborn child? They’d never discussed it. Too mawkish, he’d thought. Too daft.

  ‘I think it’s too much to ask,’ Mary said crossly. ‘To become legal guardian of another man’s child. Besides, Hunter would never stand for it. Just tear this up. Who would know?’

  For a moment Perez was tempted. This was the last thing he wanted, not because he didn’t care for Cassie. He adored her more now than ever; she was all he had left of Fran. But because the only way he could cope with the gut-wrenching guilt was to become dead himself. Not to feel. Not to think. You couldn’t bring up a child if you were emotionally dead.

  ‘I’d know,’ he said. And he thought Hunter would stand for it. He was a pragmatic man, not given to sentiment. He loved Cassie but he wouldn’t want to wash her clothes or clean up her snotty nose if she had a cold. And it made sense in another way. The alternative would be for Fran’s parents to take Cassie south with them and Hunter wouldn’t want that either. It would be a muddle and Perez would have to involve Hunter again in his life in a way that would be a daily penance, but they could make it work. He took the paper from his mother’s hands. ‘It’s the least I can do for Fran, don’t you think?’

  It was almost as if he’d been in court and a life sentence had been handed down. He felt the relief of reparation, but the pain of facing the real world again. For h
im there could be no escape into drink or manual labour. No turning wood or keeping sheep. He’d keep his job to provide for Cassie. There’d be no involvement this time in his work though. No empathy. Jimmy Perez the detective was coming back to life, but he’d be a harder, less forgiving man.

  Praise for Ann Cleeves

  BLUE LIGHTNING

  ‘A real, page-turning thriller. It is beautifully crafted, belonging to the golden age of well-fashioned detective fiction . . . a terrific, atmospheric novel’

  Frances Fyfield

  ‘Cleeves is excellent not just on the mystery, but on the atmosphere of Fair Isle, and the effect of its strange character on the human population’

  Independent

  ‘Great atmospheric suspense’

  Mirror

  ‘Blue Lightning, the final book in Ann Cleeves’

  Shetland quartet, is also the best and the darkest. The setting is Fair Isle, full of birds and beauty, but, in Cleeves’ hands, deeply sinister’

  The Times

  ‘The definitive detective thriller . . . The pace quickens and rises steadily to a thrilling and violent crescendo. The end is completely unpredictable and shocking . . . Beautifully crafted and exciting with a gripping storyline, this is a must for those who like their fiction mature and thoughtful and their authors intelligent and imaginative’

  Sunday Express

  RED BONES

  ‘Like a smoky Shetland peat fire, this elegantly written, slow-burning intrigue shrouds you in mystery and crackles with inner heat’

  Peter James

  ‘Red Bones gives us plenty to chew on; an intricate plot, quirky characters and that special Shetland atmosphere, at once eerie and beautiful, that Ann Cleeves is making her own. Let’s hope she keeps on going through all the colours of the northern lights!’

  Reginald Hill