Red Bones

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Look,’ Perez said. ‘The woman’s a mother who’s just lost her daughter. That’s all you have to concentrate on. Forget about what she does for a living. Imagine how Evelyn would be feeling if your body was washed up on the shore.’

  ‘Guilt,’ Sandy said after a pause. ‘She’d be wondering what she could have done to prevent it.’

  ‘And Gwen James will be feeling just the same. You don’t want to make her feel bad about what’s happened. She’ll be guilty enough without you adding to it. Your role is to get her to talk about her daughter. Don’t ask too many questions. Just give her time and the sense that you’re really listening to her. She’ll do the rest.’

  ‘Couldn’t we suggest she fly up here? Then you could talk to her.’ Sandy had the air of a man desperately clutching at straws.

  ‘I did suggest it and I’m sure she will want to come up. But she says not now. She prefers to be in her own home. And I prefer you to see her there, on her own territory, where she’ll feel most comfortable. You can do this, Sandy. I’d not send you to London if I didn’t think you’d do it well.’

  Perez left Sandy to get ready and went outside to find Joseph. The older man was in the barn doing something to the insides of an ancient tractor. When he saw Perez he wiped his hands on an oily piece of cloth. He looked very pale.

  ‘This is a terrible business. Two deaths on Setter land.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the place, surely,’ Perez said.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s how it seems.’

  ‘You were there last night.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ The older man looked up, startled. It was as if Perez had performed some sort of conjuring trick.

  ‘I saw you through the window. You looked upset. I didn’t want to disturb you. What time did you get there?’

  ‘I don’t know. After my tea.’

  ‘Did you go outside? Down to the dig?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anything? Hear anything?’ Perez looked at Sandy’s father. In the gloom of the barn it was hard to tell what he was thinking.

  ‘No,’ Joseph said. ‘I just go there some nights to drink and forget. I didn’t hear a thing.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sandy arrived at Heathrow at the height of the rush hour. He’d never liked the idea of the Underground, even before the bombings were all over the television. It seemed unnatural being shut in a tunnel, not being able to see where you were going. Anyway, he’d had a look at the map on the back of the A–Z Perez had loaned him and it all seemed too complicated for him to work out. He couldn’t make sense of the different-coloured lines. Instead he got the direct bus to King’s Cross. That was where it terminated, so there should be no danger of getting out at the wrong place. Perez had asked Morag to book him into a Travel Inn in the Euston Road. Sandy would check in and collect his thoughts before he went to speak to Gwen James. He was still astonished that his boss had trusted him to do the interview, felt extreme pride and extreme fear in the space of a minute.

  The bus was full of people. Sandy looked to catch someone’s eye and start up a conversation with a local, a person who would be able to reassure him when he reached his destination. But they all seemed exhausted after their flights; they sat with their eyes closed. Those who did talk weren’t speaking English. Whenever he went to Edinburgh or Aberdeen, Sandy had the same reaction of claustrophobia for the first couple of days. It was being surrounded by tall buildings, the sense of being shut in, of not being able to see the sky or the horizon. This was just the same but the buildings were even taller and closer together and there was a feeling that the city was endless; there would be no escape from it.

  Coming into the city centre, he had the odd flash of excitement when they passed a street name he recognized, a signpost to a famous monument, but it didn’t last. He was here for work. This was one interview he couldn’t get wrong. He peered out into the streets looking at the people who were walking past. Perez’s woman, Fran Hunter, was in London at the minute. He’d feel happier if he could glimpse just one familiar face. Of course he knew it was impossible. What was the chance of seeing her among all those thousands of people? But it didn’t stop him looking.

  Walking to his hotel he had to push against the flow of people hurrying to King’s Cross and St Pancras Stations. He felt he couldn’t breathe. If he stood still for a moment they would flatten him, walk right over him without hesitating, without stopping to find out what was wrong.

  In the hotel the receptionist struggled to understand his accent, but the room was booked and he was given a plastic card instead of a key. It seemed a very grand room. There was a big double bed and a bathroom. He looked out over the Euston Road at the line of traffic and the pavements heaving with people. He was so high up that the only noise was a dull hum, a background roar like waves on the shore on a stormy day, the sound Mima had called ‘the hush’. He turned on the television so he couldn’t hear it. He had a shower and changed into the shirt his mother had ironed for him. She’d folded it carefully in his overnight bag and it was hardly creased at all. I should be nicer to her, he thought. She’s looked after me so well. Why can’t I like her more?

  It took him a while to find the kettle hidden away in a drawer, but then he made himself a cup of tea and ate the little packet of biscuits. He didn’t feel like eating a proper meal. Perez had said he could get something on expenses, but he’d wait until after the interview. He wanted to phone Perez to tell him that he’d arrived safely, then decided that would be pathetic. He’d wait until he had something to report.

  The road was less busy when he went out to find Gwen James’s place. He decided he’d risk the Underground. It was only a few stops and Perez had marked the route from the Underground station on the map. He didn’t have change for the ticket machine and had to queue at the office; he was ridiculously pleased with himself when he found the right platform for his train.

  He arrived at Gwen James’s flat far too early and walked about the streets waiting for time to pass. It was dark and the streetlights had come on. Some of the basement flats had lit windows so he could see inside. In one, a beautiful young woman dressed in black was cooking dinner. It seemed unbelievably glamorous to Sandy, the sight of the slender young woman with her shiny hair down her back, a glass of wine on the table beside her, cooking a meal in the city flat. There were trees down each side of the street; the leaves were new and green in the artificial light. On the corner of the road music was spilling out of a pub. The door opened as a man in a suit came out and Sandy heard snatches of laughter.

  He stood outside Gwen James’s flat and took a deep breath. There were two bells. Beside hers was a handwritten label – James. The writing was in thick black ink and italic. He rang it and waited. There were footsteps and the door opened. She was tall and dark. If you were into older women – and Sandy wasn’t really – she was attractive. High cheekbones and a good body. She carried sophistication about her and seemed completely at home in this city. It occurred to Sandy that in twenty years’ time the young woman he’d seen in the basement flat would look like this.

  He introduced himself, trying to speak slowly so she’d understand him first time and he wouldn’t be forced to repeat himself. Perez always said he had a tendency to gabble, and she wouldn’t be used to the accent.

  ‘I was expecting Inspector Perez.’

  ‘I’m afraid he couldn’t leave the islands.’

  She shrugged to show it was of no real consequence and led him into a living room that was as big as the whole of Sandy’s flat. The colours were deep, rich browns and chestnuts with splashes of red. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply.

  ‘I gave up when I joined the Department of Health,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think anyone would criticize me now.’

  ‘Don’t you want someone with you?’ If there was a death in Whalsay, folk gathered round the relatives. This seemed an unnatural way to grieve.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I really do
n’t want to become a spectator sport.’ She looked at him through the cigarette smoke. ‘Did you know my daughter?’

  ‘Yes, my mother Evelyn was involved in the archaeological project. My grandmother lived at Setter, the croft where they were digging.’

  ‘Mima? The old woman who died?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She got on very well with Hattie.’

  ‘Hattie wrote to me about her. I was pleased she was making friends on Whalsay, but jealous too in a way. My daughter and I always had a very strained relationship. It seemed sad that she was closer to a stranger than she was to me.’

  ‘I don’t think that was true.’ Sandy knew families were tricky. Look at his relationship with his mother. ‘My grandmother got on with all the young folk in the place.’ He paused. ‘Did Hattie write to you often?’

  ‘Once a week. It was a habit she developed after she left home. A duty. I think she found it easier than talking to me on the phone. She started when she went to university and continued even when she was quite ill in hospital. She kept it up ever since. We got on quite well by letter. Things only became difficult when we met in person.’

  Sandy wondered fleetingly if he should try writing to his mother. ‘I don’t suppose you kept her letters?’

  ‘I did actually. Isn’t that sad? I have them all in a folder. When I feel especially lonely I re-read them. And do you know, she probably thought I just glanced at them then threw them away.’

  Sandy didn’t know what to say so he kept quiet. That was what Perez did. ‘Just give her time and sense that you’re really listening to her.’

  ‘Would you like to see them?’ Gwen stubbed out the cigarette and looked at him through narrow eyes.

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can do this entirely sober. Will you have a drink with me?’

  He nodded. It wasn’t even as if he wanted a drink now, though he could have used one earlier. He didn’t want to break the mood.

  ‘Wine?’

  He nodded again.

  She came back into the room with a bottle of red wine and two large glasses, which she held by the stems between her fingers. She uncorked the wine and left it on the low table beside him, then went out again. When she returned she was carrying a folder full of letters. She sat on the sofa beside him, so close that he could smell her perfume and the cigarette smoke that remained in her hair.

  ‘This is the most recent. It arrived yesterday. That was why I was so surprised when she phoned me. We didn’t communicate by phone very often, and what new could she have to say?’

  ‘Did you keep the envelope?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wondered when it was posted.’

  ‘Oh, I can tell you that. Just the day before I got it. I was impressed – it had come all that way.’

  She handed him the sheet of paper. It was A4, white, unlined. It seemed to him that the writing was very neat. He thought it was a strangely old-fashioned way for someone so young to keep in touch with her mother. He always phoned home and even Evelyn used email.

  Dear Mum

  It’s been a very odd week. On Tuesday there was a terrible accident. Mima, who lives at Setter where the dig is based, was shot. It’s hard to imagine a tragedy like that on a place like Whalsay. Apparently one of the islanders was out after rabbits and she was hit by mistake. She was wearing my coat. I can’t help feeling responsible. You’ll say that’s the old paranoia coming back and perhaps you’re right. Her death has unsettled me. Don’t worry though. I’m fine, keeping on top of things. And yes, I am eating.

  Then today we made a tremendous discovery on the dig – silver coins which prove that I was right about the building there. There’s some talk about recreating the house as it would have been in the fifteenth century, but that’s a long way off. Sometimes I’m not sure that I’m up to carrying it through, then I think it would be the most exciting project in the world. And I’m here at the start of it.

  How are things going with you? I heard you on the Today programme earlier this week and thought you kept your cool very well. Look forward to hearing from you. See you soon.

  Love, Hattie

  ‘What do you think?’ Gwen had almost finished her first glass of wine.

  Sandy’s mind went blank and he forced himself to come up with a response. ‘She doesn’t sound so depressed.’

  ‘That’s what I thought when I first read it, now I’m not so sure. “Sometimes I think I’m not sure that I’m up to carrying it through”. Perhaps that means she was thinking about killing herself.’

  ‘No,’ Sandy said. ‘It means she was making plans for the future. That’s what it sounds like to me.’

  ‘If you’re right, something must have happened between her writing the letter and phoning me. Don’t you think so? Or at least she came to see events in a different way.’

  Sandy didn’t know what to think. He had very few opinions of his own. He said nothing.

  ‘I mean, this letter is quite calm. But by the time she phoned me she sounded really distressed.’

  ‘Have you saved her message on your mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’ She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her phone.

  ‘I’d like to take the SIM card with me, let my boss hear it. And there are other things we could learn. Like where she was calling from. It might help.’ He wasn’t sure he could face hearing Hattie’s voice now. Not in this room with her mother listening. But Gwen James hadn’t taken any notice of him; she was already pressing buttons.

  ‘Mum! Mum! Where are you? Something dreadful’s happened. I can’t believe it. I think I was wrong about Mima. I need to talk to you. I’ll try later.’ The voice was high-pitched with panic. Sandy remembered Hattie sitting at the table in the Utra kitchen, smiling at something Evelyn had said. She’d been upset when she’d learned Mima was dead, but this was quite different. This was real distress.

  ‘Had Hattie ever tried to kill herself?’ he asked. ‘I know she was ill in the past.’

  ‘No,’ Gwen said listlessly. She was still staring at her phone. ‘Once she said she wished she was dead but that’s not quite the same, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When I read the letter I thought she was OK. Upset about the old woman but basically fine. I’ve lived with anxiety about my daughter. Some people think I’m hard-hearted because I don’t talk about her, because we didn’t live together. It would have been easier to have her here where I could keep an eye on her, but she needed her own life. Sometimes I don’t think about her for a whole working day; then I feel guilty. I dreamed that one day the anxiety would stop, that I could stop worrying about her. There’d be some magic new medication or she’d find a man to love her and take care of her. Over the winter it seemed that had happened. Shetland had worked some sort of magic. She still had her bad days, but she seemed calmer, almost happy.’ She paused, breathed in a sob. ‘Now I’d give anything to have the worry back.’

  Sandy held his glass and sipped the wine. He wished he could say something to make it easier for the woman. Perez should have come. He would have known what to say.

  ‘Do you think Hattie killed herself?’ Gwen’s question came at him so hard and fast that it made him blink.

  ‘No,’ he said without thinking. Then, blushing, realizing what he’d done, ‘But you mustn’t take any notice of me. That’s just my opinion and I get things wrong all the time.’

  She looked at him. ‘I’m grateful that you’ve come all this way.’

  ‘My family is from Whalsay. If you’d like to come back and see where she stayed, we’d be happy to show you.’

  Standing outside the flat on the pavement with the woman’s SIM card in his pocket and the file of letters in a supermarket carrier bag, Sandy thought he hadn’t achieved a lot. What would Perez say? And the Fiscal? All that money to send him and really he’d not found out much at all. He couldn’t face the rattle of the Underground, the blank faces. He looked at the map under
a streetlamp and walked through the mild city night all the way back to his hotel.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Perez watched the ferry carry Sandy away from Whalsay on his way to London and thought this must be what his own parents had felt when he was twelve and he was sent off from Fair Isle to stay in the hostel at the Anderson High School in Lerwick: responsible for his loneliness and as if they’d deserted him. All day whenever his phone rang Perez thought it would be Sandy, stranded somewhere, or lost in the city.

  He found Berglund still in the Pier House Hotel. He seemed to have taken up residence at the table by the window, turning the place into his office, filling it with his laptop computer and his piles of paper.

  ‘You’ll have heard about Hattie?’ Perez said.

  ‘Yes, what a waste! She was such a talented girl. I’ve never been able to understand suicide.’ There was an academic interest in his voice but no real regret.

  ‘Your knife was found by her body.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked up sharply from the computer screen. ‘I hadn’t even realized it was lost.’ He gave a shiver of distaste.

  ‘We’ll need to keep it for forensic examination.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want it back. I’d never feel able to use it again.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I certainly had it yesterday morning on site. I suppose I must have left it there. Or I could have dropped it while I was walking with Hattie.’

  ‘Did you see her pick it up?’

  ‘Of course not, inspector. I’d have expected her to give it back to me, wouldn’t I?’ He gave a little laugh, as if he could hardly believe the detective’s stupidity.

  Perez drove from Symbister to Lindby and the big Clouston house. Jackie was outside, cleaning the windows of the lounge, polishing them with a dry cloth, so vigorously that you’d think she’d make a hole in the glass. She turned round, suddenly aware that she was being watched.