by Ann Cleeves
‘He doesn’t like anyone coming in to clean,’ Helena said, ‘and he truly seems incapable of doing it himself. If it’s in that space under the bed, he doesn’t seem to see it. We’ve come to an arrangement that I’ll do it once a fortnight, when he’s at school, and I’ll only take out the rubbish and the dirty clothes.’
Christopher’s attention was still focused on the screen. Perez might not have been there.
‘Switch off the computer.’ Her voice was firm. ‘You know it’s much later than we agreed for switch-off. You shouldn’t need me to come up to tell you.’
He switched it off, still staring until the image on the screen faded away.
‘Turn around, please, Christopher. The inspector needs to ask you some questions.’
The boy swivelled his chair so that he was facing them. The hysteria of earlier in the day had quite disappeared. He was calm, interested.
‘I’m sorry that you had to find Emma this afternoon, Christopher. It must have been a terrible shock,’ Perez said. The setting sun behind the boy blurred the details of his face. He was hardly more than a silhouette with a halo of light behind him. ‘Did you recognize Emma straight away?’
‘She looked after Kate and Sam Moncrieff. And Martha and Charlie, but they’re at the High School and don’t really need looking after.’
‘That’s right. Do you know why she might have been visiting your house?’
‘Not on a Sunday. She used to come with Kate and Sam sometimes after school. The days Dad picked us up. But not for a while.’
‘Why did you go to the barn this afternoon? Mum says you prefer to spend time in your room.’
Christopher considered for a moment. ‘The Wi-Fi was down. I was annoyed, but there was nothing I could do about it. I used to get in a rage when things like that happened, but now I try not to. Sometimes it helps to get up and walk around for a bit. I knew I was in the sort of mood when Ellie would get on my nerves, so I didn’t want to play with her. I ended up in the barn instead.’ He paused. ‘At first I didn’t know what was hanging there. I couldn’t see the face. She was too high and I was looking up from below. I climbed onto the bales to get a better view.’
He stopped abruptly.
‘And that was when you realized?’
Christopher nodded. ‘I thought the doctor might be able to help her. I knew he’d be at the Sunday teas. That was why I ran down to the hall.’
‘That makes perfect sense. You have a good view up here, out to the fields and onto the shore. Have you seen anything unusual lately? Any strangers hanging around?’
Christopher sat very still for a moment, and then slowly he shook his head.
Chapter Twelve
Sandy arrived at the Moncrieffs’ house and sat in the car, looking out at the place. The house stood in the most southerly part of Deltaness, and it was surrounded by trees. This was sufficiently unusual in Shetland to make Sandy feel a little uneasy. It was large too, three storeys, L-shaped. Once it had belonged to a laird and now it belonged to the doctor. The trees must have been planted years ago to shelter the building from the road, the common people and the wind. Under the trees – mostly stunted sycamores with thick, warped trunks – bluebells were growing. The black car that had collected Robert Moncrieff from the track leading to the Fleming house was parked outside, next to a Range Rover. Sandy walked to the side of the house and saw a little red Clio.
The front door was grand, fronted by steps and framed by pillars, though the paint was peeling. In the islands the weather could do that after a couple of wild autumns, but the whole house seemed kind of scruffy to Sandy. It was as if the owners didn’t care what other folk might make of it. Arrogance. He knew the Moncrieffs would have the money to tidy it up, if they wanted. The house had been inherited from Robert’s father, so there’d be no mortgage, and rumour had it that Belle’s family was loaded. Her dad owned a brewery and property throughout the English Midlands. That, at least, was what Sandy had heard.
He rang the doorbell and heard it echo inside. A teenage girl opened it. She had very dark hair, cut asymmetrically so that her fringe slanted. She was dressed entirely in black – black leggings, a long black baggy sweater and black ballet pumps. She had a nose-stud and a string of rings in one ear. ‘Who are you?’ Her head was tilted to one side.
Sandy explained.
‘You’ll be here about Emma. Dad’s just told us. We knew already, though. You know what it’s like here. Word gets out.’ She seemed unmoved by the woman’s death. ‘Is it true that she was murdered?’
‘We’re treating her death as suspicious.’ Sandy had never had much contact with teenage girls – not confident teenage girls from wealthy families – and he found this one scary. ‘Can I speak to your parents?’
‘They’re in the kitchen. Mum’s already on the Pinot. She’s not sure how she’ll cope with us all, without Emma.’ The girl had started to walk away, but she continued speaking to him over her shoulder. ‘I hope she doesn’t expect me to step in. I’ve got exams in a few weeks.’
He followed her down a flagstone corridor to an open door. The girl stood just inside and held up her hands as if she was about to make an announcement. There was a small tattoo on the back of her neck, right below her hairline. Sandy couldn’t see properly around her. There’d been conversation in the room, but now it fell silent. ‘The fuzz is here, so watch what you say.’
A woman’s voice said, ‘Martha, don’t be so rude. That’s not funny.’ Martha turned very quickly, slipped past Sandy and disappeared. He was left standing in the doorway, being stared at by the two people inside.
As the girl had said, Belle Moncrieff had already opened a bottle of wine and sat with a large glass in one hand. The bottle was only half-full. She must have started drinking before her husband got home. ‘I’m sorry, Constable, come in. Robert was just telling me.’ She was a good-looking woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, big, but with the confidence to carry it off. And the money, Sandy thought, to dress to best advantage. Today she was wearing a navy wrap-around dress, and his eyes were drawn to the impressive cleavage rather than the wide hips. ‘What a terrible tragedy!’
Robert was still standing. He nodded for Sandy to take a seat. ‘I asked Martha if she saw Emma this morning. Jimmy Perez seemed keen to know when she was last seen. But Martha couldn’t remember noticing her at all.’
‘Would Martha have seen her?’ Sandy asked.
‘Not necessarily. It’s a big house. There are two staircases and it’s a bit of a warren. Emma could quite easily have left without anyone realizing. Weekends are mad. We’re all doing our own thing.’ Moncrieff took a glass from the cupboard on the wall behind him and poured himself some wine. ‘Jimmy said you wanted to look at Emma’s room.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll show you. It’s a bit of a climb.’
Sandy followed. The house was, as Moncrieff had said, a bit of a warren; corridors seemed to lead in all directions. It was almost dark outside now and there was no natural light where they were walking. The electric bulbs seemed weak and they walked in a half-lit gloom. It seemed to Sandy that there were hazards everywhere: kids’ toys on the stairs, uneven floors, small, unexpected steps. At last Moncrieff stopped outside a low door. He pushed it, but it didn’t open. ‘Ah, of course it’s locked. Lucky that I thought to bring the spare key.’ It was a simple Yale lock that would work when the door was pulled to.
‘I’ll take it from here, sir. I’ve got protective clothing. I’m sure you know how it works, you’ll have seen the cop shows on TV.’ Sandy tried to lighten the mood a little. ‘We’ll need to seal the room when I’ve had a quick look. Then we’ll get the experts in tomorrow.’
He thought for a moment that the man would object and insist on staying, but Moncrieff only shrugged. ‘Of course, if that’s what you want. It’s procedure, I suppose. Our life seems to be ruled by it these days.’ He handed over the key.
‘Is this the only spare?’ Sandy thought Per
ez would want to know that.
‘Yes. We could never quite understand her need for a lock in the first place, but she said she didn’t want the children wandering in.’ Moncrieff turned away and Sandy heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
He pulled on the scene-suit, gloves and overshoes, put the key in the lock and reached inside for the light switch. The room was built into the roof, with a sloping gable on one side and long Velux windows. During the day it would be full of light and even now, this close to midsummer, it wasn’t quite dark outside, and Sandy could make out the outlines of the closest trees. They were below him now, only the tallest branches silhouetted against a paler sky.
The room wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. Emma had been twenty-four. He remembered when he’d had girlfriends in their twenties; their rooms had been scattered with make-up, dirty clothes, DVDs. And that had been the tidier ones. This felt as if he’d stepped back into a different era. There was a single bed against the windowless wall. No duvet, but sheets, blankets and a patchwork quilt. A long table under the windows held an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a basket containing yarn and knitting needles. The machine was still threaded and a piece of gingham fabric was folded beside it. Next to the machine stood a record player – a Dansette, just like the one his parents had owned when he was a kid – and in a case under the table a pile of vinyl LPs. A jam jar of wildflowers. Two posters on the walls, one of Marilyn Monroe and one advertising a black-and-white film. Sandy had never heard of it.
There was nothing to suggest a disturbance within the room, and certainly no sign that the door had been forced. If Emma had been strangled here, she’d let in the killer and he’d pulled the door closed behind him when he left. But there had been family members coming and going in the house all day and, surely, he wouldn’t have taken the risk of carrying her body down the stairs and along the corridors. This was unlikely to be the crime scene.
A white wooden cupboard in an alcove formed by the chimney breast held all Emma’s clothes. Again it seemed to Sandy to be unusually neat, and again the clothes seemed unlikely for a woman of Emma’s age. There were no jeans ripped at the knees, and black didn’t feature. The only trousers were cropped and fitted, in pastel colours, beautifully pressed and folded. Cotton dresses hung from hangers. He looked for labels, but there were none. It seemed that Emma made all her own clothes.
In the alcove on the other side of the chimney breast there was a smaller cupboard, painted white to match. On top of it stood an old-fashioned television, square and boxy, with an aerial on top. Perez had said that Moncrieff claimed Emma was still alive the night before, because he’d heard her television. Sandy had wondered if some kind of timer could have been used to make it seem as if Emma had been in, but looking at the very basic set, that seemed unlikely now. Inside the cupboard there were shoeboxes holding papers: an unsophisticated filing system. Emma’s passport lay on top of one. Sandy picked it up and flicked through it, but it told him nothing, except to confirm her date and place of birth. There was nothing to indicate that she’d ever travelled abroad.
A series of photographs had been propped on the shelf next to the bed. One was of a middle-aged woman who was so like Emma that it must be her mother. One of two teenage boys covered in mud, flushed but grinning, and labelled ‘Da Ba, Kirkwall, New Year 2015’; and one of Emma herself, looking sideways into the camera. Sandy knew about Da Ba, a wild, rowdy ball game that took place in the streets of Orkney’s main town on New Year’s Day. He’d always meant to go.
In the photo, Emma looked like a film star of the early Sixties; her blonde hair was styled into a roll on the side of her head, and her eyeliner was dark and drawn beyond her eyes, making them seem long, cat-like. Her lips were very red. Seductive. Sandy found himself wondering who had taken that photo and what had happened afterwards. A laptop in its foam case was propped against one wall. Sandy slipped it into an evidence bag.
He continued his search, but there was no sign of a handbag, the woman’s car keys or her phone. Despite her obsession with the past, they knew that Emma had possessed a mobile phone. Robert Moncrieff had confirmed that and given them the number. Sandy pushed open the door that led into a small bathroom. That too was clean; probably cleaner, he thought, than the rest of the house. In a small wall-unit he found a few over-the-counter cold and flu medicines. No prescription drugs. Nothing at all to suggest why Emma might have been killed.
He switched off the light, pulled the door carefully closed behind him and set off down the stairs. He might have got lost in the tangle of corridors, if he hadn’t been led by adult voices. The kitchen door must have been open and although Sandy couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, Belle and Robert weren’t whispering. At last he reached the hall, with its flagstone floor, and knew where he was. He was still wearing the paper overshoes and they must have muffled the sound of his steps, or perhaps the Moncrieffs were so caught up in their conversation that they weren’t aware of him approaching. He stood for a moment and listened.
‘There is no way I’m giving up the trip to London with Helena. It’s a big deal for us both.’ Belle spoke just a bit louder than was necessary. Sandy didn’t know if that was the wine or if she always liked to make her voice heard. ‘I’ve done the mother-of-four domestic goddess for long enough, Robert. You’ll have to take some time off and pay for a locum.’
‘Hardly domestic goddess.’ His voice was quieter, but the words were biting. ‘The house has always been a tip, and the kids would be a complete emotional mess if it weren’t for me. Emma didn’t help much there, did she?’ There was a sudden silence, as shocking as the words had been. Sandy walked down the passage towards them. They turned, startled, and he realized how strange he must look, still in the suit and mask. He ripped them off and pulled off his gloves. Moncrieff was on his feet, suddenly playing the host.
‘Are you done up there? Anything else we can do to help? Would you like coffee? We’re on the wine, but I assume we can’t tempt you with that. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the morning to talk to the kids. It was way past their bedtime, and they’ve got school in the morning.’
Sandy nodded. He hoped somebody else would be detailed to talk to the teenager with attitude. ‘I just need to take a quick look in Emma’s car.’
‘Of course. You know where it is. Help yourself. It shouldn’t be locked. Emma was very careful about locking her room, but her car was always left open.’ Moncrieff walked with him to the big front door, keen, Sandy felt, to make sure he was out of the house.
On the gravel drive he stood for a moment for his eyes to get used to the dark. There was a chill in the air and a slim moon. Everything was very quiet. He looked at his phone and saw that Perez had left him a message: Finished for tonight. Heading back to Ravenswick to check on Cass. Give me a ring when you’re done.
Sandy walked round the side of the house, the crunching of his feet sounding very loud. The children might have been sent to bed, but two of them were still awake – at least there were lights in two of the upstairs windows. He couldn’t see Robert and Belle making much effort to check, especially tonight. The curtains in the nearest window had been pulled aside and he saw Charlie Moncrieff looking out. Backlit, he seemed almost ghostly. Sandy thought how sad he must be, to have lost the woman who’d cared for him since he was a young boy, and wondered why his mother and father weren’t with him, consoling him. He thought then that he and Louisa would be very different parents. If that ever happened. If she agreed to marry him, when he finally found the courage to ask. Now, in the middle of an investigation, would probably be the worst possible time.
He found himself by the small red car. He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. As Moncrieff had said, the vehicle was unlocked. When Sandy opened the driver’s door, the internal light came on and he saw that the keys had been left in the ignition. That seemed a little unusual. He could understand her not bothering to lock the car, but it was care
less to leave in the keys. He wouldn’t have put it past that Martha to try a little joy-riding.
It seemed that Emma cared as much about tidiness in her car as in her room. Sandy thought it couldn’t have been easy to keep it this spotless, if she had to carry those kids around. He found the torch on his phone and shone it onto the back seat. Shining it onto the floor, Sandy saw scuffed footwear prints. Vicki Hewitt, the crime-scene manager, might be able to do something with them, but he could make out little detail. They looked too big to belong to the smaller children, but Martha and Charlie were as tall as adults and the prints might belong to them.
All the same, as he straightened his back, his mind was already racing, pulling together a scenario that might explain the keys left in the ignition and the footwear prints. He saw Emma in her yellow-and-white dress slipping out of the big house and running to her car, excited maybe to be starting her day off. She’d put the keys in the ignition. But what if someone was crouching in the well behind the driver’s seat. If she was distracted, lost in her own thoughts, Emma might not notice. And the killer would be in just the position to reach out and strangle her, as she took her place behind the wheel.
Sandy walked to the back of the car and clicked open the boot. It was empty and had been cleaned recently. In the light of his torch, he saw brush marks on the fabric. He closed the boot and locked the car. This was a potential crime scene and he’d leave it untouched for Vicki Hewitt, who would arrive the following day. He made his way to his own vehicle and, with a feeling of escape, drove through the trees and down the road towards Lerwick.
