by Ann Cleeves
Chapter Twenty-Two
Willow planned to park Sandy’s car outside the police station, where he could pick it up later. She could walk to her B&B. It wasn’t far. Then she remembered she had a heavy bag and exhaustion took over. She’d leave the car at the top of the bank, close to the guest house, and Sandy could collect it from there in the morning. Or she’d drive it back to Deltaness, if that was where they were going to base themselves. Perez probably wasn’t in the mood to be offering her a lift.
The Sheriff’s House was where she’d stayed when she’d last been in Shetland. That had been February, grey, with torrential rain, apart from a couple of sparkling and frosty days. The couple who ran the place had been expecting a baby, and that had made her broody. Had her hormones, her sudden and inextinguishable desire for a child, made her careless? Perhaps Perez was right and she’d used him to get what she wanted, without thinking about his feelings or the consequences. Lifting her bag from the back seat of the car, Willow thought she was too tired and too close to the problem to reach a conclusion. She hadn’t been physically sick during the pregnancy; rather, all her energy had drained away, leaving her limp and listless. She’d allowed herself a few tears at Hesti once she’d been left on her own, but now she was ready to carry on fighting. Bugger Perez, with his principles and his pomposity! She’d be happier dealing with this child on her own.
The guest house was reached from one of the narrow lanes that ran up from Commercial Street. It was big and solid, three storeys and a basement kitchen. Willow pushed open a gate and walked into a walled garden, saw a washing line filled with baby clothes. The door into the house was ajar. She rang the bell and went inside; she heard voices in the basement below and shouted down, ‘Hiya!’
‘Come on down. The kettle’s just boiled.’
They were English and had moved to Shetland in search of a better life. Like Daniel and Helena Fleming. Willow wondered if it caused resentment: these confident, educated incomers, buying up the nice houses, subtly changing the character of the place. She’d always thought Shetlanders were certain enough of their own culture, hospitable enough, not to mind too much, but now she wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t it feel like an invasion? She left her bag where it was and wandered down.
The baby was sitting in a bouncy chair. He was soft-skinned and content, with downy hair and serious eyes. Willow had seen him the day of his birth and had been so jealous of Rosie that for the first time she’d understood how women could steal newborns from a hospital ward.
‘What did you decide to call him in the end?’
‘Michael,’ John said. ‘We thought he looked like a Michael.’
Willow drank tea and listened to the couple chat. They offered her a meal, but she made do with a bannock and a slice of cheese and some home-made ginger biscuits. Soon she’d had enough of their company. She said she’d go up to her room; there was no need for them to show her, if it was the same as last time. It was jealousy again that sent her away. She knew that even if Perez had welcomed the news of her pregnancy, they would never have this sort of relationship: tender, calm, unflustered. There would always be something to come between them. Work, or Cassie, or Fran Hunter’s ghost. Her child would never live up to Cassie, in Perez’s mind, and she would never live up to Fran.
In the room, she wondered if she should call Perez to find out how the interview with Magnie Riddell had gone. On any previous investigation she would have done that, or she’d have gone round to see him late in the evening, once Cassie was in bed. They’d have sat, with coffee or beer, talking over the details of the case. Instead she phoned Sandy.
‘How did it go? Did you get anything new?’ There was a moment of silence and she knew Sandy was wondering why she was calling him. ‘I know Jimmy will be tied up with Cass. I didn’t want to disturb them, and I was curious.’
Sandy launched into a story about the Deltaness young folk hanging around the community hall, how Magnie and Emma had been part of the crowd. Willow knew what it was like to live in a place where there was nothing for young people to do. She’d grown up in a commune in the island of North Uist. Now she could appreciate the beauty of the Uists, which seemed to be formed only of water and light. Then she’d been bored silly. As a kid, she had drunk too much and played dangerous games, just for the kicks. To feel that she was alive. But today everyone had talked about how mature Emma Shearer had been, old before her years. She’d had a tough childhood and all she’d wanted from her new life in Shetland was stability. Willow couldn’t imagine Emma taking crazy risks to relieve the boredom.
‘Anything else?’
‘Magnie doesn’t have an alibi for Sunday morning, and you can tell he was obsessed with the lassie.’ Sandy paused for a moment. ‘He’s got a history of violence.’
‘So he’s got to be a suspect. Did he give Emma the handbag?’
‘He claims not. He says he’s never seen her with anything like it.’
‘It must have been a recent present, if Magnie didn’t recognize it.’ Willow wondered if there was another admirer. Or perhaps Daniel hadn’t been telling Perez the truth, and he was still obsessed by the young woman. He wouldn’t be the first middle-aged man with a shaky marriage and mental-health issues to stalk an attractive young woman and shower her with expensive presents. ‘Let’s see if we can track down where it came from; I don’t suppose anywhere in Shetland would stock it?’
‘We’ve gone upmarket these days,’ Sandy said, ‘and we have some very classy shops. I’ll check.’ He paused. ‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’
Willow had a brief moment of panic. In the past, she’d never had problems making decisions. ‘Briefing in the police station at eight,’ she said, and thought she sounded quite like her normal self. ‘I’ll bring your car along then, if that’s OK. Can you pass that on to Jimmy? I had an early start and I’m knackered. I’m ready for my bed.’
‘Sure,’ Sandy said. But there’d been a moment of hesitation. Perhaps she didn’t sound so like her normal self after all.
Willow wasn’t certain that Perez would be there when she arrived, but his car was parked outside when she got there. He was pouring water in the coffee machine in the ops room. She stood for a moment in the doorway, not sure that she could face him. She wondered if the wisest course would be to plead ill health and get the first plane home. But then she’d always hate herself for her cowardice.
Perez must have sensed her watching him, because he turned towards her and seemed about to speak. Then they heard footsteps on the stairs and Sandy was there, breathless, mumbling an excuse about having slept through his alarm. Perez gave her a brief grin: a shared moment of contact and humour, because Sandy was always sleeping through his alarm. She smiled back and walked into the room, took her place at the head of the table and started the briefing. Thinking: I might be crap at ordering my personal life, but this is what I’m good at.
‘Our victim is Emma Shearer, aged twenty-four, childminder to the Moncrieff family. Their father is Robert, local GP; mother Belle, freelance publicist now working for Helena Fleming, textile and knitwear designer. The victim was found on the Flemings’ property. Fully clothed, apart from her shoes, and we know it’s a priority to find them. No immediate sign of sexual assault, though we should know more when James Grieve has completed a post-mortem. No definite info on where Emma was killed. Sandy suspects the killer was hiding in her car and killed her there, but let’s keep an open mind on that.’
She paused. ‘We need to be sensitive here, because there are children in both families. The Flemings’ eldest son, Christopher, is high-functioning autistic. Very bright, but given to obsessions and he’s been the subject of some discussion within the community. Jimmy?’ Willow turned to the man.
He shrugged. ‘Sounds as if folk overreacted to some problems at the school. He set fire to some waste paper in the playground. There was no damage and no further action was taken. The Flemings seem to have attracted resentment, and Christopher’s behaviour is ju
st another excuse for complaint.’
‘Could Emma’s murder be linked to the anonymous notes the Flemings have been receiving?’ Willow asked.
‘Maybe. It’s certainly a coincidence that they show a hanged man and that Emma was strung up after being strangled. I’m not sure if we can link the cartoons to the victim, though. It’s possible Emma was behind them: she was a knitter and might have had used graph paper for her designs. She would have heard the stories about Dennis Gear.’ Perez leaned back in his chair. ‘But I’m not sure why she would have sent the drawings to the Flemings.’
‘To send Daniel a message? Or to intimidate his wife?’
‘Maybe.’ Perez shrugged.
‘Emma and Daniel had a relationship,’ Willow said. ‘Not an affair, if Daniel is to be believed, but he was certainly obsessed with her. We’ve had a report back on her laptop and phone, and for a while there was a constant email and text exchange between them.’ She paused. ‘But not recently. Recently there was no contact at all, so it seems Fleming was telling the truth. About that, at least.’ She turned to Perez. ‘There are four Moncrieff children. You know the family, Jimmy. Fill us in.’
‘Martha aged sixteen, Charlie fifteen, Sam ten and Kate eight.’
Willow nodded her thanks. ‘Emma is originally from Orkney and came to work for the family when Belle was pregnant with Kate. She had a troubled childhood, had to take responsibility for her brothers, and was taken on by the Moncrieffs as a favour to her own GP in Kirkwall.’
‘According to Robert Moncrieff,’ Perez said. ‘We still need to check that out.’
‘Can you do that this morning, Jimmy? I’d like an opinion about her from someone who’s not involved in the case.’
‘I was wondering if I should go to Orkney.’ Perez looked at her, his voice tentative. ‘I could talk to the brother too. Local officers have notified him of Emma’s death, but like you, I have no sense of Emma. Even the two men who seem to have been obsessed with her – Daniel Fleming and Magnie Riddell – can’t really describe the attraction. I’d need only be away for a night.’
Are you running away from me, Jimmy?
‘Good plan,’ she said, her voice brisk. ‘Can you sort out someone to look after Cassie?’
‘Duncan’s back at last. Cassie needs to spend more time with her father and we’d arranged for her to stay with him this week anyway.’ He paused. ‘I thought I’d go down to Kirkwall on the lunchtime flight. I should easily be able to get everything I need and be back by tomorrow evening.’
‘Speak to some of the other professionals involved with the family. There must have been a social worker, if there was domestic violence and the father got sent away. Emma was only seventeen when she started working for the Moncrieffs, so there should be a teacher who remembers her.’
He nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to be a radio star. I think we need to work out if the cartoons sent to the Fleming family really had anything to do with Emma and the murder. I suspect they were triggered by resentment against the incomers, not as a warning that a young woman was about to be strung up. If I can persuade the person who sent them to speak to me in confidence, it might save us time following up leads that don’t have any importance.’
‘You’re doing an interview with Radio Shetland?’ Perez allowed himself a smile.
‘Exactly. Fame at last!’
‘Don’t dismiss those drawings altogether.’ Perez paused. ‘I thought they were creepy, a bit weird.’
Willow looked at Sandy. ‘Have we had the fingerprints from them back yet?’
‘They could only find Helena Fleming’s.’
‘So the person who drew them was wearing gloves.’
‘Unless Helena sent them to herself,’ Perez said, ‘and that’s hardly likely. Why would she do that?’
Willow didn’t answer. She thought Perez was blinkered, where Helena was concerned. It was the celebrity-designer thing making him star-struck, and Helena’s connection to Fran. Not that Willow was jealous, of course. It was clear that Perez was now a free man, and he could fall for whomever he liked. As long as it didn’t get in the way of the investigation. Daniel Fleming had been obsessed with a younger woman. And, in Willow’s opinion, that gave Helena a very good motive for murder.
Chapter Twenty-Three
On the flight to Kirkwall, Perez found himself sitting next to a man he’d grown up with; he was now a vet in Orkney and he’d been visiting home. They chatted about friends, family and the pull of the islands.
‘I thought I was going to break away,’ the vet said, ‘see something of the world. And I did travel a bit when I was a student, but in the end I didn’t move very far, did I?’
‘And I came home to Shetland.’
Perez considered how things might have turned out if he’d stayed in Aberdeen. He’d joined the police service in the city and he’d first worked there as a detective. Maybe it had been a mistake to come home after his divorce. At the time it had felt like running away, cowardly. Now, he thought people were wrong when they considered Shetland a place of escape. In the islands, there was nowhere to hide.
Perez saw Willie Milne as soon as he walked into the terminal. Willie had grown up in Orkney in a farming family and looked more like a farmer than a detective: round, red-faced and comfortable in his considerable skin, a laugh loud enough to turn heads in the street. He had joined the service in Glasgow and now, like Perez, he too had come back. That pull of the islands and home.
Seeing the man across the building was enough for Perez’s mood to lift. Willie yelled a greeting, put an arm around his shoulder and led Perez outside. In the car, he swept a pile of sweet wrappers from the front seat of his car onto the floor. ‘I promised Steve I’d give up smoking, but now I’m addicted to sherbet lemons. Bugger, huh?’
Willie’s partner was a merchant seaman, a senior engineer on cargo vessels travelling the world. He was away at sea for months at a time and then came back to Orkney for long periods of leave.
Willie started the engine. ‘Where are we going first, Jimmy? I’m your chauffeur for the day.’ The accent sounded strange to Perez, lilting. All day he would feel as if he was in a foreign country, partly because of the unfamiliar rhythm of the voices around him.
‘I need to talk to David Shearer, our victim’s brother. I assume he’ll be at work.’
‘The Watermill, the restaurant where he’s a chef, won’t be serving lunch today, only dinner. I checked for you. So maybe we should go there straight away, because he’ll be busier later.’
‘What do you know about the Shearer family?’
‘I was still in Glasgow when the father got sent down, but I’ve been asking around. Seems as if he was a real bastard. He beat up the mother in secret for years. Nobody was sorry when he died. Except maybe Caroline, the mother, who was still making excuses for him. Even when he was in prison, her husband was in her head, playing games with her mind. You know how that works sometimes, Jimmy, when the men are really controlling.’
Perez nodded. The car was travelling through a landscape that was softer and greener than he was used to. There were the same low horizons and enormous skies, but in this part of Mainland at least the place was less bleak. It gave him an odd feeling of disconnection, as if he’d wandered into a dreamworld that was familiar, but not quite the same.
The Watermill was in a valley that led inland from the coast. They drove through a patch of mature woodland, then out into bright sunlight and around a small pool to the entrance of the hotel, which was marked by two stone pillars. Again, Perez had the sense this wasn’t quite real; the reflected light on the water was too startling and the shadow too sharp. The building was like nowhere he’d expect to find in Shetland; the old three-storey mill remained, but a glass-and-wood extension looking over the millpond housed the dining room. It looked very sleek, very elegant, and it occurred to Perez that this could have been a Daniel Fleming design. Apart from an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand
through the garden, the place seemed deserted. There was nobody in reception and Willie went to ring the bell on the desk. Perez shook his head to stop him. He didn’t want to have to explain why they were there.
They found David Shearer in the kitchen on the ground floor at the back of the building, a place of stainless steel and quiet. He was the only person there and he was chopping parsley with a fat, long-bladed knife, hitting the top of the blade with the palm of his left hand. There was no other sound. Perez could see the family resemblance to Emma; he had the same sharp features, the same cat-like eyes. He must have been expecting them.
‘You want to talk about my sister.’ Not a question. He set the knife aside reluctantly to give them his attention. There was nowhere for them to sit, no offer of refreshment. He wanted this over as soon as possible.
‘It must have come as a shock. We’re very sorry.’ Perez knew from his own experience that these words would mean nothing to a bereaved individual, but they were a ritual that had to be gone through.
‘Maybe we’re used to shock in our family. A quiet life with nothing going on would be more unusual for us.’
The response was unexpected; in Perez’s experience, platitudes came more easily.
‘But you seem to have survived the difficult childhood. All three of you had done well.’ David said nothing and Perez continued, ‘Adam’s at university and, according to Willie here, this place has a terrific reputation. Emma seemed settled enough with the Moncrieffs in Shetland.’
There was a moment of silence. The mill walls were very thick and no sound came from outside. Perez thought it was the kind of dense silence you might find in a monastery. At last the young chef answered. He’d turned away, so Perez couldn’t see his face.
‘I’m happy enough at work – it’s great to have found something that I’m good at – but it’s the only place I am happy. I don’t have any kind of life away from here. If I’m not in the restaurant, I’m in my flat, too scared to go out to face folk. Adam’s in therapy for anxiety and depression, hanging on to his uni place by his fingernails. And I’m not sure about Emma. She always seemed fine on the surface, but she never spoke about her feelings. She created a fantasy world set in the past. You’ll have seen the clothes she wore. All that retro shit. That wasn’t something she did because it was fun. It was a reality better than the one she’d been landed with.’ There was another moment of silence. ‘She was the oldest. She must have realized what was going on with our parents before we did. It was worse for her.’
