by Ann Cleeves
Willow nodded. She knew exactly what Sandy meant. She’d never really been an island bairn, either. Her father had been an English academic and her mother had made silver jewellery. The talk in the commune had been about history and philosophy, not the price of sheep or fish.
‘Come on, then.’ She got hold of her bag. ‘I expect the caff would do me a fried-egg sandwich. I’m bloody starving.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time they’d parked outside the caff close to the school, the mist was so thick that Willow wasn’t sure Sandy would recognize the Moncrieff teenagers even if they appeared. The street was quiet when they got there. An elderly woman with a plastic rainhood and long mackintosh pulled a shopping basket on wheels, but nobody else was about. Perhaps the kids had decided the weather was so unpleasant they would have lunch in the school canteen after all. But it seemed that the draw of sugar and fat was too great. Willow heard them before she saw them; there was a high-pitched buzz of conversation first, and then she made out good-natured banter and individual shouts. As Sandy had said, they came in waves. The first group consisted of older boys, bag-swinging, mock-wrestling, yelling obscenities as if they were the generation to invent them.
‘I’ve seen Charlie Moncrieff around,’ Sandy said. ‘He’s sporty. One of those kids who seem to win without any effort. In The Shetland Times every other week because he’s got some medal or other. I think I’d know him. I’ve only met the girl once, though, on Sunday night when I went to look at Emma Shearer’s room.’ He sat with his nose to the window as a giggling gang of younger girls swept along the pavement, then leaned back once to wipe away the condensation with his hand.
In the end, it was easy to make them out because they were walking together, apart from the other students. Sandy nudged Willow as the pair emerged from the mist, though there was no need for silence; they wouldn’t have heard any sound inside the car. Besides, they seemed preoccupied, deep in conversation. The boy’s shock of white hair stood out from the shadow, but the girl seemed to be lost in it. She wore a black waterproof jacket, black jeans, black DMs.
‘How do we play it?’ Sandy was still whispering, enjoying the drama of the situation.
‘We wait until they’re in the queue. Then you go in just behind them, start a conversation, see if you can lure them in for a chat.’
He nodded.
The kids walked past the car and disappeared inside. Sandy jumped out and followed them. He turned back as he was about to close the door. ‘Were you serious about the fried-egg sandwich?’
‘Yes! I told you. I’m starving.’
They took so long to come out that Willow wondered if Sandy had decided to talk to them on his own after all. It was impossible to see inside the cafe, which seemed packed with kids. She sat back in the passenger seat and tried to relax, but she was thinking of Perez in Orkney, his attempts to find out more about the dead young woman. His attempts to come to terms with the fact that he might soon be a father. In all her dealings in Shetland, she thought, the personal and professional had clashed.
She was surprised from her daydreaming when at last they appeared on the pavement. They were clutching enormous bread buns, the grease already seeping onto the napkins that were wrapped around them. Lerwick was a grey town at the best of times, and the mist had sucked the colour out of it. She thought the teenagers and Sandy looked like characters from a black-and-white film, moody and a little sinister. Sandy opened the back door to let the Moncrieffs inside. ‘I’ve found a couple of folk needing shelter from the weather. You don’t mind?’
‘I don’t mind anything as long as you’ve bought me some food!’ Then: ‘You did tell them I was veggie. This hasn’t been fried in bacon fat?’
‘Yeah, of course I asked them.’ Sandy looked back at the kids, rolled his eyes and then winked. They sniggered. Willow thought he already had them hooked.
‘Are you fuzz too?’ This was Martha, leaning forward towards Willow.
‘Yep!’
‘You don’t look like a policewoman,’ Charlie said.
‘I’m a police officer and I’m his boss.’ Willow thought Martha was just like she was at that age. Trying too hard to gouge out an identity, to separate herself from parents already well known within the community. She wasn’t sure about Charlie, who seemed more settled but less mature than the girl.
‘What made you join up?’ Martha again.
‘Honestly? To piss off my parents,’ Willow said. ‘They always thought the police were the enemy of the people. They claimed to be anarchists. I grew up in a commune.’ A pause. ‘But there were other reasons; I’m easily bored. I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my working life stuck in an office.’ Another pause. ‘Though that’s how I seem to spend most of my days now, so I got that wrong, didn’t I?’ She took a bite of the sandwich. ‘Are you interested in joining the police?’
‘God, no!’ The response was violent and immediate.
‘You think they’re the enemy of the people too?’
Martha looked over her sandwich, suspicious that Willow was mocking her. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in a position where I’m bossing people about.’
‘But that’s not what policing’s about.’ This was the last conversation Willow had expected, but there was something touching about how lost the girl seemed and, besides, she couldn’t help getting preachy about work. ‘It’s about bringing a bit of order to the chaos. And standing up for the people who are being bossed about.’
‘Like finding out who killed Emma,’ Charlie said.
Willow tried not to grin. If she’d scripted the interview, this couldn’t have worked out better. Now they were definitely back on track. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Stuff like that.’ She paused. ‘What was Emma like? You’re probably the people who knew her best.’
‘She was alright,’ Charlie said.
‘She was alright to you.’ Martha still had her sandwich in her mouth, but it didn’t stop her speaking. ‘She liked you.’
‘Didn’t she like you?’ Willow was thinking it might be quite hard to like Martha, who seemed so spiky and who took offence so easily.
Martha seemed to be regretting her outburst already. She wasn’t so unconventional, it seemed, that she was comfortable speaking ill of the dead. ‘I think she was one of those people who get on better with men. Charlie and Sam could twist her round their little fingers, but Kate and I could never get anything right. And Emma definitely liked Dad better than Mum.’ Again she seemed worried that her words might be misinterpreted and she added: ‘I don’t mean they were having an affair or anything like that. Just that sometimes things were a bit tense between Emma and Mum.’
‘It must have been a bit hard when you were younger,’ Willow said. ‘Was it like having two mums?’
‘No!’ Again Martha responded without thinking first. ‘Emma was nothing like a mother.’ And again she seemed concerned that she’d given the wrong impression. ‘Even when Emma first arrived I didn’t really see her as a grown-up.’
‘You were only nine, though. I mean I can see that as you got older she must have seemed more like a sister than a mum, but then it must have felt different.’ Willow finished the sandwich and wiped her fingers on the paper napkin.
‘We’d had teenager babysitters before,’ Martha said. ‘Girls from Deltaness to look after us when Mum and Dad went out for the night. I saw Emma more like that. I didn’t realize she’d be staying.’
Willow wondered about that. Surely Belle and Robert would have explained to the kids that a stranger would be living in the house and taking care of them? But perhaps it had been a chaotic time, with a new baby in the house, and a nine-year-old’s memories wouldn’t be entirely reliable.
Martha must have sensed Willow’s surprise. ‘We’re not exactly a functional family. People think we are: big house, doctor-father, rather glamorous mother. But it’s all actually a bit of a mess. We don’t communicate. At least we all talk, but nobody really listens.’
Char
lie seemed uncomfortable. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’
The girl stared at him. ‘Isn’t it? Then why do you spend so much time at your mates’ homes in town. Or playing bloody football.’
There was a moment of silence. There was condensation on all the windows now, and that and the mist made it feel as if they were cut off altogether from the outside world.
‘We should get back,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ll be late for afternoon school.’
‘No rush.’ Sandy’s voice was easy, relaxed. ‘We can give you a lift.’
‘Who did Emma talk to?’ Willow asked. ‘It must have been lonely for her.’
‘She had a friend to stay once,’ Charlie said. ‘Claire. I liked her.’
‘And she had her men.’ Martha gave a little smile. ‘Her admirers: Magnie and Daniel Fleming.’
‘Any others?’
Martha seemed to consider for a moment and Willow thought she was going to come up with another name, but in the end she said nothing.
‘Did either of you see her on Sunday morning?’
‘Nah,’ Martha said. ‘I stayed in bed until nearly lunchtime and then I got the bus into town. It was mad in the house. Mum doing her best Nigella impression, Dad sniping at her. I couldn’t stand it.’
‘Did you notice if Emma’s car was there when you went out?’
Martha thought for a moment. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Charlie, did you see Emma?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I had football practice.’ He scowled at his sister. ‘Look, we need to get back.’
‘Sure,’ Sandy said. He started the engine. He switched on the windscreen wipers, but the visibility was still so poor that they couldn’t see to the end of the street. Which, Willow thought, was a perfect metaphor for the way the investigation was going.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Willie Milne insisted that Perez stayed with him and not in a guest house or hotel. ‘We’ve masses of space, man. You’d be doing me a favour, keeping me company.’
The house was new, a large white bungalow built to Willie and Steven’s specification, a boys’ fantasy palace with a sauna, a room that they’d filled with Lego and Scalextric and a home cinema. Willie loved every inch of it and Perez thought the main reason for the invitation was so that he could show it off. Perez trailed after the big man into room after room and tried to summon the enthusiasm that Willie so obviously expected. The house stood not far from the hotel run by Claire Bain’s parents. It looked north over the Loch of Stenness across flat land towards the famous Neolithic standing stones.
‘Do you fancy walking down to the hotel for a beer?’
‘Why not?’ Perez thought perhaps here he’d have a sense of the real Emma Shearer. This was where she’d spent her childhood. That word lingered in his head: childhood. Suddenly he had an image of his child, growing up without him, and felt a sense of longing and desolation. Walking down the bank to the bar, with Willie rattling on about the wedding he and Steve were planning, Perez tried to unpick his emotions. Why had he reacted so violently to the idea of being a father? Because it felt like a betrayal, to Fran and to Cassie. Because he didn’t deserve a second chance. So Willow wasn’t to blame at all, but she’d taken the brunt of his guilt and his anger. Now he felt guilty all over again.
In the end, Emma Shearer was as elusive in Stenness as she’d been in Shetland. On the main road, the shop where she’d lived was no longer in business – a petrol station stood in its place – and two young students were manning the hotel bar, so he couldn’t ask Claire’s parents about the girl they’d once invited to play.
Back in the house, Willie heated a casserole that his mother had cooked and opened a bottle of wine. Later, the Highland Park whisky appeared. At one point towards the end of the evening, stretched out on a white leather sofa, a glass in his hand, Perez was tempted to tell Willie about Willow and the baby, but even drunk, he knew that would be a mistake. This was something he had to sort out alone.
He woke the next morning to a hangover and thick fog.
‘Looks as if you’ll be staying a bit longer than you expected.’ Willie nodded towards the grey, almost invisible garden. ‘There’ll be no planes out today. The forecast is dreadful.’
‘What about the boat?’
‘Aye, maybe you should book onto the ferry tonight. The forecast is bad for a couple of days.’
‘I’ll have to let the team in Shetland know.’ Perez thought a slow trip north was just what he needed. Time to deal with his confusion over Willow and the child. He watched Willie pile bacon onto his plate and helped himself to coffee.
Willie had meetings in Kirkwall, but he offered Perez the loan of Steven’s car. Driving along the narrow road in the fog, Perez felt calmer. It was good to be anonymous, hidden and alone in a place where he wasn’t known.
His first call was to the health centre in Stromness, to talk to the GP who’d recommended Emma as a nanny for the Moncrieffs. Perez sat in the waiting room, where pregnant women queued to see the midwife. He found himself listening to conversations that seemed entirely alien, intrigued by words he’d never heard before, until the receptionist called him through to the doctor.
The man was called Alan Masters and he was younger than Perez had expected, younger than Robert Moncrieff, or aiming at least to give that impression. He wore jeans and a sweater and was tapping on his computer keyboard when Perez walked in.
‘I can’t believe that Emma’s dead.’ He swung round in his chair, abandoning the screen. ‘I suppose if I hadn’t asked Robert to consider taking her on, she might still be alive.’
‘Why did you ask him to take her on?’ If the man wanted absolution, Perez didn’t feel he could give it.
The doctor took some time to answer. ‘I was the Shearer family doctor. I was very young, new to general practice. New to Orkney. Too gullible, I suppose. I’d bought into the idea of the islands as a place of paradise. When Caroline came to me, presenting with problems of anxiety and depression, I saw the bruises. She had a story ready – it had been a cold winter and she said she’d fallen on a patch of ice. The explanation seemed almost plausible, but not quite. I wondered if she might have had problems with alcohol – that would fit in with the depression. I thought she could have tripped because she wasn’t steady on her feet. Domestic abuse never occurred to me. Her husband seemed very good to her, caring and gentle. He came with her to the surgery. Of course that should have rung alarm bells. I should have insisted on seeing her on her own. But I didn’t.’
‘Did you see the children?’
‘Occasionally. I made a point of visiting Caroline at home a few times. Again, looking back, perhaps I should have contacted social services, but until the severe attack that put Caroline in hospital and Kenneth in prison, there was no real cause for concern. The kids seemed a little quiet and withdrawn, but well fed, cared for.’ He looked up at Perez. ‘But they were living in that nightmare for years. And now Emma is dead.’
‘Tell me about the attack.’ Perez thought of his own childhood. His father had been a little strict perhaps, a bit narrow-minded, but home had always felt safe. His insecurities had started with the move to the Anderson High School in Lerwick, the homesickness and petty bullying. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be scared of his own family.
‘Kenneth almost killed his wife,’ Masters said. ‘He was trying to strangle her when Emma came home early from school and found them. If the girl hadn’t turned up, Caroline would have died. She was already unconscious.’
‘So, Emma called the police?’ Perez said. ‘She finally found the courage to accuse her father?’
‘She called for an ambulance. The cause of the injuries was obvious and they told the police. Kenneth went on the run for a while, but they found him trying to get on a ferry south. Caroline was still making excuses for him, even at the trial. It was Emma’s evidence that put him away.’
There was a moment of silence, before Masters continued speaking. ‘Caroline
had always been emotionally frail and even before she was diagnosed with cancer, Emma ended up as the main carer in the family. When the boys became teenagers and more independent, I really thought Emma needed to get a life of her own. The job with the Moncrieffs seemed ideal: a supportive family not too far from home.’
‘How well did you know the Moncrieffs?’ Perez wasn’t sure that he would have described them as a supportive family.
‘I’d never met Belle, but I’d come across Robert at meetings. He seemed sympathetic. I explained Emma’s background and he said he was happy to give her a go.’
But only because nobody else applied for the post.
‘Did you ever hear from Emma, once she’d started in Deltaness?’
‘No.’ The man seemed surprised. ‘Of course I asked Robert how she was getting on, when I met him. He said it was all going brilliantly. So, Brownie points all round for me.’ The doctor seemed to be ignoring his role in sending Emma to her death and failing to recognize a deeply troubled family. His words at the beginning of the interview had been an attempt to disarm, not to accept responsibility.
‘You didn’t contact Emma herself?’
‘No.’ He was suddenly defensive. ‘Why would I? She was no longer my patient.’
Perez said nothing.
Emma’s former class teacher was prickly too. Perez felt all the professionals who had been involved with the Shearers were anxious to slide away from blame, to find excuses for their lack of action. The woman had recently retired from teaching and lived in a neat whitewashed house in Finstown, with a yappy dog and a silent husband. They sat in her living room. Perez looked out of the window towards the garden and the sea, but could see nothing but fog.
‘There was nothing to indicate that there was trouble at home.’ She was probably a kind woman. She stroked her dog as it lay on her lap and was clearly fond of it. ‘Emma was quiet and well behaved. Well turned-out. Never late.’
