by Ann Cleeves
Sandy’s silence seemed to increase Moncrieff’s ill temper. ‘And I must say that I take a very dim view of you interrogating my children in the street. That was highly inappropriate. If it weren’t for my wife, I’d be making an official complaint.’
‘We bumped into Martha and Charlie while we were buying lunch.’ Sandy’s voice was mild. He was feeling more confident now, wondering what the doctor might have to hide, what he was scared that his children might have given away. ‘And we gave them a lift back to school.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d keep away from them in the future. If you have any questions, ask me or their mother.’ Moncrieff glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I think you should go now. My first patient will be waiting.’
‘Were you having an affair with Emma Shearer?’
There was a shocked silence. Then fury. He could tell that Moncrieff was struggling to keep his temper, and Sandy was half-scared and half-hopeful that the man would hit him. In the end, the doctor regained a measure of control. The words came slowly, with equal emphasis on each syllable. ‘That is a foul accusation. When she came to us, Emma was scarcely more than a child. We took her into our home and cared for her. We did not exploit her.’ Moncrieff stood up. ‘Now you must go. I have more important things to do than listen to your ridiculous stories.’
On his way out, Sandy waved to Nettie. He hoped the other professionals working there were more pleasant than Moncrieff. Otherwise it must be a miserable place to spend her day. Outside the weather seemed brighter. Sandy stood for a moment, wondering where he should go next. Willow and Jimmy would be talking to Margaret and Lottie. The children were already inside the school and the community seemed very quiet. He was thinking that Moncrieff was rattled, which was an interesting thing, and that there was more than one way for a young woman to be exploited.
Chapter Thirty-One
Helena woke to the memory of the champagne they’d drunk the evening before, the sense of some kind of reconciliation. Daniel was still asleep, breathing easily. He stirred, opened his eyes and smiled at her. The mist was still there outside the window but it seemed less dense. White, not grey, and shimmering, rather beautiful, as if there was light behind it.
In the school yard there was no noticeable difference in the parents’ response to her. Belle was there before her with her youngest children, and made a beeline for Helena as soon as she came through the gate. ‘You do know they’re all talking about us.’ She turned to wave to a group of mothers who were trying not to stare. ‘Have you got time for a coffee later? I’ve got some questions about that trade fair in Birmingham. And the London press has got hold of your connection with the murder. We should talk about our response.’
‘Do we need to respond?’ Helena could think of nothing worse. She’d already been bothered by Reg Gilbert from The Shetland Times – he seemed to have tracked down her personal mobile number – and she’d hung up on him every time. The thought of her name being linked to Emma Shearer’s in whatever context was a nightmare.
‘I think we could turn the publicity to our advantage, if we handle it properly.’ Belle watched Kate run towards the school door as the bell went. ‘I must say, she doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by Emma’s death. What about your two?’
Helena thought about Christopher’s statement that he was glad Emma was dead. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.’
‘So, you’re free for coffee?’ Belle was already walking towards the road with her car keys in her hand. ‘About eleven? Shall I come to you? I hadn’t realized just how much we’d come to rely on Emma and how much we took her for granted. Our house is a total pigsty without her. I’ll have to sort out a cleaner, even if I don’t get extra childcare. Robert’s being useless.’
‘Sure,’ Helena said. ‘Come to me. I’ll show you those new designs I was talking about. The ones using the patterns I found in the museum in Fair Isle.’
‘Fabulous.’ Belle was already in her car and driving away. Her house was closer to the school than Hesti, but Helena had never seen her walk.
Instead of heading straight back to the house, Helena climbed the pebble bank and looked out to the sea. She could hear gulls, but couldn’t see them. They were lost in the white light that seemed to be filtered through gauze or the finest knitted lace. Sliding back down to the road, she waited for a car to pass. Willow Reeves was in the driver’s seat.
‘Want a lift?’
‘Are you heading up to the house?’
‘Not yet,’ Willow said. ‘Maybe later, but I can give you a lift, if you like. Won’t take a minute.’
‘No, thanks. I’m enjoying the walk.’
Willow didn’t push it. ‘It’s kind of eerie, isn’t it?’ She started the engine. ‘This weather. But in quite a lovely way.’ It seemed an odd comment from a woman who spent her life working with criminals.
Belle arrived early, before Helena was quite ready for her. The doctor’s wife was dressed for action with full make-up and a slinky black top, loose black trousers that had probably cost a fortune. Perhaps she’d hoped that the press would already be here. It occurred to Helena that the weather had done her and Daniel a favour. There’d been no planes into the islands since the previous morning, and she supposed journalists would be reluctant to take the boat.
Daniel had gone into Lerwick to talk to a businessman who was considering commissioning a green hotel in the south of Shetland mainland. The truce of the night before had lasted over breakfast, when he’d explained his plans for the new venture, looking at her eagerly, wanting her support. He’d set off excited at the prospect of a new project.
‘It’ll be a big deal, Helly. A showcase for sustainable development.’ She hadn’t seen him so happy for months and she thought that Emma’s death had released him from some sort of spell; after the initial grief, he seemed like a newly freed man. The implications of that she pushed to the back of her mind.
Just before Belle arrived, there was a phone call from Willow Reeves.
‘Did you get a visit from Margaret Riddell last night?’
‘Has she been to you with her rumours and foul accusations?’ Helena felt the anger of the previous night return.
‘Nothing like that. So, she was with you? That’s all I needed to know.’
And that was it, the end of the conversation, and Belle was at the door, shouting that she was letting herself in. Helena made coffee in the kitchen and then the women walked across the courtyard to her studio. The mist was lifting slowly from the north, and Helena too was losing the feeling of being trapped. They talked for a while about Belle’s ideas for overseas promotions, the trade fair, Helena’s new designs. Helena thought Emma Shearer was hovering between them, not so much the elephant as the ghost in the room.
At last Belle tackled the subject head-on. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said in the playground about our response to the national press. You were quite right, of course. We should keep a dignified silence while the investigation is continuing, but then I don’t see anything wrong with negotiating an exclusive with a national, once it’s all over. An interview with you – wearing one of your own creations, of course – talking about the trauma of finding a body in your home.’
‘Oh no!’ Helena was horrified. ‘I couldn’t. It would be as if I was profiting from Emma’s death.’
Belle pretended not to hear. ‘It would be a good way to put an end to all the rumours spreading here. A way to show them that your family has nothing to be ashamed of, that you’re prepared to go public on it.’
‘My family has nothing to be ashamed of. Emma’s body was found in our byre, but she worked for you.’ Helena regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. This sounded like a scrap between children, not between grown women who were supposed to be friends. ‘I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. It’s the stress, I suppose, making us all lash out. Of course I didn’t mean that you were in any way responsible for the murder.’
Belle stared at her for a mo
ment, not moving. ‘I’m not sure that the police would believe that,’ she said at last. ‘They want to speak to me again today.’ Suddenly the glossy make-up and the bravura performance seemed rather desperate. ‘Do you know they talked to Martha and Charlie yesterday? Caught them at lunchtime outside the caff where all the kids go for lunch. Pretended it was a chance meeting. We wouldn’t have found out about it, if Charlie hadn’t let something slip. Robert’s furious, he’s threatened to get lawyers involved to make an official complaint. I’ve told him he should just let it go. If we make a fuss, it’ll look as if we’ve got something to hide.’
This is how rumours start and suspicion spreads, Helena thought. One woman’s death is tragedy enough, but everyone who knew her is affected. We all become victims.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Willow saw Helena Fleming as a silhouette in the mist at the top of the shingle bank, backlit and strange in the filtered white light. She was recognizable because of the curly hair and the distinctive long jacket. Willow had dropped Sandy at the health centre and Perez was still sitting beside her. She’d stopped the car on impulse. Helena was an obvious suspect – she could easily have found out about Daniel’s infatuation with Emma, and jealousy was always a strong motive – but Perez refused to consider it, just because the woman had been a friend of Fran’s. Helena refused the offer of a lift and there was nothing for Willow to do but drive on.
She parked on a bit of scrubby grass close to the shore and turned to Perez. ‘I’m going to talk to Margaret Riddell about the anonymous notes. Do you want to come along?’
‘If it won’t cramp your style.’ On previous investigations she would have taken that as a joke. Now she wasn’t sure. It could be a barbed insult.
‘You don’t mind walking for a bit? I could do with some exercise to clear my head.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said. Not hostile, at least. She supposed that was the best she could expect.
They walked towards the street where Margaret Riddell lived. Willow thought there was nothing attractive about these houses. Margaret had made an effort with fresh paint, but the effect was gaudy and unconvincing. Her car was parked outside her home, but when Perez knocked there was no answer. She couldn’t be at work in Brae; she’d need her car for that, surely. Perez knocked again and this time a door did open, but it was the neighbour’s.
‘I think she must be ill.’ The woman was still in nightclothes, a long old-fashioned nightdress under a candlewick dressing gown. She stood inside her house with her head poked forward and turned uncomfortably towards them, obviously embarrassed to cross her threshold not properly clothed. ‘It’s Margaret’s day for Brae and usually she’d be gone by now.’
‘You must be Lottie,’ Willow said. She moved along the pavement so the woman could talk to her more easily.
‘Aye.’ Lottie shuffled back inside the house. There was little light inside and she became no more than a shadow. ‘I was just starting to worry about her, but I don’t know what to do. Magnie’s been in Lerwick and he’s not back yet.’
‘Should we go and check, do you think? I suppose you do have a key?’
Lottie disappeared without speaking and Willow followed her into a gloomy hall and the world of the 1970s. A downmarket stage set for Abigail’s Party. The carpet was highly patterned with swirls of orange and the walls were covered with painted woodchip wallpaper. Perez waited on the pavement, knowing that an older woman wouldn’t want him in the house while she was still in her nightclothes.
‘Have you always lived here?’ Willow thought the place couldn’t have been redecorated since it had been built.
‘It was our parents’ house.’ The hall led to a kitchen, also captured in time. Lino floor, Formica units and table. Orange featured here too. Lottie took a key from a hook on the wall. ‘I moved in to look after Mother when she was ill after my father died, and I stayed. It seemed the best thing.’ A pause. ‘Margaret thought it was for the best.’
Willow thought that probably summed up the relationship between the sisters. According to Perez, who’d seen them together, Margaret was the strong personality, the one who took all the decisions. ‘Would you like to come next door with me?’
‘Not like this!’ Lottie seemed horrified. ‘What would Margaret say? You go along in, and I’ll follow once I’ve made myself decent.’
Perez knocked on Margaret’s door again before using the key, but there was still no reply. Willow thought Lottie was overreacting; the whole community would be jittery after the murder of Emma Shearer. The sister had probably taken a day off work, had wandered down to the shop for milk or a paper. But it was a great opportunity to get into the house. If they found evidence that Margaret had sent the anonymous notes to the Fleming household, they could keep Magnie out of any discussion.
The layout was a mirror image of Lottie’s home, but it was lighter and cleaner. The kitchen was full of appliances that had probably come from the former marital home – a microwave, food processor, sleek black toaster. The living room was packed with oversize furniture, not to Willow’s taste, but solid and expensive.
Perez shouted up the stairs, ‘Mrs Riddell? Are you there?’ No response. Willow was tempted to look through the drawers in a sideboard that fitted into an alcove, but she thought that would have to wait. Just in case Margaret was lying unconscious in a room above them.
Perez followed her up the stairs, so close behind her that Willow could smell the soap he’d used that morning. She pictured turning, taking him into her arms and burying her face into his hair, then imagined his reaction: horror, embarrassment. She continued walking.
The first door led into Magnie’s room. It was surprisingly tidy. The duvet and pillows had been straightened, and dirty washing had been placed into a wicker laundry basket. The surfaces had been recently dusted and still smelled faintly of lavender polish. It was a strangely anonymous room – there were no books or posters. A large TV screen was fixed to the wall and faced the bed. Willow wondered if Margaret had been in here since he’d set off for work the day before, or if Magnie looked after it himself. She looked out of the window, expecting to see Margaret walking up the street with a bag of shopping, but there was no sign of her or of Lottie. The mist was definitely lifting. Now it was possible to glimpse a line of sunlight on the water.
Back on the landing, Willow could see through an open door to the bathroom. Everything white, and again everything spotless. Perez was knocking on the remaining door that was firmly shut. ‘Mrs Riddell, are you there?’ He waited for a moment, then let himself in. Willow stood beside him, just inside the room.
The bed was large and took up most of the space. It had a curved headboard and purple cushions were propped against it, so it looked as if it belonged in a pretentious hotel. There was no sign of Margaret Riddell, except that her image stared out of a large studio photograph of her with her son. The picture had been fixed to the wall in the same space as the television in Magnie’s room. The bed was made, and floral pyjamas were folded on the pillow. If she’d slept there the previous night, she’d tidied the room before leaving. Willow took another look out of the window, saw again that the street was empty and opened the wardrobe. On one side, dresses, skirts and jackets hung in a neat row. On the other, a rack of shelves contained underwear and jerseys. All folded.
‘Wouldn’t you think,’ Perez said, ‘that this was the product of an ordered mind? Not someone as obsessed as Magnie described.’
They’d left the front door open for Lottie, and now Willow heard tentative sounds below. ‘Just a moment. I’ll come down.’
Lottie had pulled on a pair of shapeless trousers and a jersey made of some man-made fibre in snot-green. She was still wearing the slippers. She looked up as Willow walked down the stairs towards her. ‘Is she there?’
Willow couldn’t tell if the anxiety in her voice was caused by worry for her sister’s health or about Margaret’s reaction if they’d been caught snooping. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Everything’
s fine. She must have gone out for a walk.’
‘Margaret doesn’t walk! Not unless she has to.’
‘Maybe someone gave her a lift into work.’ Willow wanted Lottie out of the house, so they could look in the sideboard drawers. Perez was still upstairs. Willow wondered if he’d gone into Magnie’s room, checking that she’d not overlooked something important.
‘I can’t mind who that might be.’ The woman still hovered just inside the door as if she felt awkward about intruding.
‘Why don’t I have a quick look round and see if I can find any clue as to where she might be? You could go home and try phoning her.’ Willow would have bet that this woman didn’t own a mobile. ‘And I would love a cup of tea.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe you could put the kettle on?’
As soon as Lottie had left, Willow moved quickly to the living room and opened the sideboard drawer. There was a thick file labelled ‘Divorce’: a pile of correspondence between solicitors, acrimonious words about details that seemed to Willow to be petty – ownership of furniture and household goods, a dispute about who had contributed most to the deposit for the house in Voe, to the largest car. There was another file relating to the purchase of Margaret’s Deltaness home. Willow flicked through it quickly, aware that Margaret could return any moment and assuming that there would be little of interest.
She heard Perez’s footsteps on the stairs and was aware of him coming into the room, but her attention was focused on the file. At the back was a brown envelope, unlabelled. Willow pulled out the contents and found letters that went back more than three decades. The handwriting was as clear and round as that of a studious child, and Willow found them very easy to read. She saw almost immediately that these were love letters. Love letters from Dennis Gear, the man who’d committed suicide in the Flemings’ barn. Writing to a young Margaret, they were all addressed to ‘my peerie Tammie Norrie’, the Shetland dialect word for puffin. The words were playful and excited, making plans for trips to Lerwick to see a favourite fiddle player, and then talking of a dance in the Vidlin Hall:
