by Ann Cleeves
What a splendid night that was! All those folk dressed in their finest and you the bonniest of them all, and so light on your feet. I felt the luckiest man in the world.
Without a word, Willow passed them one by one to Perez. At the back of the pile there was a note, very sad and apologetic. Willow thought it must have come after Margaret had announced her engagement to Neil Riddell:
Of course I can’t blame you for your decision. I haven’t treated you as I should in the past, and Hesti will hardly provide a living for one man, let alone a family. But know this. No other man will ever love you as much as I do.
Willow passed that on too and looked at Perez, waiting for a reaction, thinking: No other woman will ever love you as much as I do. He read the letter, but said nothing. His face was impassive. She returned to the file.
Along with the letters was a small piece of graph paper. Spots within the tiny squares formed a gallows and a noose. But Margaret had made a mistake – a spot in the wrong square – and the image was spoilt, not perfect. She must have started again, but kept the faulty message.
‘So Magnie was right. Margaret did send those notes.’ Willow stood in the overcrowded room and felt the weight of Margaret’s disappointment as a physical pain, a headache, not a heartache. Margaret had chosen Neil Riddell for his prospects, only to be abandoned by him for a younger woman. It was clear that Dennis Gear had cared for her, at least at the beginning. That hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. His death would have made her reassess every important decision she’d made in her life. There would have been regret that she’d chosen the wrong man, bitterness and, above all, there would have been guilt. At her betrayal of Dennis when she was younger, and that she hadn’t prevented his suicide. No wonder she’d needed someone else to blame.
There were footsteps outside the front door. Willow stuffed the papers back into the file and closed the drawer. She turned round, thinking quickly of the words she’d use to explain her presence in the house. Lottie let us in. She was worried that she hadn’t seen anything of you today.
But it was Lottie who was standing there, obviously distressed. ‘Margaret’s not answering her mobile. And I phoned her work. They were expecting her in today and she hasn’t been in touch. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Let’s go back to your house.’ Willow’s head was still full of the love letters from Dennis Gear, so touching and undemanding. ‘We’ll have that tea, shall we? And see if we can track her down. We’ll leave Jimmy here, in case she turns up.’ She felt only sympathy for the missing woman, imagined her lonely and desperate somewhere, and then the thought intruded that this was no way for a police officer to respond. Margaret could be a suspect, and she needed to keep some emotional distance.
There was orange patterned wallpaper in Lottie’s living room, but it had faded, so it blended into the beige carpet and brown furniture. Everything here had faded. Willow thought nothing in the house had been changed since the death of Lottie and Margaret’s parents. She wanted to ask about the family. It was clear that Lottie had retired, because there had been no mention of her being employed, and the room was littered with signs that she spent most of her time in this room – a knitting basket overflowing with yarn, a pile of library books, half-open women’s magazines. Lottie was someone with time on her hands. But now the priority was to find Margaret.
‘Have you contacted Magnie? He might know where your sister is.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘I don’t have his number. He was always Margaret’s boy, you know. Even when he was a peerie boy, she didn’t like to share him.’
Again, Willow thought this was a very strange thing to say, and again she was intrigued by the odd relationship between the women, by Lottie’s willingness to be dominated, her refusal to fight back.
‘I have his number,’ Willow said. ‘We’ll try that, shall we?’
The women were still standing. All thought of tea had been forgotten. Lottie was at the window, staring through a gap in the net curtains as if she hoped Margaret would suddenly and magically appear. Her body was tense, frozen and she seemed close to tears. Willow had put Magnie’s number in her phone and was scrolling through her contacts list.
‘There’s no need!’ Lottie moved away from the window and almost ran across the room and to the front door.
‘Ah, so she’s here,’ Willow said. ‘All that worry for nothing.’ But when she walked to the window, expecting to see the reunion of the sisters, hoping from the encounter to get a better idea of the relationship between them, she realized that Margaret hadn’t returned at all.
It was Magnie’s van that had pulled up outside the house, and Margaret’s son that Lottie was talking to. She’d stretched out and was gripping his arm, her hand hard and white like a claw.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Perez thought that Magnie Riddell looked exhausted; he’d probably been working the night shift at the power plant. Perez had seen the van arriving and had made his way out into the street before Willow.
‘What’s going on?’ Magnie stood by the side of his vehicle, looking around him. He seemed confused by the attention he was getting – his aunt, stick-thin and yelling, grabbing hold of his arm; the two detectives on the pavement, staring.
‘We’re not sure where your mother might be,’ Perez said. He kept his voice easy and unhurried. No need to spread panic. ‘Do you have any idea?’
Magnie shook his head. ‘I thought she’d be at work.’
‘Come in,’ Willow said. ‘Let’s all go into your aunt’s house, shall we? Lottie was just putting the kettle on. I’m sure there’s an obvious explanation.’
Magnie followed her. Perez thought he was like a child, glad to have someone else take charge. Perez sat next to him on the brown fabric sofa and they both looked towards Willow. Lottie was back by the window, twisting a piece of net curtain in her fingers.
‘Margaret’s not at work and her car’s still here,’ Willow said. ‘She’s not in the house. Can you think where she might be?’
Magnie shut his eyes for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon. Before I came into Lerwick, to the police station, to talk to you. She wasn’t working yesterday.’
‘How did she seem then?’
‘Kind of restless. I was on my way out and she was rattling on about something. I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. It was foggy and I wanted to get away, to allow more time than usual to get into town.’
‘There must be something.’ Willow’s voice was kind enough, but firm. Perez thought how good she was at this, at pulling information from sensitive witnesses.
Magnie closed his eyes again as if he was trying to remember the threads of the conversation. ‘She was talking about putting things right. She couldn’t just sit at home, when people didn’t realize what had been going on.’ He paused. ‘She said she was going to go to Hesti. She wanted to talk to Mrs Fleming. There were things she should know.’
‘Was she going to drive there? Lottie told me she never walked anywhere.’
‘She didn’t like driving in the fog,’ Magnie said. ‘She had an accident when we were living in Voe and it knocked her confidence. She might have walked this time.’
Willow left the room. Perez thought she was phoning Hesti to check if Margaret had been there. She wouldn’t want to be overheard. While she was gone, he turned to Magnie. ‘Where were you last night? Working the night shift?’
Magnie paused. It occurred to Perez that he might be about to lie. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I was out with friends.’
Perez was going to push for details, but Willow came back into the room.
‘Margaret was at Hesti,’ she said. ‘I’ve just checked with Helena Fleming. Did you see her after that, Lottie? She would have left there at about eight.’
Lottie shook her head. Her eyes were still fixed on the road outside.
‘It wasn’t only the Hesti folk Mother was ranting about,’ Magnie said. �
�She had things to say about the doctor and his family. I wasn’t listening properly, though. I just wanted to get away.’ He paused, turned to Willow. ‘I’d made up my mind to talk to you and I was kind of nervous.’
‘Is there anywhere Margaret goes when she’s feeling a bit low?’ Willow asked. ‘Maybe a favourite place to remember Dennis—’
Lottie interrupted before Magnie could speak. ‘She goes to Suksetter, just over the hill from Hesti. Dennis used to take her there when they were courting. Away from prying eyes.’ She paused. ‘But I think he probably took all his lasses there.’
Perez was surprised by the tone. It seemed a bitter thing to say when they were all so anxious about her sister.
Willow seemed not to notice the resentment and only asked another question: ‘Could Margaret have walked there from the Flemings’ house? Wouldn’t it have been a stretch, and a bit dangerous in the fog?’
‘She was very agitated yesterday,’ Magnie said. ‘Restless. I can see that she might have decided to walk it. And the ground’s uneven on the hill. She might have tripped, broken an ankle.’
Perez thought about that. ‘I could get a search team out,’ he said, ‘but that would take time. And if she’s had an accident, or just wanted a bit of time to herself, maybe Margaret wouldn’t want a fuss. People talking about her. Perhaps we should take a look first. See if we can find her.’ He looked across at Willow, who nodded her approval. So, we can still work together. At least I haven’t ruined that.
Magnie nodded. He still seemed lost, confused.
Willow was already on her feet. ‘Will you stay here, Lottie? In case there’s nothing wrong at all and Margaret comes back. I’ll give you a card with my mobile number. Phone me if she turns up.’ She stood by the door, expecting Perez and Magnie to follow. ‘We’ll take my car, shall we? You must be shattered, Magnie, after working all night.’
Perez was going to say that Magnie hadn’t been working, but Willow was already outside, waiting for them to get into the car. ‘Is Hesti the nearest place we can drive to?’
‘No, there’s a road that leads behind the dunes. Families park there to get to the beach, and further along there’s a cafe at Henwick.’
Magnie directed Willow Reeves to take the inland road that curved around the hill and back towards the sea. The mist was still lifting; they drove into patches of sunlight and then back into the haze. Perez felt a little disorientated. The boat had been so full that he hadn’t managed to book a cabin. A group of young people had taken over the ferry bar, playing their music, and he’d stayed up watching them until the early hours. One lad with long hair and a frayed Fair Isle jersey had leapt onto a table with his fiddle and played like a demon. His skill and energy had reminded Perez of Roddy Sinclair, a young musician who’d been part of another murder investigation. That had been midsummer too. Fran had still been alive. Perez thought he’d always considered Shetland as unchangeable and solid, but in the last few years his life had altered at a crazy speed. Now he felt a desperate desire to slow down events and stop them spinning out of control.
He knew this place on the coast. He’d come here a number of times with Fran for Sunday-morning walks along the shore to Henwick. She’d made a painting here, all water and sky. He’d loved it and asked her not to sell it. It still hung on the wall of the bedroom that he’d once shared with her. Ahead of them were the dunes, tall enough here that there was no view of the sea. Behind them a series of lochs, almost invisible because a pool of mist had collected over the water. He could hear the wading birds, make out fronds of reed and tall grass that surrounded the loch closest to them.
‘What should we do?’ Willow asked. ‘Is there a footpath over the hill towards Hesti? Should we try that first?’
‘If my mother wants to remember Dennis Gear, I know the place she’ll be sitting. I made a bench for her there. Just a plank and a couple of rocks, but it was a kind of memorial to him.’ Magnie was looking away from the beach towards the nearest pool.
Willow seemed to know what he was talking about, and Perez remembered what Daniel had told her about the memorial. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s look there first. We can try the hill if there’s no sign of her there.’
Magnie led the way. The further inland they walked, the patchier the fog became. At last they came to the point of the long loch and it spread ahead of them, the light milky and still shifting. Perez was following Magnie towards the promontory at the other end, when there was a sudden break in the cloud and a shaft of lemon sunlight shone through like a spotlight. He was reminded of a picture he’d seen in a book at Sunday school. It showed Ascension Day and there’d been shafts of sunshine just like this, shining through a cloudy sky onto a white-robed Jesus. Now the bench Magnie had made was lit up in the circle of light, when the land all around it was still in shadow, hazy. Perez saw a figure lying there, curled up, apparently asleep.
He sprinted ahead, shouting at the other two to stay where they were. This was a crime scene and Magnie was a suspect. The last thing they needed was for the man to contaminate the area. He turned briefly and saw that Willow was taking the man’s arm, gently as if she was supporting him, not holding him back.
As he got closer Perez recognized the woman at once. Margaret Riddell was lying on her side with her head on the bench, but twisted so that her legs were on the floor. On her head was the woollen hat that she’d been wearing at the Sunday teas, squashed now. Perez knelt beside her and felt for a pulse, knowing that he wouldn’t find one.
He looked up at Willow and saw that she was already on her phone. She still had one arm linked through Magnie’s, and the man stood beside her compliant, unmoving. Perez stepped away from the body and returned to the couple. Willow released Magnie into his care and turned away to make more calls. When she finished speaking she swivelled back so that she was facing them again. For a tall woman, all her movements were graceful. Perez thought she’d be a great dancer, imagined her for a moment in the Fair Isle hall, stepping out with his father, who was a splendid dancer too.
‘What’s happened?’ Magnie said. He still seemed dazed now, as if he hardly knew where he was.
‘We’re too late, Magnie,’ Willow said. Her voice was very gentle. ‘Your mother’s dead.’
Perez was watching the man’s face and saw one sudden and blinding look of relief. Of freedom. Then Magnie closed his eyes for a moment and, when he opened them, his face was blank once more, without expression. ‘What was it?’ he asked. ‘A heart attack?’
‘No,’ Perez said, his eyes fixed on the man. ‘She’s been strangled. Your mother was murdered, Magnie.’
‘Just like Emma,’ Willow added.
Perez thought that, for Magnie, this was nothing like Emma. He’d appeared heartbroken by Emma’s death. But it seemed to Perez that Magnie Riddell would struggle to grieve for his mother at all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
They sent Magnie back to the car to wait and stood where they were, blocking the path in case stray walkers wandered in, and waiting for Perez’s team to turn up and secure the site.
‘He wasn’t at work last night.’ Perez was looking up towards the sky; the mist seemed to be rolling back fast. With any luck, James Grieve and Vicki Hewitt would get a plane in today. ‘Magnie, I mean. When I asked him, I thought perhaps he was going to lie about it, but he would have known we’d be able to check.’
‘So, where was he?’
‘He muttered something about being out with friends.’
‘Well,’ Willow said, ‘we’ll be able to check that too.’ She paused. ‘You see Magnie as a suspect then?’
‘Don’t you? He has a history of violence, and I can imagine Emma Shearer playing with him, provoking him. A cat with a pathetic little mouse. It’s clear he was obsessed with her. Maybe she told him she had another man and something snapped.’
‘And his mother?’
‘I only met her a couple of times, but she was a bitter old witch.’ Perez remembered the bile that the wom
an had spouted about the Fleming family at the Sunday teas. ‘If she’d found out that her son killed Emma, she’d use that to keep him with her for the rest of her life.’
‘She might have been a bitter old witch, but she was very sad too. Keeping those love letters from Dennis Gear all those years, regretting so much the decision she made when she was younger . . .’ Willow stretched and Perez saw again how supple she was. ‘I think Helena Fleming’s a more obvious suspect. After all, look at the two victims here: a younger woman who seduced Fleming’s husband, and the person who’d been sending her poisonous anonymous letters.’
‘No!’ For some reason the idea horrified him. How could the woman who cared so deeply for her family, who was so patient with her autistic son, commit murder? ‘I don’t see it.’
‘Why’s that, Jimmy? Because Helena came to you, a damsel in distress, seeking your aid? You’ve never been able to resist that. And after all, she’s so much more sympathetic than Margaret Riddell. Or is it because she was a pal of Fran’s?’
There was a moment of silence. Perez was tempted to walk away, but he stayed where he was. He suspected Willow was right: his judgement was clouded by guilt and grief, and he’d been flattered that a famous designer had asked him to help her.
‘Jimmy, I’m sorry.’ Willow stretched out a hand, but couldn’t, it seemed, bring herself to touch him. ‘That was crass.’
Perez shook his head. ‘You’re right. Of course we have to keep an open mind about them all.’ There was a silence broken by bird call and the sound of the breeze in the long grass. He chose his words carefully. ‘How have you been while I’ve been south in Orkney?’
She didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m fine, Jimmy, honestly. Feeling much better. I actually seem to have more energy.’ A brief pause. ‘I think Shetland must agree with me.’
