‘The woman in the red dress couldn’t have been the owner?’ After all, why not? Perez thought. He’d imagined the dead woman as exotic and Spanish, but perhaps an American woman would wear red silk too.
Sandy shrugged. He didn’t like to speculate in case he got things wrong.
‘And you’re sure that nobody has been reported missing?’ Perez thought the woman couldn’t have been staying in the house alone. Or if she was there alone, she had known people in the islands. February wasn’t the time for a walking holiday or sightseeing. And if she was that sort of tourist, she wouldn’t be dressed the way they’d found her. She’d be wearing jeans and a sweater, woollen socks – even indoors. ‘When will they go in?’
‘Soon,’ Sandy said. ‘Before it gets dark. They’ve got a generator set up, but they’d rather start during daylight.’
Perez nodded. ‘You be there, Sandy. But before you go, talk to Radio Shetland about putting out a request for information on this evening’s show. A phone number for the owner, or a contact. She’d have somebody to clean the place between visitors and to hold the keys. And a description of our mysterious woman.’
‘We weren’t in time to get the dead woman onto yesterday evening’s ferry,’ Sandy said, as if he’d just remembered and this was something Perez should know. ‘She’ll be going south to Aberdeen tonight. James Grieve is ready for her.’
‘It would be good to have a name before James starts the post-mortem,’ Perez said. ‘I’d like to tell the relatives what’s happening, before he begins his work.’ His phone rang. He was expecting a summons to another meeting, but it was Kathryn Rogerson, the young woman who’d recently taken over as the teacher at Ravenswick school.
‘I’m afraid we’re closing the school today, Mr Perez. The engineers’ department wants to survey the hill all the way along to Gailsgarth. It might need shoring up from the road. If there was another landslide there, the school would be right in its path, and we’ve been advised we have to get all the children away.’ She still sounded like a child herself, rather earnest and desperate to do the right thing. Perez knew her father, who was a lawyer with an office just off Commercial Street. ‘I know Maggie Thomson sometimes cares for Cassie when you’re at work, but she’s away at her sister’s and her flight’s been cancelled.’
So now he’d have to start ringing round to sort out childcare. The last thing he needed. Duncan Hunter, Cassie’s natural father, was in Spain, apparently making out a deal with a company supplying holiday villas for the rental market. In practice, avoiding the most miserable of Shetland’s weather. This was the time of year for islanders who could afford it to take their holidays.
‘I wondered if you’d like me to bring Cassie back to Lerwick and she can spend the afternoon with me.’ The teacher sounded hesitant, as if the offer might be considered impertinent. ‘She’d be no bother, and at least you’d know she’d be safe in town. We’re nowhere near the danger zone.’
‘Are you sure? It sounds above and beyond the call of duty to act as childminder to your pupils when the school’s closed.’
‘Not at all!’ Perez could picture the teacher in the little office in the school. She was small and tidy and had a pleasant manner with the bairns, but she stood no nonsense. Cassie adored her. ‘We’ll probably be shut at least until after the weekend, so if you need me to have Cassie on any other day, just let me know.’
‘That’s very kind. I’ll try to sort out something else for later in the week, though.’ Perez felt uncomfortable. Partly because he thought he couldn’t take advantage of the woman’s good nature. Partly because he hated being in emotional debt. He’d never been very good at accepting help. ‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be able to pick Cassie up this evening.’
‘Have supper with us,’ Kathryn said. ‘My mother always cooks enough for an army.’
Perez was still trying to think of an excuse that didn’t sound rude when the teacher ended the call.
Chapter Three
It was 14 February. Sandy had a new girlfriend who filled his mind and dulled his concentration. Louisa was a teacher in Yell, a north isle that was a ferry ride away; he’d known her since they were at school together, but they’d only been going out for a few months and he was still feeling his way. It was midweek, so they hadn’t planned to meet to celebrate Valentine’s Day, but had decided to get together on Saturday night. Sandy had asked Louisa what she’d like to do, but she hadn’t been much help: ‘Why don’t you surprise me, Sandy?’ Which seemed like a sort of challenge. He was anxious and had even begun to hope that the road would still be closed and the dead woman still unidentified, so that he could claim he needed to be at work.
Now he wondered if he should phone her, to show that he’d remembered the date. Or would she think that was soppy? Louisa was the least sentimental woman he’d ever met. He knew she would hate the pink cards he’d seen in the shops, the shiny hearts and the teddy bears, the balloons. He hadn’t bought her anything. In the end he sent her a text: Thinking of you today. Speak later. Surely she couldn’t object to that?
On the way to his car he bumped into Reg Gilbert, who must have been lurking there for most of the day. Reg was the senior reporter on The Shetland Times. He’d previously worked on a big regional daily in the Midlands and had been lured north by a woman who’d immediately dumped him. Now Reg was stranded in the islands, a strange alien creature, a newshound with virtually nothing of interest to the outside world to report.
Except now, when the landslide had become national news. There were dramatic pictures after all, and Jimmy Perez always said the press loved images more than words. Sandy suspected that Reg had been the writer of some of the more lurid headlines, the ones about the primary school being missed by inches and an island economy devastated by the weather.
‘Well, Sandy.’ The journalist had a nasal voice and a thin, rodent face. His incisors protruded over his bottom lip. ‘Any closer to finding out who was killed in the mud?’
In the past an innate politeness would have caused Sandy to answer, but he’d been had by Reg once too often – quoted out of context and made to look foolish. He walked past the journalist in silence.
It was only mid-afternoon, but Sandy needed his headlights for the drive south. He took the dark winter days in his stride but he was looking forward to the spring now. He could understand how the long nights turned some incomers a bit mad. He rounded a bend in the road and suddenly the site of the landslip was ahead of him, all white lights and black silhouettes. The firefighters had rigged up a generator at Tain, so the ruined house was illuminated. From the road, the scene didn’t look like Shetland at all, not the Shetland of hill sheep and peat banks that Sandy had grown up with. This was almost industriaclass="underline" heavy machinery outlined against the artificial lights. Another generator and more lights showed a team of men starting to clear the debris from the road. The bank would have to be shored up before it could be opened again, but they wouldn’t be able to see what was needed until the road was cleared.
A lay-by normally used by sightseers looking out to the isle of Mousa had been turned into a car park and Sandy pulled in there. He put on the wellingtons and an anorak that he’d stuck in the boot before setting off, and went out to meet the team working on the house. They’d already cleared the track that had led to the croft. Sandy had passed by here on hundreds of occasions – every time he’d gone to pick up a relative from the airport, or gone to show visitors the puffins on the cliffs at Sumburgh – but he struggled to remember the layout of the land before the slide. He thought a short track had curved down the valley from the main road and that it had led only to Tain. There’d been a good new road built for the cemetery, when it had been extended a few years before, but the entrance to that was further north. And it also led to the Hays’ land at Gilsetter, with its bigger house and polytunnels. Where the track ended at Tain there’d been parking for a couple of cars, and a small garden at the front with a fence around it. It had been possible to see that from the main road. Then, at the back, more land separated by a wall from the rest of the hill, and on each side of the house a shelter-belt of wind-blown sycamores, which seemed to have survived the slide.