‘And you reckon Henderson saw the man as a rival and killed him because of that?’ Sandy made the idea sound like a fairy story.
‘Or perhaps it was to do with work.’ Perez looked up. ‘Jerry’s and Evie’s work. Evie’s involved in developing green energy in the islands, and Jerry’s planned story included details of that. If Andy Belshaw is to be believed.’
‘A small group of activists met at Vatnagarth on Friday night,’ Sandy said. ‘They’re fighting the new tidal-energy scheme at Hvidahus. Worried about the impact on the environment apparently. They were expecting Jerry Markham to be there. They’d invited him, hoping that he’d cover the story.’ Sandy looked around vaguely, and Perez hoped Willow had worked out that Sandy wasn’t very good at detail, that he was easily bored.
There was a moment of silence, but Perez thought he could almost hear Willow Reeves’s thoughts hissing and sparking in her brain.
‘Could Markham have been killed to stop him going to that meeting?’ She looked at them both, demanding a response.
‘I can’t see it was that important.’ Sandy was dismissive. ‘A group of soothmoothers, pissed off because their view might be spoiled.’
‘Everything’s connected,’ Willow said. ‘There are too many links to be coincidental. Andy Belshaw’s wife volunteers in the place where Markham’s car was found, and Markham was expected to attend a meeting there the night he died. Belshaw and Henderson both run a boys’ footie club.’
‘Evie Watt is probably involved in the tidal project,’ Perez said. ‘Sustainable energy comes within her remit.’
‘Does it?’ Willow looked up sharply. ‘Where does Jen Belshaw work?’
‘She’s a school cook,’ Sandy said. ‘In Aith. Nothing to do with the water scheme.’
‘But where Markham’s body was discovered. Another coincidence?’
‘This is a small place.’ Sandy shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘People bump into each other.’
‘So they do.’ She flashed him a smile, but Perez could tell that she was unconvinced. She didn’t believe in coincidences.
‘And is it just chance that a woman looking very like the Fiscal had coffee with Markham the morning he died?’ Willow reached out and took an oatcake from the table and ate it dry. No butter. No cheese. Was she concentrating so hard on the facts of the case that she didn’t notice? ‘Then the body was found on her doorstep when the fog cleared later in the day.’
‘You have Rhona Laing down as a suspect?’ Perez thought she was mad.
‘Not that,’ Willow said. ‘No, maybe not that. But she’s involved. She knows more than she’s telling us.’
There was a moment of silence. Absolute silence. No wind outside. No traffic noise.
‘Anything from James Grieve and the postmortem?’ Perez asked.
‘Nothing helpful. Nothing that we didn’t know already. Markham was killed by a violent blow to the head and placed in the boat postmortem. The pathologist couldn’t pin down time of death more accurately than we already had it – so between Markham leaving Sullom Voe in the afternoon and his body being found by the Fiscal at six-thirty. His last meal was fried fish and chips.’ She paused. ‘We don’t know yet where he ate that.’
‘Any more detail on the murder weapon?’ Perez was finding this discussion easier than he’d expected. After Fran’s death he hadn’t believed he’d be capable of talking about violent death in a dispassionate and professional way again. But this was like a habit, a learned script: the routine questions formed in his mind without too much thought. A performance.
‘Grieve thought a spade or a shovel. Heavy, and wielded with considerable force. We need to find it. Something else for tomorrow.’ She stretched and Perez thought again how tired she looked.
‘Do we think the murder was planned?’ Perez was talking almost to himself. ‘That sort of weapon could be something you’d pick up on the spur of the moment, if there was a fight.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Willow frowned. ‘But there were no other signs that there’d been a scrap. No grazes on Markham’s knuckles and no other injuries. We’ll organize a search for the weapon tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find it.’ Perez stared at the fire. ‘Anyone with a peat bank or a croft would have something like that in their house.’ He felt he was being negative and unhelpful. ‘You said there was a briefcase with him in the boat. What was inside?’
‘A couple of postcards with paintings of local musicians. Shetland Arts give them away at the museum and the art gallery. He could have picked them up at the Bonhoga.’
‘Anything written on the postcards?’ Perez thought he’d seen the original of one of those paintings in Lerwick library, and the postcards – publicity for Shetland Arts – in the Bonhoga. The band was called Fiddlers’ Bid.
Willow shook her head. ‘Though he’d have had time to post any he had written. There was nothing else in the case. Markham might have made notes if he was researching a story, but if so, the killer took everything with him or her. Too smart to take the briefcase – it’d be hard to get rid of that.’
Willow’s phone rang. Perez thought it would be a personal call at this time of night. He wondered if she’d want to take it in a different room, but there was only his bedroom, and he was embarrassed to show her in there. He kept the rest of the house clean and tidy for Cassie’s sake, but he never bothered much with his own space. It seemed, though, that the call was work-related and she stayed where she was. They sat watching her, listening, gathering only from her questions and occasional replies that this was someone with whom Markham had worked. When she switched off the phone she was frowning.
‘That was a woman called Amelia Bartlett. Markham’s boss. Seems she’d been away for the weekend. I’d left messages for her, but she’s only just got them.’ Willow looked at them. ‘She doesn’t have any idea what story Jerry was working on. If there was a story. As far as she was aware, Jerry was in Shetland on annual leave. She said he hadn’t been himself lately. He’d been very quiet. She wondered if he’d been ill. Stress maybe. Burnout. And that was why he’d wanted the time out.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sandy caught John Henderson at work early on Monday morning in Sella Ness, just across the water from the oil terminal. This complex was run by Shetland Islands Council and there were no gates or barbed wire here. Sandy thought a terrorist wanting to attack the terminal could just drive down the road and row a small boat across the voe. Though maybe it wouldn’t be that easy: the harbour master or the pilots would see what was going on, and there were probably closed-circuit cameras covering the water.
He found Henderson in Port Control, drinking a mug of tea and listening to Bobby Robertson, who worked for the vessel traffic service. There was a panoramic view over the water and the place looked just like the bridge of a ship, with radar screens and high-tech equipment that beeped and flashed. Sandy was intimidated by the instruments and the sense of efficient expertise, by the smartness of Henderson in his officer’s uniform. The pilot was middle-aged, grey-haired.
‘What’s this about, Sandy? I don’t have long.’ The pilot looked at his watch. ‘I’m just about to go out on a job.’
Sandy thought he was an intelligent man and he shouldn’t have needed to ask. He’d have heard about Markham’s murder. ‘Just a word,’ he said. ‘And maybe somewhere in private?’ He could sense that Bobby Robertson was listening to every word, and he was a famous gossip.
‘Just come along here then.’ Henderson led him away from the control room and pushed open the door to a small bedroom. ‘This is where I stay when I’m on night shift.’