‘I’m not sure,’ he said, hedging his bets. Would Cassie worry about him being at work? Would she prefer him to wait for her at home?
‘You should go,’ she said. ‘We need the money. There’s a school trip to Edinburgh and I want to go. It’s £150.’
‘I’m still being paid!’ He wasn’t sure what he felt about her going to Edinburgh.
‘But they won’t give you money for doing nothing forever.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact.
Before he could reply she saw a friend on the path ahead, took her violin and her bag and ran off.
He waited out of sight, watching her in the playground, until the bell rang and she went inside. As he walked up the bank from the school his phone had a signal and he phoned Willow Reeves, laughing to himself because he was taking orders from a seven-year-old. She answered quickly and he thought she sounded manic. Too much coffee and too little sleep.
‘I wondered if I could help at all?’ In the background Perez heard someone shout that they’d got the video conference up and running for the meeting with Inverness.
‘We need all the help we can get, Jimmy!’ He heard the laughter in her voice. He’d always liked women who laughed easily.
‘I might just call into the Ravenswick and chat to the Markhams then,’ he said. ‘See if I can clear up the matter of Jerry’s story, and why his editor knew nothing about it.’
‘That’d be great.’ She paused. There was more noise in the conference room and he could understand how it would be. Inverness ready to speak, waiting for her to shout the meeting to order. He thought she would end the phone call as quickly as she could, but she continued, her voice so low that he could hardly hear it above the background sound. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about Rhona Laing?’
A vague idea floated into his head and then disappeared.
‘Has your contact picked up anything between her and Markham?’
‘Nothing.’ Another pause. ‘Not yet.’
‘You want me to talk to her?’
There was another silence and for a moment he thought she’d switched off her phone, but it seemed she was answering a question in the room, because then she repeated, ‘Not yet. First I’d like to know for sure who Markham met in the Bonhoga on Friday morning. The lasses Sandy spoke to only worked weekends. Could you check that out?’
Another easy job, Perez thought, to keep him out of mischief. Willow didn’t trust him to talk to the Fiscal. Worried which side he was on? He wasn’t certain himself. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to the Ravenswick first and do the Bonhoga afterwards.’
Then she did end the call without saying goodbye.
It was the quiet time in the hotel. Breakfast over and the bosses of the contract firms working in Sullom had long left. The sound of vacuum cleaners in the distance, and in the kitchen someone was whistling tunelessly. Brodie was on reception again. Perez wondered if he ever slept or if he had any sort of private life at all.
‘Is Peter in?’ Perez asked. He wasn’t sure if he could face Maria. Her grief was too raw and immediate. Peter’s control made him an easier interviewee.
‘He’s out in the garden. Fresh air, he said.’
‘How are they coping?’
Brodie shrugged. ‘They’re hiding out in the flat. No phone calls. No visitors. Maria hasn’t been out at all, and this is the first time Peter’s escaped.’ Brodie paused. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s taking it harder than she is. The doctor’s given her something and she’s kind of doped. I don’t think he’s slept since Sandy came with the news about Jerry.’
‘Were they close, Jerry and his father?’
It seemed an innocuous question, but Brodie hesitated. Perez waited and the silence stretched. At last Brodie said: ‘Peter’s old-fashioned. Honourable. Maria thought Jerry could do no wrong, but Peter dared to criticize. Occasionally.’
‘And that caused some tension in the family?’
‘Maria was always over the moon when Jerry turned up. I’d say that Peter was more relieved when he went away again.’
Perez nodded his thanks for the information and took the door outside. It had been designed as an informal English garden with shallow terraces leading down to the shore. The grey wall provided some shelter and there were trees and shrubs, the trees just coming into leaf, looking strangely out of place. Daffodils in the borders, and in a few weeks there’d be bluebells in the grass. Woodland flowers in a place where there were scarcely any trees. Despite the protection from the wind it was a chill morning. Peter Markham was huddled in an overcoat. He sat on a wooden bench in one corner, smoking a cigarette.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Perez remained standing. He’d have gone back to the hotel and waited there, if Markham had told him to.
‘As long as you don’t tell Maria I’ve started smoking again.’ Markham didn’t even raise his head to look at Perez.
Perez sat beside him. The bench was damp.
‘Do you have news?’ Now Markham did turn round. ‘You know who killed my son?’ The English accent was stronger than ever.
‘No. Not yet.’
Markham stubbed out his cigarette, buried the end in the earth beside him. ‘More questions then.’
‘I was hoping for a conversation,’ Perez said. ‘I’m not sure I understand which questions I should be asking. And you knew your son. I don’t think I ever met him.’
Markham didn’t answer immediately. A blackbird was singing somewhere in the bushes.
‘We spoilt him. He was our only son. I suppose it was natural.’ He paused. ‘I’d never have let on to Maria, but I was pleased when he got that job in London. I thought it would be good for him, standing on his own two feet. He was never financially independent, but I didn’t mind that. It was never about money.’
‘What did you mind?’ Because Perez could tell that something was troubling the man.
‘He was self-centred. Believed the world revolved around him. Our fault. Like I said, the way we brought him up. It’d have been different if he’d had brothers or sisters.’ Another pause. ‘Maria could deny him nothing. It didn’t make him popular here. Perhaps he needed that ruthless streak, for the work he was doing, but I hated it. It wasn’t the way a man should behave.’ He stared over the garden. Perez wondered how it must be to feel that way about your son. It would be worse perhaps than grieving over the boy’s death. ‘I wondered if the way he acted had made him a victim.’
‘He’d made enemies here in the islands then?’
Peter Markham shrugged. ‘Nobody who cared enough about him to kill him.’ He turned so that he was facing Perez. ‘Sometimes I think we should have forced him to stay here and look after Evie. She could have made him accept some responsibility. But Maria wouldn’t have it. An island girl wasn’t good enough for her boy.’
‘Jerry told you he was in Shetland this time for work.’
‘That’s right. I think he’d persuaded his editor that he needed to cover the gas coming ashore. The new energy.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘I’m not sure that he told me anything. I was busy. That day we were rushed off our feet. That was the impression he gave his mother.’
‘His editor didn’t know anything about a story,’ Perez said. ‘Jerry had arranged to go to a meeting about the tidal energy, but he’d told her he was taking leave.’ He paused. ‘She thought he might be ill. Suffering from stress. Burnout. She said he hadn’t been himself since before Christmas. Not so sharp.’
‘Jerry was fine,’ Markham said. ‘He would have told his boss he was unwell to get a few days away. He believed his own fiction sometimes. That was what made him such a good liar.’
‘Did he often tell lies?’ Again Perez was shocked that Markham could describe his son in such a clear-eyed way.
‘He was a writer,’ Markham said, as if that explained everything.