‘Jerry Markham was planning a story about the new energies,’ Perez said. ‘He’d arranged to go to a meeting of the Hvidahus action group the evening he died.’
Francis looked up, startled. ‘I know nothing about that. I support the aims of the action group, but I don’t get too involved. After all, Power of Water is Evie’s big project, so I have divided loyalties.’
‘Do you have other children?’ Perez wondered where that question had come from. Sandy would see it as a waste of time. But not the new inspector. Perez thought she would work in the same way as him. She’d want to dig under the surface of a family too.
‘A son,’ Francis said. ‘Magnus. He’s away at university in Stirling. Computer science.’ The man smiled. ‘He’ll not come back to the islands to stay. Evie’s my last hope of keeping the family traditions alive.’
‘Will she take on the boat-building?’ Perez asked.
‘Aye, she might at that, and bring John Henderson with her, once he’s had enough of the oil work. That’s what I’m hoping. Evie grew up with it and she has a feeling for working with wood.’
The door opened and a woman came in. Perez had seen her working in the field, planting potatoes. She was small and slender, round-faced, smiling. In twenty years Evie would look like her. She took off her boots at the door and went to the sink to wash her hands. Under her jacket she wore a smock just like her husband’s, on top of faded cord trousers.
‘This is Jimmy Perez,’ Francis said. ‘He’s come to ask us questions about Jerry Markham.’
‘Evie said you’d spoken to her.’ The woman was polite, but prickly. ‘You can’t expect her to have anything to do with his death. All that happened years ago. She was hardly more than a child. Our fault maybe, for sheltering her too much. She’s getting married on Saturday. You mustn’t spoil this week for her.’
‘Had you seen Markham since he was home this time?’
‘No,’ Watt said. ‘We don’t leave the isle much. It’s a busy time of year and we have all that we need here.’
‘When was the last time that you left Fetlar?’
The couple looked at each other, trying to work it out, to give an accurate answer. ‘Maybe six weeks ago,’ Francis said. ‘Evie had a problem with the boiler in her house. John was on shift at Sullom and couldn’t help. We went and stayed over, made a night of it.’
Perez thought it would be easy enough to check with the boys on the boat. They’d know if anyone on this small island had taken the ferry out.
‘Why would anyone want to kill Markham?’ he said. ‘Why now?’
There was a pause. Jessie Watt poured herself tea.
‘I knew him a bit when he worked on the Shetland Times,’ Francis said. ‘Before there was all that trouble with Evie. He was good at making enemies.’
Out of the window Perez saw a child running across the beach, chasing a dog. ‘This story he was writing about the new energies. Might that have made him enemies too?’
‘You’re talking politicians taking backhanders? Playing fast and loose with the planning laws?’
Perez hadn’t been thinking that way, but he could see that it might be a possibility.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Francis went on. ‘People get obsessed with money. But I’ve heard nothing of that sort. Nothing serious enough to kill a man for.’
‘Anything at all?’ Perez persisted.
Francis shook his head.
On the way out of the house, through an open door, Perez saw a small office. Clean and uncluttered, quite in contrast to the kitchen. A filing cabinet and a desk with a PC. It seemed the Watts were happy enough to use the new technologies when it came to promoting their business. Walking down the track to the car, he felt that he’d missed an opportunity and left the important questions unasked.
Chapter Nineteen
Rhona Laing woke early. It was still dark. Since the discovery of Markham’s body her sleep had been fitful. Over the weekend she’d stayed up drinking late, but even the alcohol hadn’t knocked her out properly. For the first time in her life she felt that things were running out of her control. And for the first time in years she longed for companionship, someone to talk to and someone she could trust. A body in her bed for the whole night.
Monday. A working week. She lay in the grey half-light, running through the events of the day. In the morning there was a trip to the north of Shetland mainland to see the proposed site of the new tidal-power project. The approval of the giant wind farm had made the development more viable. A cable would run from Shetland to the Scottish mainland to export electricity to the fuel-hungry UK. Once the cable was in place, Shetland could make a profit from the export of tidal power too. The islanders had become accustomed to the good life and wanted to maintain their standard of living. Local politicians had supported the wind farm, despite some objections from their electorate.
The trip wasn’t official Fiscal business. Rhona was a member of many island committees that had little to do with her work. Her love of sailing had brought her north, but she didn’t intend to be a Fiscal in the wilds forever. She’d always had political ambitions, could see herself in a position of power; in her wildest dreams she imagined a seat in the Lords. Baroness Laing of Aith had a ring to it. And that would only happen if she forged the right connections, made herself useful to the party. A senior politician had indicated that such a move wasn’t impossible. Rhona had no strong feelings about green energy, but it had seemed to her that the topic would grow in importance, especially north of the border. So she’d read about it, represented the islands in discussions over the controversial wind farm. And now she’d made sure that she was a part of the tidal-power working group. Of course if the Jerry Markham connection came to light, there’d be no chance of any form of political preferment. She wouldn’t even keep her post here in Shetland.
She put coffee into the filter machine and took a shower. Very hot, to clear her head. At least the Power of Water meeting meant she wouldn’t have to go into the office this morning. She wouldn’t have to answer questions about the investigation. Then it occurred to her that she still had leave to take before the end of April. Why not hand over responsibility for the Markham case to her assistant? She could say that she was compromised because she’d found the body. Ethically she shouldn’t be involved. That would run well with the press. Drying herself, she felt slightly more optimistic. It would be a way to distance herself from the investigation and from Detective Inspector Willow Reeves.
She checked her emails and found a message from Evie Watt’s BlackBerry, asking if they might meet at the proposed tidal-power site half an hour later than planned. Something unexpected had turned up and she was running a little late. That meant Rhona had time to call her line manager, say that she intended to take a few days’ leave and explain her reasons. ‘Just until the police have completed their investigation,’ she said. ‘We must be seen to be acting with complete transparency.’ Then she called the office, checked her watch and saw that she could still fit in more coffee and a slice of toast.
They’d arranged to meet in the car park in Hvidahus, close to the coastal path and to the proposed site of the tidal generation. It had been years since Rhona had driven this way and she’d forgotten how attractive the valley was. Sheltered from the prevailing wind, it led to two small houses and then to the sea and a large white house looking out over a small pier. There were only three people on the working group: Rhona, Evie Watt and Joe Sinclair, who was the harbour master at Sullom Voe. He’d been co-opted because of his knowledge of the tides and because he was a local man who had influence in the islands. He could sway public opinion. There was already some opposition to the scheme, and Joe would be useful in smoothing troubled waters.