Willow had stuck her head round the door. ‘I’m just off to the Ravenswick Hotel to chat to Maria Markham. I want to see if she was the woman who met Markham in the Bonhoga.’ And just at that moment the phone rang and the new PC, apologetic as if she hated to disturb Wilson, came on the line: ‘There’s a lass wants to talk to someone. She’s from London. Says she was Markham’s girlfriend. She wants to come up and see where he died.’
Sandy turned to wave at Willow, but she’d already sensed his interest and was back in the room, listening in. He offered her the phone, but she gestured for him to continue the call.
‘Can I help you?’ He made sure his voice was clear. Knapping for the woman on the end of the line.
‘My name is Annabel Grey.’ The woman was young, certainly younger than Markham, Sandy thought. But then Markham had taken a fancy to Evie Watt when she was only just out of school. Perhaps he liked his women that way. She seemed to take a breath before continuing. ‘I’m a student. Final year in Oxford. St Hilda’s. I’ve been away, out of contact, and I’ve only just seen the news. The Shetland murders.’
He wondered where she’d been. She made it sound as if she’d been travelling to far-flung and exotic places. Or to outer space. Cartoon images of spaceships and little green men floated into his mind.
‘I was Jerry’s girlfriend,’ she said suddenly, dragging him back to the matter in hand. It sounded more like a statement from a politician – a mission statement – than a declaration of love. ‘We were going to be married.’ There was a sudden silence, as if she thought there was nothing else to say.
‘When did you last hear from Jerry?’ Sandy asked. He was always happier with facts: dates, times, places. And it must have been the right note to take, because Willow smiled and gave him the thumbs up. Anyone else might have felt patronized by the obvious gesture of support, but Sandy was just relieved that he wasn’t messing up.
‘I spoke to him on the telephone the day before he went north,’ the woman said. There was a clarity in her voice that made Sandy wonder if she was a singer. It was hard to tell what she made of Jerry’s death. It didn’t sound as if she’d been crying, but perhaps she’d made the effort to put on a brave show. ‘After that, as I said, I was away for a few days and he couldn’t get hold of me. But he sent me a postcard. It arrived this morning.’
‘Could you describe the postcard?’ Again Willow beamed at Sandy, like a nursery teacher encouraging a particularly stupid child.
‘It was a reproduction of a painting,’ Annabel said. ‘Three musicians.’ So, Sandy thought, the card was identical to the ones they’d found in Jerry’s briefcase. He must have picked them all up from the Bonhoga at the same time.
‘And what did it say?’
For the first time the woman seemed uneasy, less than confident. ‘Look, this isn’t really something I feel comfortable discussing on the telephone. I’m coming up anyway. I’ll bring the postcard then. I need to see where Jerry died. I need to meet his family.’
‘Do the Markhams know about you?’
Another pause. This time so long that Sandy thought he should repeat the question.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said at last. ‘Jerry was going to tell them, I think, but he said he needed to wait for the right moment. Perhaps he hadn’t had the chance.’
‘Have you booked your travel?’ Sandy asked. Back to the facts again. He felt happier already. ‘We could help with that.’
‘I’m speaking to you from Heathrow,’ she said. ‘I’m already checked in for the Aberdeen flight. I get into Sumburgh late afternoon.’
‘OK.’ Sandy was in awe of someone who could arrange travel so quickly, on a whim. ‘We’ll arrange for someone to meet you.’
‘Will it be you?’ Annabel asked, and for the first time she sounded anxious.
‘I’m not sure.’ Sandy was out of his depth again. ‘Would you like it to be?’
‘Yes.’ The voice incisive. ‘I would.’
He looked across at Willow, who nodded. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll be there. And we’ll organize accommodation for you.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Of course you will. I should have had more faith.’
Willow asked Sandy to go with her to interview Maria Markham. It was on the way to the airport, and she said Jimmy Perez could supervise the incident room as soon as he got back from Aith. He could keep tabs on the information coming in. Sandy wasn’t sure what Perez would have made of that. Maybe he would have liked to meet Jerry Markham’s girlfriend, but when he arrived back at the station Perez didn’t say anything. He just nodded and took Sandy’s place by the phone.
Maria Markham saw them in the hotel office on the ground floor, not in the flat. Sandy thought she wanted to keep them away from her personal space. She was wearing office clothes too – a grey, fitted suit, which looked a little too large, as if she’d already shrunk after hearing the news of her son’s death. Her hair was clean and pinned back from her face and she’d put on lipstick.
‘Peter’s out,’ she said. ‘He has a friend who’s a sailor and has offered him a day on the water. I encouraged him to go. He needed to get away from this place, just for a day. It was killing him. He didn’t love Jerry as I loved him. Inevitably. A father doesn’t have the same bond. But now he feels guilty, and thinks if he’d loved Jerry more, he’d have kept him safe. Quite ridiculous, but I can’t help feeling that too. That somehow it was Peter’s fault. We all need someone to blame perhaps and, until the killer is found, I only have my husband.’ She paused, embarrassed by the confessional stream of words. ‘I’m sorry. All this must sound very silly.’
‘We will find the killer, Mrs Markham.’ Willow sounded so confident that Sandy almost believed her too. ‘But we need your help. That’s why we’re intruding on your grief again.’
Maria took her seat behind the desk, and Willow and Sandy sat opposite her like junior staff members, a waiter and a chambermaid, failing in their duties. ‘So,’ Maria said, ‘what do you want this time?’
‘You’ll have heard of John Henderson’s death?’
‘Yes.’ She shot a quick look at Willow. It was as if Sandy was invisible. ‘Did Henderson kill Jerry and then commit suicide? A kind of remorse? I did wonder if that was what happened. I’d feel kind of cheated. It’s not a real justice, to choose when you die.’
‘No,’ Willow said. ‘It was nothing like that. Henderson was murdered too.’
‘Evie Watt’s two men both dead.’ Maria Markham gave a little laugh. Sandy thought there was something quite mad about the woman. ‘I wish I could believe that Evie was the killer, but I don’t see it.’
‘Jerry met a woman the morning before he was killed,’ Willow said. ‘In the Bonhoga cafe. She’s been described as middle-aged, well groomed. Do you know who that might have been?’
‘No,’ Maria said. ‘It was something to do with his story, maybe. A contact.’
‘It wasn’t you?’
‘Of course not! If I wanted to chat with my son I’d do it here. I wouldn’t drive twenty miles north to meet him.’
‘But you didn’t have much opportunity to talk here. Not really talk. You and Peter are so busy, and your son had just come in on the ferry the morning before. I’d understand that you might arrange to meet somewhere – ’ Willow hesitated – ‘neutral. Somewhere you wouldn’t be interrupted. Everyone says how close the two of you were.’ The women stared at each other. The background music in the bar was jazz piano and it seeped between them. Maria Markham spoke first.
‘I’ve told you, Inspector, that I didn’t meet my son in Weisdale the morning that he died. I wish I had. I wish I had another memory to add to my collection, but I didn’t. I was here all day. Of course my staff will confirm it.’