‘I’m afraid Ms Laing isn’t in yet. Would you like to call back later?’
‘But you are expecting her at work today?’
A pause. Then some carefully chosen words. ‘Ms Laing hasn’t informed us that she won’t be in.’
‘But you’d normally have expected her in the office by now?’
‘Yes,’ Heather said. ‘I would. Or a phone call saying she’d be late.’
Perez considered. On the other end of the line he could sense Heather’s concern. ‘And she hasn’t been herself lately?’
‘No.’ Heather hesitated again, then the words came out as a rush. ‘Not since she found that body. But the Fiscal has seen dead bodies before. You wouldn’t think it would be such a big problem for her.’
There was another silence.
‘Would you normally buy Ms Laing’s plane tickets for her and make her travel arrangements?’ Perez asked.
‘Only if it was work-related. Not her personal travel.’
‘Has she mentioned a trip south to you?’
‘No, but then she probably wouldn’t.’ Heather paused. ‘She doesn’t talk much about her life outside the office.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be in soon.’ Perez replaced the receiver with a sudden and intense sense of anxiety. It was as if his world was shifting again. He had never liked Rhona Laing, had found her too shiny and slippery and certain. But he’d respected her. He wished he knew what was happening here, and that he’d tried harder to get hold of her the day before. He should have known that she’d never confide in Willow Reeves and that it must have been important for her to ask for his help.
He phoned Rhona’s home number, suspecting there would be no response, even as he dialled. Then he sat at the table in the big room. It had filled up with people, but he hardly noticed them. The chat and movement provided a blurred background to his thoughts.
He should check the airport and the ferry terminal to see if Rhona Laing had booked tickets south. But that would cause talk: it would get out that the police were investigating the Fiscal. Perez suspected that Reg Gilbert had spies in both airport and ferry company, and the last thing Perez needed was a spiteful, insinuating editorial in the Shetland Times.
So he stood up suddenly, picked up his coat and headed for the door. Only halfway down the corridor did he think that his behaviour might have seemed strange to his colleagues. He’d barged out of the room without a word. But now it was too late to go back.
On the pavement just outside the police station, on his way to his car, he bumped into Peter Markham. Perez was so preoccupied, so concentrated in his thoughts, that he didn’t see the man and almost stumbled over the briefcase at his feet. And for a moment he didn’t recognize Markham. Perez was accustomed to seeing him at the Ravenswick Hotel and here, out of context, he seemed slighter, rather shabby and nervous. Almost elderly. An old-fashioned commercial traveller, with his case of samples.
‘Jimmy!’ Markham seemed relieved to see him. ‘I was just going to the police station.’
‘Have you thought of anything that might help?’ Perez felt awkward, confused still, disorientated, standing here in the grey mist that felt more like November than spring.
Markham lifted the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought cuttings. All the articles Jerry wrote since he moved south. Maria kept them. I don’t know how useful they’ll be…’ His voice tailed off. ‘I wondered if you had any information, if Annabel and her father had thrown any light on the investigation. It was hard to tell when they came to visit us. It was all rather awkward.’ The man pulled up the collar of his waxed jacket. ‘Look, could we get a coffee? I can’t face going back to Maria yet. Not without something to tell her.’
And Perez couldn’t hurry away from him. He understood the man’s desperation.
They sat upstairs in the Peerie Shop cafe. Downstairs there were two young women with toddlers in buggies. The weather had kept everyone else away.
‘I have nothing to tell you,’ Perez said. He wanted to be on the road to Aith and resented this interruption. His first wife had talked about his ‘emotional incontinence’ and his inability to turn away anybody requesting his help. He’d thought he’d become harder, but some habits were hard to give up.
‘But you will find him, Jimmy, won’t you? You will find the person who killed my son?’
‘Yes,’ Perez said. ‘We will find him.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Have you received a postcard recently? A reproduction of a painting. Three fiddle players.’
Peter Markham looked at him as if he were mad. ‘No. Barbara in the office opens all the mail, but if it was personal she’d pass it on to us.’
‘This might not have a message on the back,’ Perez said. ‘Just the picture on one side and the address on the other. Will you check when you get back? Ask Barbara if she’s seen anything like that?’
Markham went off then, pleased that he had something to do, feeling that his trip into town hadn’t been entirely wasted. Perez left with the man’s briefcase. He’d tried to persuade Markham to drop the cuttings into the police station, but he’d refused. ‘You take it, Jimmy. I won’t need the case. And I trust you to make good use of them.’
Now Perez climbed up the narrow lane back to his car. The path was steep and he felt exhausted and unfit. I’m not sure I can do this. There had been talk when he was at his most depressed that he might take early retirement on health grounds, but he hadn’t wanted Cassie to see him as an old and broken man. Now he wondered if he had rejected the idea too quickly.
By the time he reached Aith it was raining hard. He was tempted to phone Heather again, to check if the Fiscal had arrived at the office, but thought that might only cause panic. The visibility was so poor that he parked outside Laing’s house without any concern that he might be seen. He couldn’t make out the end of her garden, and the hillside where the Belshaws lived was invisible. Water dripped from the shrubs and small trees. The Fiscal’s car was there, pulled into the drive. It was unlikely then, that she had gone into work. But why hadn’t she answered her telephone? It occurred to him that she might be out on the voe in her boat. She’d have radar, surely. She was a longdistance sailor. The mist wouldn’t bother her.
He knocked at her door. There was no reply. He turned the knob and pushed it open. Unlocked. That surprised him. He’d have thought Rhona would have the habit of locking her house when she left the place. He went inside and shouted her name.
There was mail on the doorstep. He stepped over it and shouted again. No response. He went into her living room and felt that perhaps he should take off his wet shoes. He imagined her wrath if he left marks on her pale carpet. Everything was tidy. No sign that she’d been entertaining visitors. He was reminded of John Henderson’s place at Hvidahus. The clear surfaces and the clean lines. Everything functional. Except that John had his attic, the shrine to his first wife. In the kitchen there was order too. On the draining board a stained coffee mug was the only thing out of place.
Perez stood in the hall and yelled up the stairs. Going up, he wasn’t sure what scared him most. That he’d find Rhona Laing’s body or that he’d find her alive, wrapped in a towel perhaps just coming out of the shower, furious that her privacy had been invaded. But he came to the bathroom first and there was no steam and the shower tray was dry. He felt horribly tense, almost faint. Before Fran’s death he’d never had these physical symptoms of stress. Now the pounding heart and the roaring sound in his ears made him want to flee. Still he continued. A guest bedroom, decorated in yellow and white, a white sheepskin rug on the floor. Did she entertain her smart Edinburgh friends here? Did she have friends? Real friends? He imagined there would just be acquaintances, people who might be useful to her one day. The room looked as if it had never been slept in.