‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘It’s worth following up.’ But his attention had wandered back to the newspaper articles in front of him.
When the rest of the team had dispersed she stood behind him. ‘What are all those things?’ There was something strangely obsessive in the way he pored over the newsprint. She saw that his fingers were stained grey from the ink.
‘Peter Markham brought them in this morning.’ Perez didn’t take his eyes off the table. ‘Maria kept the cuttings. All Jerry’s stories. Peter wondered if they might be helpful.’
‘And are they?’
Before he could answer, his phone went. He looked at the number. ‘It’s Peter Markham,’ he said.
‘Then you should take it!’ Again she felt impatient, with the desire to scream at him.
He nodded and pressed the button. She couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation and had no idea from the inspector’s expression whether Markham had anything useful to contribute.
‘Well, thank you, Peter. It was good of you to get in touch.’ Perez switched off the phone and sat for a moment in silence.
‘Well?’
‘I’d asked him to check if one of those postcards of the three fiddlers had been sent to the Ravenswick Hotel.’ Perez frowned.
‘And had it?’
‘No.’ He paused for a moment and turned to her with a sudden and brilliant smile. ‘But still relevant maybe, eh? Like the curious incident of the dog in the night. The Sherlock Holmes story. The dog that didn’t bark.’
‘So because the Markhams didn’t receive a postcard, one of the people at the Ravenswick Hotel could be sending them?’ She wanted to yell at him not to speak in riddles, but was so relieved that he was talking to her again, and so seduced by the smile, that she held her tongue.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That would be one interpretation.’
‘And the other?’
He seemed surprised that she hadn’t grasped the logic of his thinking. ‘That the Markhams aren’t involved in this at all, except as grieving parents.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ She waited and realized how much she valued his opinion.
There was another long silence. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last. ‘I need to speak to Rhona. I’ll be glad when she sails back into the marina at Aith.’
If, Willow wanted to say. If she sails back. But there was no need. He was thinking the same thing too.
She nodded back to the newspaper clippings. ‘You didn’t say what’s so interesting here.’
‘As I see it, Jerry Markham wrote longer pieces.’ Perez moved the pieces of paper round the table. ‘This one is about life in a children’s home – he did it after a child-abuse case. This is an investigation into river pollution. So you can see how a Power of Water story would appeal to him, especially as there’s such interest in renewable energy. But why did he keep it secret? Why not at least pitch it to his editor to get a free trip north? I don’t understand that.’
Willow picked up the pollution piece. It seemed well written and she read it all, just to find out how the case ended.
‘Then there’s this,’ Perez said. ‘Why would Maria keep this?’ He slid a small cutting across the table to Willow.
It was obvious from the style and content that this wasn’t from the broadsheet for which Jerry Markham had worked. It was from the personal column of a local paper.
‘It doesn’t say,’ Perez said, ‘but it’s from the Shetland Times. The announcement of Evie Watt and John Henderson’s engagement.’
Willow read it. It was very formal and old-fashioned. ‘Francis and Jessica Watt are delighted to announce the engagement of their daughter Evelyn Jean to Mr John William Henderson of Hvidahus, North Mainland.’ She looked at the date. ‘This only went into the paper three months ago,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about these things, but isn’t that a very short engagement? What was the rush?’
Perez didn’t answer her question. ‘Why would Maria go to the trouble of cutting this out of the Shetland Times? Why did it matter so much to her?’
‘Perhaps it didn’t,’ Willow said. ‘Perhaps she thought Jerry would be interested because of the Evie Watt connection. She cut it out so that she’d remember to tell him.’
He looked up, transfixed. ‘Of course! Of course that was how it happened.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m off to Aith,’ he said. He was already struggling into his jacket, feeling in his pocket for his car keys.
‘You’re going to wait for the Fiscal?’
‘Not just that. There’s something I need to check.’
And before she could ask him what he meant, he’d already left the room.
Chapter Forty-Three
It was late afternoon in Aith, but still wet and grey, so it seemed much later, almost night. The houses had lights inside and on his way he’d glimpsed domestic scenes: children sitting at kitchen tables to do homework, a young man preparing an evening meal, an elderly woman knitting. But there were still no lights in the Old Schoolhouse, and when he drove down to the marina, Rhona Laing’s boat was still absent from its mooring.
He was surprised when Andy Belshaw answered the door at the smart Scandinavian house on the hill and wondered why the man wasn’t at work again today. It wasn’t time for him to be home yet. The question was answered when Belshaw spoke. His voice was strained and scratchy, and when he waved Perez inside he said, ‘Sorry. Throat infection. Must have caught it from my daughter. Welcome to the house of the plague.’
In the kitchen there was washing drying on a line hanging from the ceiling and Jen Belshaw was cooking, so condensation was running down the windows and there was no view outside. Perez smelled frying onions and realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. From a distant room came the beeps of a computer game and voices. In one corner of the kitchen a hand-knitted jersey was stretched on a wooden frame. Arms wide, it looked like a headless child.
‘Inspector.’ Jen turned from the stove. ‘How can I help you now?’ Polite enough, but he could tell she wasn’t happy to see him.
‘It’s about John Henderson.’ Perez took a seat at the table. ‘It’s time now for you to tell me the truth. For both of you to tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Jen added strips of lamb’s liver to the pan. She’d dusted them first with flour, and her fingers were coated with blood and flour. Red and white, turning into a pink paste where they mixed. She rinsed her hands under the tap and turned down the heat.
‘No?’ Perez turned to her husband. ‘But you knew, didn’t you? You were Henderson’s best friend.’
Belshaw shot a look to his wife, but she still had her back turned to him.
‘Rhona Laing’s missing,’ Perez said. ‘She went off either last night or today. Would you know anything about that? About why she might have left Aith in a hurry?’
‘No!’ It came out as a high-pitched squeak. Belshaw seemed flushed with fever and Perez saw that he really was too ill to have been at work. The inspector leaned forward across the table. ‘I’m trying to prevent another murder here. You have to tell me everything you know. Both of you.’
‘You can’t blame John.’ The woman moved away from the stove, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘He loved Agnes’s very bones, but she was so ill. He knew she was dying and there was nothing he could do to give her peace. Imagine the stress he was under.’
For a moment Perez thought he had the whole thing wrong and that he was about to hear quite a different story from the one he’d conjured in his head. A story of assisted suicide perhaps, of Agnes helped to her rest. But Jen continued immediately. ‘You can’t blame him for taking his comfort where he could find it.’
‘He had a lover?’ Perez looked at them both for confirmation. ‘While his wife was still alive?’ He wondered what it might be like if the woman you loved died slowly and you had to watch. It had been bad enough on the hill on Fair Isle with Fran in his arms, and that had only been for minutes. A slash of a knife. A blade glinting in moonlight. Then it was all over. He didn’t think he’d have had the strength to keep going for years, watching his lover grow weaker every day. At least he supposed he could do it – the practical stuff, the daily routine, pretending to be cheerful. But not on his own. He’d need an escape at the end of the day, someone warm and tender and soft. Someone to make him laugh occasionally.