'Where was the party?'
'I don't know. I never asked! He stared into his wine. 'But in one sense it doesn't matter. We know she did come home at lunchtime. The police told me that much. She was seen on the bus and by that old man who lives at Hillhead! And by me, Fran thought. I saw them together. Euan continued. 'They seem to think she was killed close to where her body was found.
They won't let me see her. I can't bear that.'
'What did the police say about the old man?' 'Nothing. Why?'
She hesitated only briefly. He would hear the rumours eventually. Better that the information come from her.
'There was a lot of gossip when I picked Cassie up from school this afternoon. You know how parents talk. A young girl went missing a while ago. She was called Catriona Bruce and she lived in this house.
The old man, Magnus Tait, was suspected of having a hand in her disappearance. People are saying that he killed Catherine!
He sat very still. He seemed frozen, incapable of moving. 'I don't think it matters who killed her,' he said at last. 'Not yet. Not to me. Later it might seem important, but it doesn't now. All that matters now is that she's dead!
He reached out and poured himself another glass of wine. Fran wondered at the difference in his mood tonight, and when he'd broken down talking about his wife. She supposed this was shock. It didn't mean that he cared less for his daughter. Had he been this calm in his dealings with the police? What would Perez have made of it?
Soon after she said she would go home. He made no objection, but looked up just as she was about to leave the room. 'Will you be all right? Should I walk up with you?'
'Don't be silly,' she said. 'There are police all over the valley!
And it was true. As soon as she was on the road she could hear the distant chug of a generator and as she approached Hillhead, she saw that the crime scene was illuminated by big arc lights. A constable standing by the farm gate nodded to her as she walked past.
Chapter Ten
When Sally got in from school her mother told her about Catherine Ross, but rumours had been flying around Anderson High since midday and it was all anyone had been talking about on the bus. Sally pretended it was a surprise though. She spent her life pretending to her mother. It had become a habit. They discussed it, sitting together at the kitchen table, so Sally knew something was wrong.
Her mother didn't like sitting without something to do – a pile of mending or her knitting or the ironing. Or preparation for her work in the school. Often the table was spread with shiny white card while her mother wrote out lists of words in thick black felt pen under various headings. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. Margaret despised inactivity.
It wasn't in her nature to make a drama out of the incident, but Sally could tell she was concerned. As close to agitated as she could get.
'Your father drove past after Cassie Hunter's mother found the body. She was in quite a state apparently. Hysterical.
He had to call the police. She refused to move!
Margaret poured tea and waited for a response from her daughter. What does she expect from me? Sally thought.
Does she think I should cry?
'Your father thinks she was strangled. He heard a couple of police talking! Margaret set down the teapot, fixed her gaze on her daughter. 'They'll want to speak with you, because you were friends. They'll want to know who she knocked about with, boys. But if it's too upsetting you must say. They can't force you to speak to them!
'Why would they want to know that stuff?'
'She was murdered. Of course there'll be questions.
Everyone's saying that Magnus Tait must have done it, but there's one thing knowing who killed her and another proving it!
Sally found it hard to focus on her mother's words. She found her thoughts slipping back to Robert Isbister. But that wouldn't do. It was important to concentrate. 'When I speak to the police, will you be there?'
'Of course. If you'd like us to be!
Sally could hardly say then that it was the last thing she wanted.
'I was never sure about that Catherine! Her mother stood up. She sliced a loaf and began buttering the bread, making smooth, easy motions with the knife. She had her back to Sally. Margaret could never keep quiet if she felt there was something needed saying. It was a matter of pride with her.
'What do you mean?' Sally felt her face flush and was pleased her mother wasn't looking.
'I thought she was a bad influence. It changed you going round with her. Maybe Magnus didn't kill her, whatever people think. Maybe she was the sort of woman who brings violence on herself'
'That's a dreadful thing to say. It's like saying some women ask to be raped.'
Margaret pretended not to hear that. 'Your father phoned to say he'd be late.
A meeting in town. We'll eat without him.'
Sally thought there'd been more and more meetings in town lately. She wondered sometimes what he was up to. Not that she blamed her father. She hated mealtimes at home and tried to avoid them if she could. It would have been different if there'd been brothers and sisters, if her mother was less intrusive. All she got was questions. How was school today, Sally? What mark did you get for that English course work? Her mother picking away at her, probing.
Margaret should have joined the police, Sally thought. Really, after fending off a lifetime of her mother's questions she had nothing to fear from a detective.
They ate the meal as always at the kitchen table. No television. Even when her father was with them, even on a special occasion, there was no alcohol. Margaret often said with pursed lips that parents should set an example. How could you blame children for drinking themselves stupid in Lerwick on a Friday night when the parents could scarcely go a day without a drink? Self-control was an old-fashioned virtue, Margaret said, which should be practised more often. Until recently, Sally had presumed that her father shared these views. He never disagreed with them. Occasionally, though, she thought she caught a glimpse of a more relaxed individual underneath. She wondered what kind of man he'd have turned out to be if he'd married someone else.
The meal was over. Sally offered to wash the dishes, but Margaret waved a hand, dismissing the idea. 'Leave them.
I'll see to them later.'
Like sitting down before tea was prepared, this was another indication that a seismic shift had taken place somewhere in her mother's consciousness. Margaret couldn't bear to see dirty dishes standing. It was as if she had a physical response to them. Like some people had allergies which brought them out in lumps.
'I'll go and start my homework then.'
'No,' her mother said. 'Your father will be in just now and we want to talk to you.'
And that sounded serious. Perhaps she'd found out about New Year's Eve. This place you couldn't fart without the whole of Shetland knowing about it. Sally wondered what else it could be that kept her mother in her seat, with dirty plates still on the draining board. She steeled herself for questions, began to rehearse the lies in her head.
Then there was a knock on the door and Margaret jumped up to get it, as if she'd been expecting it all the time.
There was a blast of cold air and a man came in, followed by a young woman in uniform. Sally recognized the woman, who was a kind of second cousin on her father's side. So Margaret would have been expecting the call; Morag would have warned her.
That was how things worked with families. Sally tried to remember what else she knew about the woman. She'd joined the police after working in a bank for a while. Margaret had had things to say about that too. She always was a flighty 'young madam. Now she greeted the constable as if she was a bosom pal. 'Morag come away in by the fire.
It must be freezing out there!