‘I’m at home,’ he said. ‘I’ve sneaked off for a quick coffee too. And I wanted to talk to you in peace.’
‘I wish I was there.’
Come home then. Get on the first flight from Heathrow to Aberdeen and I’ll book you on to the last Loganair. You could be back this evening.
Because that was racing through his mind and he was thinking about the practicalities of the plan – he supposed she would need to pack her bags, so after all there wouldn’t be time – he realized suddenly that there was a silence between them. She was waiting for a reply. ‘You don’t know,’ he said, ‘how much I miss you.’
In his head the haunting, ludicrous chant. Marry me. Marry me. Marry me. She would despise him and think him sentimental all over again.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘It won’t be long. Less than a week now.’
‘I was worried that you might be enjoying yourself so much in the city that you wouldn’t want to come home.’
‘Oh God no, Jimmy. Never think that. I can’t wait to get home.’
Then his stomach tipped like it did in a storm on the Good Shepherd and he felt sixteen again and in love for the first time. But that had to be enough for him, because Cassie and her grandparents arrived and Cassie demanded to speak to him, to tell him everything she’d learned about Tyrannosaurus Rex.
In the office the talk was all about the death of Sandy’s grandmother and speculation about how the accident might have happened.
‘I was at school with Ronald Clouston,’ one said. ‘He was always sort of absent-minded, but you’d have thought he’d be more careful around guns. He never was one of the really wild boys.’
‘According to Sandy he liked a drink.’
Perez listened to the conversation and wondered how long it would be before people forgot that Ronald Clouston had shot Mima Wilson on a foggy night in Whalsay. The rumours would follow the man round for years, wherever he went; even if no criminal charge were brought the story would stay with him until he died.
To avoid getting drawn into the gossip, he picked up the phone and set up a meeting with the Procurator Fiscal. Before going over to her office he jotted down some notes on a scrap of paper. He still wasn’t sure what angle she would take. He didn’t want to make light of the accident, of Ronald’s folly in going out with a gun in the fog after having taken a few drinks. But he hoped he’d be able to persuade her it was reckless, not criminal.
He found it hard to explain the role of the Fiscal to English colleagues. Even Fran couldn’t grasp it: ‘But what does she do?’ Perez always said she was a cross between a magistrate and a prosecuting lawyer, but Fran didn’t even get that. All she understood was that the Fiscal was his boss.
Rhona Laing, the new fiscal, was a cool fiftysomething with a cutting tongue and a designer wardrobe, which seemed completely out of place in Shetland. Rumour had it that she flew south to Edinburgh every month to visit her hairdresser. Perez never believed Shetland stories, but he could almost believe the blonde hair was natural and the way it was cut took ten years off her age. Her passion was sailing. She’d come to Shetland on a yacht from Orkney and fallen in love with the islands. In an unguarded moment at the opening of the new museum, she’d told him that from the sea Shetland looked like paradise. He’d wanted to ask what she thought it seemed like from the land, but by then she’d been swept away to meet more distinguished guests. She lived alone in an old schoolhouse near the marina in Aith, and managed to keep her past and her present entirely private. All that anyone knew about her was that she owned a catamaran, the biggest and most expensive sailing vessel in the islands.
Perez didn’t know quite what to make of her. She was efficient and organized, but rather ruthless, he always thought. There were rumours in the islands that she had political ambitions. She would like to be a Member of the Scottish Parliament. Certainly, he thought, she would like the power.
She got up from her desk when he came into the room and they sat in easy chairs across a small table. A moment later her assistant brought in coffee.
‘You’re here about Jemima Wilson.’ She poured the coffee, turned her flawless face to him.
‘It looks like one of those unfortunate accidents. A man out for rabbits with a torch after dark. He couldn’t have known the elderly woman would be wandering round outside. We still don’t know why she was there.’
‘Lamping for rabbits is illegal,’ she said.
‘Aye, but everyone does it, and we’ve never yet taken anyone to court.’
There was a moment of silence. He could hear the tapping of a computer keyboard in an outer office. A phone rang.
‘When I first moved here I was asked to give a talk to a group in Bressay,’ she said. ‘I asked the organizer what people would think of having a Fiscal who was a Lowland Scot and a woman. He paused for a while and then he said, “Folk won’t consider you to be the enemy.” Another pause. “No,” he said. “Rabbits are the enemy.”’ She looked up and smiled. ‘He was only half joking.’
‘So you won’t be popular if you prosecute.’
‘For lamping, no. A death is a different matter. There is the question of recklessness.’ She was wearing a cream trouser suit. Now she crossed her legs at the ankles and he saw the slim flat shoes that matched in colour exactly. ‘To be reckless, Mr Clouston must have considered it a possibility that Mrs Wilson would be outside her house that late at night.’
‘Mima was known for keeping indoors after dark,’ Perez said.
‘In that case I don’t see that we have a crime here.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘What do you think, inspector?’
‘I certainly don’t see Clouston as a criminal.’
‘But?’ She gave a frown, not of impatience exactly, more of surprise. She had thought her decision on the matter to his satisfaction as much as hers.
‘He claims not to have been shooting over Mima Wilson’s land.’ Perez wished she hadn’t picked up on his hesitation, the slight emphasis on the man’s name. After all he’d got what he’d come for.
‘A natural response, surely. He must have been devastated to discover what he’d done. In similar circumstances we’d all want to avoid the guilt, to persuade ourselves we weren’t responsible.’
‘Perhaps.’
She looked at him. It was hard to imagine this immaculate woman managing her boat single-handed in a force-eight gale, though he was aware of the strength of character that allowed her to enjoy the experience. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you, Jimmy. Off the record.’
‘I wish I knew what Mima Wilson was doing outside in that weather. And I’d be happier if Ronald Clouston admitted to shooting over her land.’
‘What are you saying, Jimmy? That someone else killed the woman?’ Somewhere in her voice he picked up a hint of sarcasm, almost of derision, but there was no sign of that in her face.
‘Clouston says he was out on his own last night. He’s not trying to lay the blame elsewhere.’
‘So if someone else did kill Jemima Wilson, it wasn’t an accident. Is that what you’re saying, Jimmy? You can’t seriously expect me to open a murder investigation just on the slight possibility that Clouston didn’t fire close to the house. You know how much that would cost the taxpayer.’
Now that the words were spoken Perez realized that the possibility of a conspiracy had been at the back of his mind since he’d first seen the scene of the shooting. He’d dismissed it as ridiculous, melodramatic. ‘I can’t see why anyone would want to kill her,’ he said. ‘She’s Sandy Wilson’s grandmother. She’s lived in Whalsay all her life. A bit of a character by all accounts, but not a natural victim. I only have reservations because I don’t understand how the accident happened.’