‘You’re not to speak,’ Perez reminded him, then told himself that Sandy had just lost his grandmother and smiled to soften the words. ‘Just introduce me, then keep your mouth shut.’
Sandy nodded and got out of the car.
Perez guessed that the building plot had been chosen for its view. It was on a low promontory and the sea would be visible on three sides. To the west it would be possible to see Laxo and the mainland. You’d be able to measure your days by the ferry moving backwards and forwards across the water. It was a square bungalow, low like the traditional croft houses, but made of wood so it looked Scandinavian and with windows in the roof. It was painted blue. The long extension at the side had a lower sloped roof. Perez wondered what the extra space was for. They wouldn’t keep animals there: it had a row of glazed windows. At the back of the house a small garden led down to the shore. A bed of daffodils was sheltered from the wind by a drystone wall – a patch of colour in the mist. An upturned dinghy had been pulled above the tideline. Sandy opened the front door and shouted. Perez heard a muted reply from further inside the house and followed him in.
The couple were both sitting in the kitchen. It seemed to Perez that they hadn’t moved much since returning from Setter, after Sandy had rushed into the house to tell them Mima was dead. The shock had frozen them.
‘What did you do that for?’ Perez had demanded when Sandy had confessed that he’d left Mima and run to the Clouston house. For God’s sake, the man could be a suspect.
‘The doctor was off the island. Away on holiday. I knew it would take time to get the air ambulance here. I thought someone else would know best what to do. Their house is closest to Setter.’ Sandy had looked up, staring at Perez. I know I’m stupid, but let it go. Just today. Today I can’t face a bollocking. ‘And Anna, she’s kind of organized. Capable.’
You wanted her to tell you what to do, Perez had thought. And you’ve always hated being on your own.
So here the couple sat, in silence, still dressed in the jeans and jerseys they’d pulled on when Sandy had roused them from their bed. Ronald must be in his late twenties if he was close to Sandy’s age and they’d been to school together, but he looked older. Grey somehow. Perez thought realizing you’d killed someone would do that to you. Ronald looked up when the men came into the kitchen, half rose in his chair, then the effort seemed too much for him and he sat down again. The woman had dark hair, twisted into a band at the back of her head, but untidy now, starting to come down. She sat very straight despite her obvious exhaustion, the shadows under her eyes. It seemed to Perez that she was furious, so angry that she didn’t trust herself to speak. He couldn’t tell if the fury was directed at her husband, at Sandy or at the situation in which they found themselves. Or Perez, for the intrusion into their grief. On one of the workbenches lay half a dozen rabbits ready for skinning and gutting. Baby clothes hung from an airing rack lowered from the ceiling.
‘This is my boss,’ Sandy said. ‘Detective Inspector James Perez.’ He followed Perez’s instructions to the letter, said nothing more, leaned against the wall in the corner of the kitchen, an attempt to be inconspicuous. Perez took the spare chair and sat at the table, between the man and wife, sensed again the tension in the room.
‘Sandy took your gun,’ he said. Not a question. He’d checked already. Sandy had got that part of procedure right at least. It was one way to start the discussion, factual, safe.
Ronald looked up again. ‘I don’t see how it could have happened,’ he said, almost on the verge of tears. ‘I was shooting between here and Setter, but nowhere near the house or garden.’
He turned towards his wife. She stared stonily ahead of her. Perez saw that this was the conversation that had been going on all night. The man had spent hours trying to convince the woman that the tragedy hadn’t been his fault and she had refused to excuse him, to make his guilt any less. Clouston looked like a child desperate to be held.
‘It was very dark,’ Perez said. ‘Dreadful visibility. You must have lost your bearings. It happens.’ Despite himself he felt sympathy for the man. This was his curse, what his ex-wife had called ‘emotional incontinence’. The ability always to see the world through other folks’ eyes.
Anna Clouston remained rigid.
‘Tell me in some detail what happened yesterday evening,’ Perez said.
And now the woman did speak. ‘He was drinking,’ she said. Her words were bitter and accusing. ‘As he does every night when he’s not actually working.’
‘A couple of cans.’ Ronald looked up at Perez, pleading. Perez resisted the temptation to reassure him. ‘Friday night I deserve a couple of cans.’
‘Were you working at all yesterday?’ Perez asked. Back to the safety of facts.
‘No. These days we just do two or three long trips a year with the deep-sea ships. I got back about a month ago.’
‘So you were in all day?’
‘No. I went into Lerwick. I wanted to go to the library.’
Perez would have liked to ask what books the man had chosen – he was fascinated by the detail of other people’s lives, even when it had no direct relevance to his work – but Ronald was continuing: ‘Then I stocked up in the supermarket. The shop in Symbister is fine, but sometimes you’d like something a bit different. Since we brought the baby home we’ve not managed to get into town. I got back about seven thirty.’
‘Nearer eight,’ Anna said. Not contradicting her husband, but trying to be accurate. Perez thought she was starting to relax a little. At least she was prepared now to participate. He smiled at her. ‘But you stayed here?’
‘Yes. Perhaps Sandy explained, the baby’s only a few weeks old. He certainly hasn’t got the hang of sleeping at night yet. I took the opportunity to grab some rest.’ And Perez saw now that she was very tired. Without the adrenalin triggered by Mima’s death she’d be asleep on her feet.
‘Did you work before you had the baby?’ It wasn’t relevant, but he wanted to know, to understand her better.
‘Yes, from home, so I’m hoping to get back to it as soon as I can.’
‘What is it you do?’
‘Traditional crafts,’ she said. ‘Spinning, weaving, knitting. I work mostly with Whalsay wool, either the natural colours or I dye it myself. The fish is already disappearing. Sheep prices have gone down. The oil’s nearly gone. Eventually we’ll have to develop new industries in Shetland. Or go back to the old ones.’ Perez thought it was an old argument; she’d had this discussion many times before. He wondered what the wealthy Whalsay fishing families made of it.
‘You sell the clothes you make?’
He could tell she was confused by his questions. What could this have to do with an old woman’s death? But his interest pleased her too. ‘Mostly over the internet. I hope to develop the business, to teach the old skills to other people. That’s why we built on at the side of the house. The idea is to run residential fibre workshops. I only started advertising at the end of last year and I’ve already got some takers. A small group from the US have booked up for the summer. We won’t be quite ready to put them up in the house – especially with a young baby – so they’ll stay in the hotel and come here for workshops.’ For a moment her anger seemed to dissipate and her face lit up. Work mattered to her. ‘What will they think when they hear about this? It’s the sort of business where you pull in customers by word of mouth. No one will come to the island if they think they’re going to get shot!’
‘Fibre workshops?’ It seemed an odd sort of title. Besides, he was hoping it would calm her to talk about it.
‘Any of the crafts based around wool.’
Perez saw now that she must be wearing one of her own creations, a hand-knitted jersey in natural fleece colours, mostly greys and moorit, a rich dark brown. ‘You spent most of the evening together?’