‘I don’t know.’ Longstaff’s original impatience had returned. ‘And I don’t know how these questions will help us find out who killed Eleanor.’ He had his legs crossed and one foot was twitching, tapping the polished wooden floor in a strange Morse code.
Perez seemed unbothered by the noise, which had set Willow’s nerves jangling, or by the man’s words. ‘Because I understand that Eleanor and Lowrie were very close when they were at university. They had a relationship, didn’t they? So perhaps it would be natural for her to go to him with her questions.’
Longstaff gave a harsh little laugh. ‘Nell had lots of relationships when she was at university. The way she tells it, she worked her way through the whole dramatic society. Lowrie might have thought they had a special thing going, but from her point of view he was just another recreational shag.’ He paused. ‘I still don’t understand how this will help us find her killer.’
The foot began tapping again.
‘I’m sorry to press the point,’ Perez said, ‘but it’s important to find out if Eleanor had made any local contacts – someone she might have arranged to meet, perhaps on the night of her death.’
‘She wasn’t crazy enough to go wandering around in the early hours of the morning to meet a total stranger!’
‘Really?’ Perez gave that smile again. ‘Most of us think of Shetland as a safe place. We leave our doors open and we feel happy to go out alone at night.’
‘One of you killed her!’
‘Really?’ The question repeated itself like the chorus of a song. ‘Most homicides in the UK are committed by people we know. Much more likely, I’d think, that she was murdered by one of her friends.’
Longstaff looked up sharply, but didn’t answer. They sat for a moment staring at each other in silence.
The interview over, the three of them stood outside Springfield House. The breeze tugged at Willow’s hair, until she pulled it out of her eyes and her mouth and tied it in a knot at the back of her head.
‘I don’t believe any of her friends killed her.’ It was clear that Ian Longstaff had been thinking about Perez’s last comment, and the words came out without warning. ‘They adored her.’
Neither of the detectives answered him. They watched him climb into his large car and drive away.
They ate that night in the kitchen, while the B &B guests sat in the dining room. Charles’s partner David had arrived back from Lerwick with fish from the Blydoit shop and he cooked scallops, quickly seared while they waited at the table, and followed it with a rich lamb stew. He was an intense man, very quiet and dignified. He’d taught classics in a provincial university and Willow wondered what had brought the pair together; the scholar and the stage magician seemed to have little in common. He left the casserole on the middle of the table so that they could help themselves. There was a home-made loaf and Shetland butter to complete the meal.
‘The bread’s Grusche Malcolmson’s,’ he said, on his way out of the room, unwilling to claim credit for another person’s work. ‘She does all our baking.’ He paused. ‘If anyone asks, you’re our family. We’re not supposed to have guests in the kitchen. Health regulations.’ He gave another tight smile.
Willow gave an absent-minded nod, but she was preoccupied. Grusche was the mother of the bridegroom at the hamefarin’. Another witness. Another possible suspect. In these islands there were too many connections. It would be just the same at home in the Western Isles.
‘So, Sandy.’ She looked at the young man over the table. ‘You got Eleanor’s body onto the ferry for James Grieve. Do you have any other news for us?’
He looked like a schoolboy asked to stand up in front of the class to show what he’d learned, uncertain and flushed. ‘Just confirmation of what Eleanor’s friends told us. I checked with the ferry terminal and they were booked on the boat on Friday night. Two executive cabins and two cars. None of them has a criminal record. I’ve got details of her next of kin and her work colleagues. Her mother, Cilla, was informed of Eleanor’s death yesterday. She’s expecting Jimmy to visit. She’ll be at home, not at work.’ He paused for breath and looked up from the stew.
Willow wondered if it would be patronizing to tell him that he’d done very well and resisted the impulse. ‘And you, Jimmy? Did you get anything new from Lowrie’s mother and father?’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Lowrie was in love with our victim when he was a student. A grand passion, apparently. He came home one holiday threatening to leave university, and his parents even worried that he might kill himself.’
‘A young man being melodramatic, do you think? Or is it still significant after all this time?’ Willow thought she must have been a cold and heartless girl herself, for she couldn’t remember having lost sleep over a man. There were men she’d fancied and had enjoyed being with, but after a few months she’d grown impatient with them all, had made an excuse and moved on.
Perez shrugged. ‘Maybe it says more about Eleanor. Perhaps she enjoyed provoking that sort of reaction.’
‘So if she was having an affair,’ Willow said, ‘it had less to do with needing comfort after the miscarriage than with putting some excitement and danger into her life.’
‘Perhaps.’ He considered the idea. ‘Or needing to be loved. When I’ve spoken to her family and her friends in London I might have more idea what was going on.’ He paused. ‘Do you think it might be worth trying to trace this child that Eleanor saw on the beach the afternoon she died, and that Polly saw at the party?’
‘Are you believing in ghosts now too, Jimmy?’ Willow kept her voice light. She hoped he wasn’t going all flaky on her.
‘I wondered if she might be a possible witness,’ he replied. ‘If Eleanor wandered out to look for her.’
‘Good point.’ She nodded towards Sandy. ‘Will you look into that while Jimmy’s on his jaunt to the south? See if you can track down Peerie Lizzie for us.’
She’d meant it as a joke, but she noticed that Jimmy didn’t laugh.
Chapter Fourteen
Polly had never dealt well with stress. Sometimes she felt fragile, like one of her mother’s favourite porcelain vases, as if it would only take a loud noise or an unintentional jolt for her to crack, or to topple and smash into pieces. She’d never been to see a doctor about her anxiety and had rather admired Eleanor for having submitted to treatment, even for a short while. There seemed such a stigma to a psychiatric hospital, even the private places full of celebrities struggling with addiction.
The worst time had been straight after she’d graduated. An inner-city public library where youths had gathered round the computers as if they were in an amusement arcade full of gaming machines. Where the reading-group members had demanded edgy contemporary fiction instead of the classics that Polly offered them. Her boss had been a loud woman who despised weakness and pretension and accused Polly of both. She’d had grey teeth and body odour and they’d disliked each other immediately.
It was Eleanor who’d seen the advertisement for the Sentiman job in the Guardian. You like all this strange stuff, Poll. Why don’t you go for it? Another reason to be grateful to her.
They were gathered in Sletts now, and Polly could feel the tension as pressure on her forehead and squeezing against her eyes. Mary Lomax was no longer camping out with them, but the three felt constrained, choosing every word carefully as if there was still someone listening in. The landline rang. For a moment they stared at it. Were they expecting another message from the dead Eleanor? Polly reached out and answered it. It was Caroline, her voice normal, almost cheery. Again it seemed strange to Polly that Caroline could be so cool and restrained when her best friend was dead. ‘Grusche wonders if you’d like to come to dinner here in Voxter? Get you all out of the house for a bit.’