Sandy had his mouth full of smoked mackerel and bread and she had to wait for him to speak, and then he was full of apologies. Perez looked up from his writing again. ‘Just get on with it, man!’
‘Once Mary Lomax turned up to wait with the body, I went down to Voxter.’ He looked anxious. ‘You weren’t here, but I thought that would be the best thing to do. I know you’ve talked to George already, Jimmy, but I thought he might know more about Sarah’s daughter than he said. He would have met her at the funeral, so he’d have known her name at least.’
‘Well? Was she our mysterious Monica?’
Sandy shook his head. ‘Elizabeth. Her name was Elizabeth.’
‘Sarah Malcolmson named her daughter after the child whose death she was accused of causing?’ Willow couldn’t make sense of that. It seemed like a strange kind of masochism. And hardly fair to the girl who’d remind her mother every day of why she’d been forced to leave the islands.
‘Apparently.’
‘Perhaps Sarah had been really fond of Lizzie Geldard.’ Perez set aside his notes. ‘In those days wealthy parents didn’t do much of the real childcare, did they? Sarah would have been more like a mother to the girl. Perhaps the name was a way of honouring her memory.’
Willow wasn’t sure about all that. It seemed a macabre thing to do. ‘So we’re still looking for the Monica who featured in Eleanor’s notes. I don’t suppose you’ve come across anything useful, like a phone number, Jimmy?’
‘No.’
‘So perhaps she hadn’t tracked it down yet.’ Willow took a ripe tomato from the bowl on the table and bit into it. The juice dribbled down her chin and she tore a piece of kitchen towel from the roll on the bench to wipe it away.
‘Or maybe she knew it already. There’s no surname, so perhaps Eleanor was friends with the mysterious Monica. Or had met her previously at least.’
Willow thought again that they didn’t have time for this kind of speculation. She needed something concrete to give to her boss in Inverness. ‘I want to track Charles’s movements yesterday evening after he met Polly and Ian in the old house in Meoness. Did he go into the Springfield bar when the men were there, for instance?’
‘Lowrie says not,’ Perez said.
‘Well, Lowrie’s hardly an unbiased witness, is he?’ Willow could hear the frustration spill out into her voice. ‘He’s an ex-lover of Eleanor Longstaff and a potential suspect.’
‘Shall we look in Hillier’s office?’ Perez said. ‘It might be a good time, while David’s still outside. I’d be interested in any communication between Eleanor and Charles. Even if she just made one phone call asking about the history of the house and the Geldard family, why didn’t he tell David? David was the historian, the expert.’
‘And then I’d like to go to the derelict house where he met Ian and Polly.’ Willow was already on her feet. Any action was better than sitting in this sad house waiting for inspiration to strike. ‘Why would he go there? I don’t buy the notion that he just drove around in the fog.’
‘To meet someone?’ Sandy had been following the conversation and was trying to help.
‘Polly Gilmour, you mean? That could work. They’d arranged to meet and then Ian came along and surprised them.’ But Willow couldn’t see what possible connection there could be between a librarian from London and an ex-magician who ran a classy B&B in Shetland. It still seemed as if only Eleanor Longstaff linked all the people involved in the case. With her death they’d turned into a group of disparate individuals. And the encounter in the croft had obviously left Polly shaken. Would she have been so scared if the meeting had been planned?
The hotel office was a small room on the ground floor. Any money had been spent refurbishing the guest rooms and this work space was shabby. Flatpack shelves had been put up in the alcoves and the desk looked as if it might have come from a charity shop in Lerwick. Willow sat at it and started the computer. Hillier hadn’t logged off and she didn’t need a password to get into the system or his emails.
‘Nothing from Eleanor,’ she said. ‘Either they communicated by phone or he deleted the messages as soon as he’d read them.’
‘Anything from the mysterious Monica?’ Perez was working through the shelves, pulling out guide books and files. There was a box file full of receipts for the work done on Springfield House. He set it on the desk next to Willow.
‘Nothing saved. But he seems to have been very diligent about deleting his emails. Mine go back for years.’
‘More secrecy,’ Perez said.
‘But who would have access to this computer? Only David.’ She was aware of Perez standing very close to her and looking over her shoulder. She imagined that she could feel his breath on her neck.
‘That was the point, surely,’ Perez said. ‘Charles was involved in something to do with Eleanor’s project and he knew that David would disapprove.’
‘We’ll take the computer with us when we go south tomorrow.’ Again Willow sensed the movement of time as something tangible, like the tide or the wind. ‘The geeks in Inverness should be able to track the email history. We might have some mention of your Monica yet.’ She began to lift the receipts from the box file.
‘Look at this! Hundreds of pounds for a set of bedroom curtains. You can see why the couple were running out of cash.’ She wondered if David had sanctioned the expenditure or if he’d closed his eyes to it because he knew the excitement of renovating and decorating Springfield was all that kept Charles in Shetland.
Perez had finished emptying shelves and turned his attention to a painted cupboard that formed a window seat, the only original piece of furniture in the room. It contained memorabilia of Charles’s stage career, flyers and posters, a signed programme for the Royal Variety Show, photos of Charles next to men with wide lapels and women with big hair. He piled the contents onto the floor. Then he stopped. He was on his knees and was so still for a moment that it looked to Willow as if he was praying. Then he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket. She got down beside him and was again aware of her body close to his. He reached inside the cupboard and pulled out a small digital recorder, held it carefully in his fingers for her to see.
‘It could be a coincidence.’ Willow stood up. ‘No reason at all why it should be Eleanor’s.’ But she didn’t believe in coincidence and she could hear the excitement in her own voice. Here they could have found a definite link between the two victims.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Perez stood it on the desk and switched it on. They heard an eager young woman talking about walking along the path from Voxter after an evening with her relatives and seeing the apparition of Peerie Lizzie.
‘That’s Vaila Arthur, telling Eleanor the story of her encounter with Peerie Lizzie,’ Willow said. ‘Can we go right back to the beginning and play it from the start?’
Perez pressed a couple of buttons. There was silence. Willow expected to hear Vaila’s words again. Instead there was a child’s voice. She was singing a simple melody; it was piping and a little flat on the high notes, but still moving somehow.
‘What on earth is that?’ She looked across the desk at Perez, whose face was white and quite still.
He waited a moment before answering. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Peerie Lizzie’s song.’
Chapter Thirty
Perez recognized the song after the first few bars. Cassie had learned it at school and had come home singing it, over and over, to rehearse for the end-of-term show, until he and Fran had wanted to scream. And although Fran was still alive then, still a real presence in her own house, warm and strong and argumentative, he’d thought it wrong to teach Peerie Lizzie’s song to the children. He’d understood the need for the bairns to be aware of their cultural heritage, the folk traditions, but this song had only been written twenty years ago, by Marty Thomson up in Northmavine, and it celebrated the death of a real child who had died. But when he’d voiced his concerns to Fran she’d laughed at him and told him he was being daft and he’d spent too long as a cop. ‘Kids love spooky stories. And most of them don’t even listen to the words.’