Willow was walking ahead of him and waited for him by the door. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What brought Charles Hillier to this place the day that he died?’
‘Money.’ Once the word was spoken it was obvious to him. ‘He and David might not have had a conversation about how hard up they were, but both must have known that the business was failing. And they were desperate.’ He imagined the men skirting around the subject, not wanting to face the difficult decisions that would have to be made, trying to be kind and not to blame the other.
‘You think he might have tried his hand at blackmail?’
‘Maybe.’ But Perez had other ideas swirling around in his head.
‘The English people all had the money to pay up,’ Willow said. ‘But what could Charles have that might hold them to ransom? Eleanor’s digital recorder? All it tells us is that Vaila Arthur was telling the truth about being interviewed. And that a child sang a song about Lizzie Geldard to Eleanor Longstaff before she died.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t the recorder at all.’ Out at sea a flock of gulls followed a small fishing boat. ‘Perhaps it was information. Perhaps he knew who’d committed the murder of Eleanor Longstaff.’
‘He saw her being killed, you mean?’
‘Or saw enough to guess.’ Perez still wasn’t sure how that might work out.
‘So you think Charles had arranged to meet someone here?’ Willow opened the door of the old house, but remained outside. Perez smelled damp stone and peaty soil. ‘And Polly and Ian disturbed him?’
‘It’s possible.’ In his mind he was running through a theory that seemed at once too elaborate and too simple.
‘Shall we bring Vicki Hewitt back? See if we have evidence of a fourth person in the place?’
He was about to speak when there was a noise inside, something scrabbling and clawing, and a cry, piercing like a child’s. Willow was about to go in, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her, and a creature shot past them.
‘Feral cat,’ he said. ‘There are colonies on the cliffs throughout the islands. It probably got in down the chimney and couldn’t get out. Trapped.’
His hand was still on her arm, which was downy like the baby’s head. He could feel her shaking from the shock. A little embarrassed, he took his hand away.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the hill near the small loch where Eleanor Longstaff’s body had been found, George Malcolmson stopped for a moment to watch what was happening in Meoness. This was a part of his daily routine. Every afternoon he’d walk the hill to check his sheep. Always in the same direction, quartering the hill in the same way, and always counting. It seemed there’d been another man killed. Another outsider. George couldn’t pretend to be upset by that. He’d met the man a few times in the bar at the Springfield House, but didn’t really know him. It wasn’t like losing a family member. It wasn’t enough to keep him away from the hill.
Now he looked down at Utra. He wasn’t old enough to remember anyone living there, but when he’d been a boy the house was much as it had been left when the last inhabitant died. There’d been scraps of furniture inside and a couple of sheepskins. George’s father had finally taken them to Voxter when it became clear that the roof was letting in water, and now one of the chairs stood in his and Grusche’s bedroom. A car pulled up and two people climbed out: Jimmy Perez and the female detective who dressed a bit like a scarecrow. George thought professional people should be tidy. He’d enjoyed wearing his lightkeeper’s uniform and it still hung in the cupboard at home. The two detectives stood in the door of Utra and looked about to go in, then stopped for a moment. He couldn’t see why they hadn’t just gone inside.
Then they disappeared into the house and the settlement was empty. George was about to continue walking when he saw a car pull up outside Spindrift, the new house built by Vaila’s man. Neil was driving and then the kids got out of the back and chased round the house and started to swing on the climbing frame. Neil let himself into the kitchen. After a while the bairns went inside too – perhaps Vaila had called them in for their tea.
George thought back to the time when Lowrie was young. He’d never been a boy for shouting and chasing. Whenever George remembered him he was sitting at the kitchen table, doing his school work. He’d always been fascinated by numbers and had shouted for Grusche to give him sums to do, just in his head, as if the quiz was the best kind of game there was. Sometimes when George came home from the lighthouse he felt like an outsider in his own house, because Lowrie and Grusche understood each other so well. They shared silly jokes that George couldn’t understand. Then Grusche had told him that Lowrie had got his love of numbers from his father. ‘I was always stupid about maths,’ she’d said. ‘He certainly didn’t get that from me.’ And that had made George feel better. Proud.
He shifted his gaze to Voxter. Caroline was in the garden, carrying a small wicker basket. She opened the door into the hen house and, though George was too far away to see, when she came out again he thought that the basket must now hold a few eggs. He wasn’t sure what he made of his new daughter-in-law. Grusche said she was a clever woman and that she’d be good for Lowrie. George was just pleased that his son hadn’t married Eleanor, with her long, dark hair and her secret witch’s smile. He thought now it was a good thing that the woman was dead. She wouldn’t be able to trouble the boy again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sandy met Louisa Laurence outside the school. She walked through the yard carrying a smart briefcase and an armful of exercise books. A small red car was parked in the road outside and she stopped there when she saw Sandy.
‘I’m afraid I have a few more questions.’ He had the sense that she was in a hurry and his voice was apologetic.
‘I can’t stop now, Sandy. The carer leaves at five and my mother gets into such a panic if she’s left on her own for too long.’ She’d already tipped the books into the passenger seat of the car.
‘Could I follow you down?’ He could tell there was no point trying to talk to her here. Even if she stayed long enough for him to ask a question, she wouldn’t concentrate on the answer. ‘We could chat at your house. Once you’ve settled your mother.’
She paused for a moment and then she smiled. ‘Why not, Sandy? I could use some adult company.’
Louisa’s parents had retired to Yell when they sold their grocery shop in Lerwick’s Commercial Street. Sandy seemed to remember that Louisa’s mother, Mavis Laurence, had been born and brought up there, and that was why they made the move. The house had probably been specially built for them at the time, and he imagined it would have been the couple’s pride and joy. It was a neat square bungalow with white render and a grey-tiled roof. The front door was locked.
‘Sometimes she wanders,’ Louisa said. ‘It’s a worry.’
Sandy followed her in, the pile of books in his arms.
The woman sat in an armchair looking out of the window over a tidy little garden and towards Unst in the distance. She’d been strong and fierce when Sandy had known her, running the business and acting as host in one of the halls at Up Helly Aa. Her husband had been a fine singer, Sandy remembered, and religious, but not in a strict or a hard way. Mavis Laurence had lost weight. She must have been middle-aged when Louisa had arrived, but now she looked very old and frail. Older, surely, than her years. A walking frame stood in front of her. She turned towards Louisa and gave a wonderful smile. ‘Where have you been? I was just about to send your father out to look for you.’