Chapter Thirty-Three
Willow and Perez were alone in the kitchen of Springfield House. Sandy had left a message to say that he was going to Yell to check with the teacher if any of the local kids had learned Peerie Lizzie’s song as a party piece.
‘I’ve heard back from an old colleague who works for the Met,’ Willow said. ‘He’s been digging around into the financial affairs of Bright Star.’
‘And?’
‘You were right. Eleanor’s company was on the brink of failure. It was only the ghost commission that persuaded the banks to give her some slack.’
‘So she had that stress,’ Perez said, ‘as well as the loss of the baby.’
Willow didn’t know how to reply to that. He always made her feel that she was cold, lacking in compassion. She wanted to talk to Perez about the case, not feel pity for a woman she’d never met. She was thinking about time, how it was slipping away from them, and her concern that at the end of the weekend they’d be forced to leave Unst and set up base in Lerwick. Then there wouldn’t be the same focus or concentration on the investigation. It would be a kind of failure. She’d just started trying to explain when David Gordon came in from the garden. He mumbled something that she could hardly make out: that he would take a tray to his room and wouldn’t see them again that evening. He stood just inside the room and seemed set to grab a sandwich and run. There were smears of mud on his forehead and a rip in his checked shirt. The distinguished former academic had disappeared.
‘Come in,’ Willow said. ‘I was just going to make some tea.’
‘Is there any news?’ Now David’s voice was clearer – demanding, almost aggressive. ‘Do you know who killed Charles?’ He’d taken off his wellingtons at the door and wore thick white socks. He padded towards them and sat down at the table.
Willow didn’t reply directly. ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’
‘If it’ll help.’
‘We found a digital recorder in the office. It had belonged to Eleanor and we know that it was in her possession on the day of the party. Any idea how it got from Sletts to Springfield?’
‘None. Unless Charles found it somewhere. It certainly has nothing to do with me.’ He looked up at her. ‘Could the woman have dropped it on the island?’
Like her phone. Willow couldn’t believe that. Eleanor wandering round Unst and dropping things wherever she went. Too much of a coincidence. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’ She poured tea and went to join him at the table. Perez was leaning against the bench. She thought again that he had the knack of making himself invisible. ‘More likely, don’t you think, that the two of them met up.’ Our two victims. Charles and Eleanor. Where did they meet, and what could they have had to say to each other?
‘Charles had already told you that he never set up a meeting.’
‘And you told us that you thought Charles was making plans, keeping secrets from you.’ Willow’s voice was sharp. She wanted to jolt David Gordon into a response. ‘Perhaps he was keeping secrets from us too, telling lies, and he and Eleanor got together on the afternoon of the hamefarin’. Are you sure she didn’t come here? She had use of a car and it’s not so far from Sletts.’
David shook his head. ‘We were catering for a fortieth birthday that day. Lunch and afternoon tea, and lots of the guests stayed over. We were both busy for most of the afternoon. I don’t think Charles would have had a moment to slip away to a meeting until late in the evening, and by that time of course the party would have been well under way in the Meoness community hall.’
‘I don’t suppose any of Caroline’s family spent the night here?’ Willow thought it would be the kind of place southerners might like to stay.
Again David shook his head. ‘Caroline asked if we could put up a few of her guests, but we were already full. The birthday party.’
‘And you weren’t invited to the hamefarin’?’ Willow thought that was odd. Grusche baked for them and supplied their eggs. This was a close community and usually everyone would be asked along.
‘We were invited, but we didn’t go. Charles said he might slip out later; he was always up for a celebration. The last thing I needed after a full day in the hotel was being dragged around the dance floor.’ He gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘As you can imagine, I’m not much of a dancer. Not much of a party animal at all. Charles loved dancing and seemed to remember the steps when he’d only been told them once.’
‘Do you think Charles could have called into the hamefarin’ when you’d sorted out your visitors here?’ Nobody had seen him, Willow thought, and he wasn’t on the guest list supplied by Caroline, but he might have put in a brief appearance. Any proof that the two victims had met would give them something to work on.
‘I don’t think so. He didn’t mention it.’
‘Were you with him all evening?’ But now, thinking about it in more detail, Willow couldn’t see that Charles and Eleanor could have met once the hamefarin’ got under way. The woman had been in full view of the other wedding guests, and later she’d been with her friends outside the holiday home. If Charles had been at the party, Ian and Polly would have recognized him when he turned up at the derelict croft. With his strange hair and his large hands he would have stood out.
‘I worked for a couple of hours in the garden. I find it relaxing. An escape. I suppose Charles could have gone out then. I was inside by eleven-thirty, though, and he was certainly in the house when I got in. And if he’d been to the hamefarin’ he’d have been full of it – the gossip and what everyone was wearing. He didn’t mention it.’ David looked up, startled. ‘I can’t believe that we won’t have any more of those conversations. He was such an entertaining man. He delighted in trivial domestic details, things I would never notice if he hadn’t pointed them out.’ He paused. ‘It feels as if my world’s monochrome now. The colour has all drained away.’
And Willow thought he looked as if the colour had drained from him. He was a grey man. Burnt-out like wood ash.
‘We’re looking for a woman called Monica. Does the name mean anything to you?’ Willow felt she was desperate, clutching at straws. A scribbled name in Eleanor’s notebook. What could she possibly have to do with the murder of two people in Shetland?
David paused for a while. ‘There’s an artist who works in Yell. Came up from London a while back. Monica Leaze. But I don’t suppose she could be the person you’re after.’
Willow sensed Perez’s interest. Nothing tangible, except a slight tension. She shot a glance at him, but there was no response.
‘Could you tell us what you know about Ms Leaze?’ she said.
‘She held an exhibition in the gallery in Yell. We couldn’t get to that, but I looked her up on the Internet. She paints. Interiors mostly. Interesting. She’s based in London, but spends part of the year in Yell. I’d wondered if there was something that might suit here – we like to support local artists – but I felt that her work was too quirky and gritty for us. Our visitors expect something more traditional. Besides, we couldn’t have afforded her. Then, about a month ago, we called in. The bulk of the exhibition had been moved, but there were still a couple of her pieces.’
‘Did you meet her?’ This was Perez, his voice so quiet that it was almost a whisper. ‘If she stays in Yell, perhaps she was there. Talking about her work.’
‘No, there was nothing like that. I wasn’t even expecting them to have any of her stuff. We were going to Lerwick for shopping and called in on the way home. They do a good tea in the cafe, and we wandered around afterwards to look at the art.’