‘I’m going to phone Lowrie,’ she said. ‘Offer them a lift back from the boat club. In this fog I don’t think it’s safe for them to be walking back along the cliffs.’
George nodded and she disappeared again. They heard her speaking in the other room, but this time she’d closed the door and they couldn’t make out the individual words. Sandy thought that he should go. He wanted to tell Jimmy Perez what he’d discovered, and he’d promised Mary Lomax that he’d only be away for an hour.
He got to his feet just as Grusche returned to the kitchen. ‘They say they want to walk and anyway they don’t know when they’ll be done. They haven’t finished eating yet.’ She frowned. ‘I hope they take care. We want no more tragedies here.’ She flashed a sudden smile at Sandy. ‘We mothers worry too much. You wait until you have your own child, Sandy. You’ll understand then.’
Out in his car he saw that he had a missed call from Perez. There was a voicemaiclass="underline" ‘We need to track down Monica Leaze, Sandy. There’s been a development and we’ll stay here for a while, though we’d like to get back to Unst this evening. Can you book us onto the last ferry from Yell?’
Sandy tried to phone back, but there was no reply. He drove to Springfield House. The fog was patchy and cleared occasionally to let bright shafts of sunshine light up the hills. Outside the hotel he paused, thinking about the girl who’d lived there, who’d led such a short and troubled life.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Perez stared at the sketch of the woman on the easel in Monica Leaze’s loft. Eleanor Longstaff was captured in pencil. Of course she looked like the body he’d seen in the tiny lochan, but this wasn’t an exact representation. He felt just as he’d felt when he’d heard the child on Eleanor’s recorder singing Peerie Lizzie’s song: that there was a discrepancy, something not quite right. He continued to look at it and for a while found it hard to believe that the artist who’d made the disturbing and detailed interiors he’d seen with Fran in the gallery had sketched this too. Then he remembered that Leaze had also painted the little girl in the white dress and thought there was something similar in the tone of both figures. A jauntiness and a sense of mischief, which seemed almost blasphemous now. It was as if the artist was pleased that Eleanor was dead, was amused by the murder.
He became aware of Willow standing behind him. ‘We have to talk to the woman,’ she said. ‘She must have seen Eleanor’s body. At the very least she’s a witness.’
Perez was about to contradict her, but stopped himself. At this point nothing was certain. Instead he went for a mild observation. ‘There doesn’t seem to be water in the background.’
‘There’s nothing in the background except a few pencil strokes.’ The words burst out. He saw they were a release of her pent-up frustration.
He wished he could say something to make her calmer. Like this she reminded him of Cassie, panicky and on the edge of a tantrum. He calmed her by holding her to him, very tight. There was a brief moment when he pictured himself holding Willow, squeezing the stress from her, and then he remembered that he hadn’t called Cassie that day. He never went a day without speaking to her. ‘I have to make a phone call. Sorry. I’ll be quick.’ He climbed down the steep wooden staircase to the hall below, sensing Willow’s displeasure tracking after him.
Cassie sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘When are you planning to be back?’ Her voice was even. She’d never been a child to make demands.
‘Soon. Certainly by the end of the weekend.’
‘Good.’
‘We’ll both be glad to get home,’ Perez said.
‘Will you take me to Fair Isle when you come back?’
‘You have school,’ he said, fudging it. ‘It’s too far to go in a day.’
‘We could go for a long weekend. I asked my teacher. She said it would be fine to have a couple of days off. She thinks it’s an important thing for me to do.’
‘Then we’ll go.’ There was nothing else to say. ‘The first weekend when the weather’s good, when it’s calm enough to take the Good Shepherd.’
She didn’t reply, but he heard a gentle sigh at the other end of the line. Satisfaction because she’d got her way.
In the loft Willow was still fretting, but she was calmer. The yoga training perhaps. ‘What do you think, Jimmy? How can we find Monica? This is the only address we have, and Annie’s like Neighbourhood Watch on speed. If there was any gossip to be gained about the woman, then she’d have it.’
‘We could try the gallery.’ He thought he’d like to look at the painting of the girl in white again, if it was still there. He wasn’t quite sure what good that would do, but it seemed important.
‘Of course.’ There was relief in her words because at least they had a plan of action. ‘It’ll be shut, but maybe someone nearby will have some information. We’ll be able to track down the key-holder at least.’
Outside, she was set to drive off immediately, but Perez insisted on going next door to thank Annie.
‘Did you find anything helpful?’ The woman wanted to keep him there, chatting. She even had her hand on his arm. This was more about her being lonely than inquisitive.
‘Not really. As you said, it looks as if Monica has moved on. We’ll try her landlord. But you’ve been a great help all the same.’ And then he had to walk away because Willow was flashing him evil looks from the driver’s seat. Annie stood in the doorway watching until they’d turned the car and driven off.
He directed Willow to the gallery and left a message for Sandy at the same time. They drove through an empty hillside scarred with peat banks. In the gloom everything was dark and colourless. The gallery was so well camouflaged that Willow almost shot past, and when Perez pointed out the building she slammed on the brakes and had to back up to get into the car park. The door was locked, but there was a light inside and when they banged on the door a woman opened it to them.
‘The gallery’s not open in the evenings.’ She had a European accent that Perez couldn’t quite make out. French?
‘We’re police officers.’ Willow was already holding out her warrant card. The woman stood aside to let them in. Inside the space was quite different from how Perez had remembered it, and the unreliability of his recall troubled him for a moment. How could it be so altered from the picture he’d kept in his head? It seemed smaller and more drab. Perhaps it had seemed grander on the night of the opening exhibition because of Monica Leaze’s energy and the sense of occasion. Because Fran was there with him.
He saw the painting of the girl in the white dress on the far wall and went straight towards it, leaving Willow to engage with the woman. The murmur of conversation behind him didn’t distract him. The girl in the painting at least was as he remembered her. There was the knowing smile, and the curls. She was just as Polly Gilmour had described the child she’d seen on the beach. He turned back to join the women.
‘This is Catherine Breton,’ Willow said. She frowned as if she resented his lack of attention. ‘She’s a potter. She has a studio here and looks after the place.’
‘Do you know Monica Leaze?’ Perez felt foolish as soon as he’d put the question. It was the first thing Willow would have asked.
‘Of course. She’s a painter. She exhibits here.’ The woman was dark and heavily built, with muscular arms. There was clay under her fingernails. Perez sensed that she just wanted to get back to work.
‘Do you have any idea where she is now?’
She shrugged. ‘Monica has a complicated domestic life. I’m never sure exactly where she is.’
‘Tell us about that.’
She must have realized that they wouldn’t go away because she led them into her studio. At one end there was a beaten-up sofa and a low table. She sat them down there. A glass wall showed through to the gallery.