Then he moved on to stand next to Roddy Sinclair and to stare at a work of Fran’s, a drawing of Cassie on the beach at Ravenswick. Something about the intensity of his looking made her uncomfortable, though it wasn’t the sort of picture that would allow him to recognize Cassie in the street. He looked horrified, she thought, not keen. As if he’d just witnessed an atrocity. Or seen a ghost.
‘He’s not local,’ Perez said. Fran agreed. It wasn’t just that she didn’t recognize him. It was the man’s style, which marked him out as a soothmoother. The clothes; the way he held himself and looked at the picture.
‘Who do you think he is?’ She looked over her glass, tried not to seem too obvious, but still he was staring at the drawing, lost, so she didn’t think he’d notice even if he turned round.
‘Some rich collector,’ Perez said, smiling at her. ‘He’s going to buy everything here and make you famous.’
She giggled. A brief release of tension. ‘Or the arts reporter for one of the Sundays. I’ll feature in an article about the next new talent.’
‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
She turned to look at him, assumed that he was joking again, but he was frowning slightly.
‘Really,’ he smiled again. ‘You are very good.’
She wasn’t sure what to say, was groping for something witty and self-deprecating, when she saw the man turn round. He fell to his knees, much as Roddy had done when he was playing the violin. Then he put his hands over his face and began to weep.
Chapter Three
Perez thought that at this time of year everyone went a bit crazy. It was the light, intense during the day and still there at night. The sun never quite slipping behind the horizon, so you could read outside at midnight. The winters were so bleak and black that in the summer folk were overtaken with a kind of frenzy, constant activity. There was the feeling that you had to make the most of it, be outside, enjoy it before the dark days came again. Here in Shetland they called it the ‘simmer dim’. And this year was even worse. Usually the weather was unpredictable, changing by the hour, rain and wind and brief spells of bright sunshine, but this year it had been fine for nearly a fortnight. The lack of darkness hit people from the south too. Occasionally their reaction was even more extreme than the locals’. They weren’t used to it: the birds still singing late into the evening, the dusk which lasted all night, nature slipping from its accustomed pattern, all that disturbed them.
Watching as the man dressed in black knelt in the pool of sunshine and burst into tears, Perez thought it was a case of midsummer madness and hoped someone else would deal with it. It was a theatrical gesture. The man wouldn’t have come here on his own initiative. He would have been invited by Bella Sinclair, or been brought by a regular visitor. The Herring House wasn’t easy to get to from the south, even once you reached Lerwick. So it would be about a woman, Perez thought. Or he would be another artist, wanting to draw attention to himself. In his experience, people who were really depressed, who felt like crying all the time, those people didn’t seek out the limelight. They hid away in corners and made themselves invisible.
But nobody went to the man’s assistance. The people stopped talking and watched in a fascinated, embarrassed way as he continued to sob, his face turned up now to the light, his hands at his sides.
Perez could sense Fran’s disapproval beside him. She would expect him to do something. The fact that he wasn’t on duty meant nothing. He should know what to do. And it wasn’t only that. She took advantage of the fact that he was devoted to her. Everything had to be at her pace. How long had he waited for this date? He was so desperate to please her that he would fit in with her plans. Always. He hadn’t realized before how subject he was to her will and the knowledge hit him suddenly. Then, immediately after the rush of frustration, he thought how churlish he was being. She’d nearly lost her daughter. Didn’t she deserve time to recover after that? And surely she was worth waiting for. He walked up to the weeping man and squatted beside him, helped him to his feet and led him away from the public’s view.
They sat in the kitchen where the young chef, Martin Williamson, was filling trays of canapés. Perez knew him, could have given his life history, told you the first names of his grandparents after a few seconds’ thought. The Herring House had its own restaurant and he ran that. Tonight, herring featured of course. Small slices curled on circles of soda bread. It had been pickled and there was a clean scent of vinegar and lemon. There were local oysters and Shetland smoked salmon. Perez hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and his mouth watered. Martin looked up as they came in.
‘You don’t mind if we just sit here for a while?’
‘You’ll have to stay well away from the food. Health and safety.’ But he grinned. He’d been happy as a child, Perez remembered. Perez had seen him at weddings and parties, had an image of him always laughing, in the middle of the mischief.
Now he went back to his work and took no notice of them. The sound of fiddle music came from the gallery. Roddy had been brought back to fill the awkward silence and get the people in the mood again for spending. Still the stranger was sobbing. Perez felt a moment of sympathy, thought how heartless he was to have been distracted by the food. He couldn’t imagine making a show of his grief, thought that something dreadful must have happened for the man to be crying in public. Or that he was ill. That must be it.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’ He pulled up a chair for him, settled him into it.
The man stared at him as if he was realizing for the first time Perez was in the room.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was a childish, unsophisticated gesture which made Perez warm to him for the first time. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it over.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ the man said. He was English, but not southern English, Perez thought. He thought of Roy Taylor, a colleague who worked out of Inverness. He came originally from Liverpool. Was this man’s voice like Roy’s? Not quite, he decided.
‘We all feel like that sometimes.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Jimmy Perez. I’m a detective. But that’s not why I’m in the Herring House. My friend’s one of the artists.’
‘Herring House?’
‘This place. The gallery. That’s what it’s called.’
The man didn’t respond. It was as if he’d shut down, was lost again in his own grief, as if he’d stopped listening.
‘What’s your name?’ Perez asked.
Again there was no response. A blank stare.
‘Surely there’s no harm in telling me your name.’ He was starting to lose patience. He’d thought this was the night when he could sort things out with Fran. He’d imagined staying at her house. There’d been fantasies which would have shocked the people who knew him, which had shocked him. Cassie would be sleeping at her father’s. Fran had told him this, and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? Usually he found it too easy to be swept up in other people’s emotions. Today he had an incentive to resist this weeping stranger.
The Englishman looked up at him.
‘I don’t know my name,’ he said flatly. No drama now. ‘I can’t remember it. I don’t know my name and I don’t remember why I’m here.’
‘How did you get here? To the Herring House? To Shetland?’