‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What do you think?’
She was wondering where they were going to eat. Why had he brought her here? Had she mistaken the nature of his invitation?
Perhaps he could guess what was going through her mind.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch it from the car. I thought we could have it on the beach. That is all right?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’
‘I only found this place a couple of days ago and I wanted someone else to see it. It’s so perfect.’
‘A secret garden,’ she said, reassured by his excitement. He wasn’t a stranger. He was a famous writer. His photo was on his website along with the jackets of his books.
‘Yes! Yes!’ He was beaming. ‘But you probably know it already. You’re a local after all.’
Oh no, she thought. I’ll never be a local.
‘I’ve not been here before,’ she said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’ She could tell he wanted her to be as excited as he was and realized she sounded like a polite child who’d been taken out for an unwanted treat. But the lunch date was turning out to be so different from what she’d been expecting that she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She’d imagined a lunch in a crowded restaurant, conversation about art and books. Not a picnic on the beach.
The food was in a cold-bag. Wilding carried it from the car with a woven rug, which he draped over his shoulder. It made him look as if he was in fancy dress and only added to Fran’s sense of unreality.
‘I cheated,’ he said. ‘I asked Martin Williamson from the Herring House to put something together for me. I hope that’s OK.’
He set off down the steps in the cliff without waiting for an answer.
On the beach, sheltered from the breeze, it felt very warm. Warmer than Fran could ever remember feeling in Shetland. The sand was white and fine. Seals were hauled up on rocks at the end of the island. Wilding spread out the rug. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him unpack the picnic. He took out a bottle of wine, still chilled so the glass was misty, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket with a flourish, and opened it. There were real glasses. But Fran thought the heat and the light had made her feel slightly drunk already.
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I was house-hunting.’
‘The house is for sale?’
‘Not exactly.’ He gave a sudden wide grin. ‘Not any more.’
‘You’ve bought it?’ It seemed to her an astonishing thing to do on the spur of the moment. He hadn’t even been in Shetland that long. She thought of Perez, the agonizing there’d been over his future, where he would live. She admired Wilding’s ability to take a life-changing decision so lightly.
‘Once I saw it I had to have it. I tracked down the owner and put in an offer. A very good offer. I don’t think she’ll turn it down. It was left to an elderly woman who lives in Perth and she hardly ever visits. I can’t show you round the house. I haven’t got a key yet. I’ll hear for certain at the beginning of next week. I would like to see what you make of it. It’s to be a project. I was hoping you might advise on the design.’
So, she thought, we’ll have more excuses to meet. Still she wasn’t sure what she felt about that. Of course he hadn’t bought the house just to provide an opportunity to spend time with her, but still she felt she was being manipulated, that she, like the house, was one of his projects.
Now the food was spread out on the rug. There were squares of pâté and little bowls of salad, chicken and ham and home-made bread.
‘I do hope you’re not a vegetarian,’ he said. ‘I should have asked.’ He smiled and she could tell he knew already the food would be to her taste. He must have asked around – Bella or Martin. She supposed she should be flattered that he’d put so much preparation into the lunch, but found the careful planning disturbing. And he had made the assumption that she would accept the invitation to eat with him, since the food must have been ordered before the call was made. But she drank more wine and turned her face to the sun. She wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.
‘What a terrible business that murder was,’ he said. ‘Do the police know yet who he was?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard the news today.’
‘But wouldn’t you hear before the rest of us?’ He reached across her to fill her glass again. ‘I understand that you’re a close friend of the inspector.’
She sipped the wine. She wished she wasn’t lying down. It was hard to challenge him, spread out at his feet. She pushed herself upright, sat cross-legged so she was facing him.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Hey.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I asked Bella if you were seeing anyone. She mentioned the cop. That was all.’
‘It didn’t stop you asking me out to lunch.’
‘It’s lunch. I wanted someone to share this place with me. You didn’t have to accept.’
She felt suddenly that she was being ridiculous. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should never drink at lunchtime. It’s always a mistake. This is all lovely.’
‘Is it true then? You and Perez…’
He was looking at her, squinting into the sunlight.
‘I don’t think,’ she said sharply, ‘that’s it’s any of your business.’
‘Does that mean I still have a chance then? Of winning a place in your affections?’
She looked at him. She couldn’t make him out. Was he teasing her? Was this innocent flirting? Or something more sinister?
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘My affections are definitely taken.’
‘What a terrible pity. You need some fun in your life and Inspector Perez doesn’t seem a lot of fun. I’d help you to play.’
She didn’t answer that. He piled mackerel pâté on to an oatcake and handed it to her.
‘Does Perez ever talk to you about his work?’
‘There’s not usually very much to talk about,’ she said. ‘Nothing interesting.’
‘But this is murder. We’re all interested in that.’
‘I don’t think I am. I want the murderer caught, of course. But I didn’t know the victim and I’m not involved in the case to any extent. It’s Jimmy’s job and nothing to do with me.’ She wondered now if he’d just brought her here because he was curious about the investigation.
‘I’m fascinated. I’d have thought you would be too. You used to be a journalist! And art’s about the experience of extremes, don’t you think?’
‘I’m too chilled to think anything,’ she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.
He seemed to realize that it would do no good to push it. ‘Somewhere in here there’s a very good chocolate cake.’ And he went on to entertain her with stories of publishers’ parties and the sexual activities of famous novelists, so she almost forgot that there’d been any awkwardness between them.
He was the one to say they should make a start back or she’d be late to pick up Cassie. She was surprised at how quickly the time had passed. She stood up and brushed the crumbs and sand from her clothes and followed him up the steps to the house.
‘You will take it on, won’t you?’ he said. ‘The house, I mean.’
‘I’ve never done interior design,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t matter. You have an artist’s eye. I know you’ll make a good job of it.’
She stood looking at the house, imagining how she would do it, saw it completed, the windows open to the sound of the waves and the seabirds, full of people for a house-warming party. Another glimpse of her old life. He couldn’t have thought of anything better to tempt her.
She laughed and refused to give him a real answer. ‘When it’s yours we’ll talk about it again.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Perez had thought he might go back to Biddista when he left the care centre, call in to the Manse and see if he could find Roddy on his own. He felt he understood the young man a bit better now, still believed Roddy might have information that could help with the inquiry. But the news that Sandy had tracked down the victim’s lift made that impossible. How could he justify any delay to Taylor?