‘If you could remember exactly what Mr Booth said about the deal, it would be very useful. Even a small detail might help.’ Perez paused.
There was a moment of silence. She set the script carefully face-down on the deck. Then she closed her eyes.
‘He talked about a weird coincidence. “A blast from the past. A rave from the grave.” That was the way he spoke. You know, kind of knowing, self-mocking, but still thinking he was hip. He was a joker, one of those people who are full of gags that never quite make you laugh. He said there was a nice little deal which would set him up for a few years if he could play it right.’
‘Did he mention any names?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. Like I said, he enjoyed being mysterious.’
‘When did he arrive with you?’
‘The twenty-second. Two days after The Motley arrived in Lerwick.’ And two days before Booth was seen handing out the notices which cancelled the Herring House exhibition to the cruise passengers.
‘Did he come on the plane or the ferry?’
‘The ferry. It was a tiny bit bumpy when he came across and he was ill. You wouldn’t believe the fuss he made. The next day he went off somewhere. He was back that night, then we didn’t see him again.’
If he’d arrived on the ferry, Stuart Leask would have access to all the man’s contact details, Perez thought. In an hour they’d have a full name and address, a phone number and access to a credit-card account. Their victim was no longer anonymous. The investigation was suddenly more manageable. More ordinary.
‘Did he tell you where he came from?’ Perez was interested in what the victim had said about himself, to find out how close it was to the truth.
‘He ran a drama-in-education company in West Yorkshire. “I’ve always believed in community-based theatre, darling. Really, it’s the most worthwhile work you can do.” Which probably means regular theatre wouldn’t employ him and he’d conned funding out of the Arts Council to set up on his own.’
‘You’re very cynical,’ Perez said.
‘It’s the business. We all start off imagining work with the RSC and end up spouting crap lines to three deaf old ladies for the Equity minimum.’
‘You could give up. You’re young.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But I still have the dream. I can still see my name in lights in the West End.’
He couldn’t quite tell whether or not she was joking. He pushed himself away from the rail, so he was standing upright.
‘Just a minute.’ She sprang to her feet and disappeared below deck. When she returned she was holding some tickets. ‘Comps for Saturday. See if you can make it. I’m really rather good.’
There was something desperate in the way she spoke. He thought if he rejected the tickets she would see it as a rejection of her. He took them awkwardly, then mumbled that he was very busy, but he’d make it if he could.
When he got into his car she was still watching him.
He phoned the station and spoke first to Sandy.
‘Any news on the victim’s bag?’
‘Well it’s definitely not on the beach.’
Perez asked to be put through to Taylor. ‘I’ve got an identity for our victim.’
‘So have I,’ Taylor said. Perez could hear the smirk, the self-satisfaction. ‘Jeremy Booth. Lives in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire. Runs some sort of theatre group. We’ve just had a phone call from a young woman who works with him. She saw the photo in one of the nationals.’
Perez had nothing to say. Let Taylor have his moment of glory. It was good to have the identity of the victim confirmed.
‘I was thinking someone should go down there,’ Taylor went on, ‘to check out his house and talk to his colleagues. Do you want to do it?’
Perez was tempted. England was still a foreign country. There would be the thrill of exploration. But, he thought, this was a Shetland murder. The victim might have been an incomer, but the answer to his death lay here.
Taylor was obviously becoming impatient. He hated waiting for the answer. ‘Well? Or would you rather I go?’
Then Perez realized Taylor was itching to take on the job. This was what he liked best about policing. The chase. He would adore the last-minute flights and hurried arrangements. The overnight drive. Gallons of coffee in empty service stations. And once he arrived he’d get answers immediately, firing away questions, blasting through the uncertainty with his energy.
‘You go,’ Perez said. ‘You’d do it much better than me.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Taylor picked up the last flight out of Shetland that day, then blustered his way on to a packed BA plane from Aberdeen to Manchester. There was a group of oilmen on the flight; they’d just finished a stint on the rigs and were rowdy, determined to celebrate. A couple of them came from Liverpool and, trying to catch an hour’s sleep, Taylor felt the old resentment against his home city coming back. Resentment mixed with a strange kind of kindred spirit.
At Manchester Airport he picked up a hire car and as he hit the M62 he realized he was only half an hour from home. Turn west and he could be there before his brothers were back from the pub. How would they receive him if he knocked on the door, a bottle of whisky under his arm and a dopey grin on his face? Hi, remember me? Any chance of a bed for the night?
Becoming a cop had been seen as a betrayal. He’d joined up on the wrong side in the class war. Even now that the boundaries were blurred he didn’t think that would ever be forgiven.
He took the road to the east. It was dark and he could tell he was climbing the Pennines because of the absence of lights, not because of the view. The motorway was unusually empty and he found himself running over a fantasy in his head. About how he’d track down some fact or relationship that explained Booth’s death so far away from home. How his Liverpool relations would see him on the national TV news talking about the arrest. He’d come across as calm and modest, but everyone would know that the conviction was down to him.
On the way into Huddersfield he checked into a Travel Inn, picking up the last room on a cancellation. The adjoining pub had stopped serving food, so he ate all the biscuits in his room and went to bed. Surprisingly for him, he fell straight asleep. It was a relief to have a dark night. Shetland was unnatural, he thought. The spooky half-light which never disappeared really freaked him out. That’s why he’d slept so poorly the night before. Perhaps it was the extreme of the dark winters and sleepless summers that made the people so odd. He could never live there.
He woke very early and was on the road before six, picking up a bacon sandwich from a truckers’ café and eating in the car as he continued to drive. He’d been given the mobile number of a local DC, a woman called Jebson, but waited until seven before he called.
‘I wasn’t expecting you till later.’ She was brusque and graceless, though he could tell he hadn’t woken her.
‘Well, I’m here now. Can we meet at Booth’s house?’
‘If you like.’ She sounded less than thrilled. ‘But I can’t be there till eight-thirty.’ He heard a child’s voice in the background and thought that was the problem with women in the service. Work never came first with them. It was either their men or their kids. He was about to comment but thought better of it. It would only take one complaint from a lass with a chip on her shoulder for his whole career to go down the pan. He’d seen it happen. And just when he seemed to be getting a bit of recognition that was the last thing he needed. ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Eight-thirty.’
In Denby Dale he found the house from her directions. ‘Director of a theatre company’ had sounded quite grand and he’d been expecting something more impressive than a mid-terrace cottage leading straight off the street. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and get a feel for the place.