‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not saying that. He’s a writer. Naturally curious. I’m sure that’s all it is.’
The thought came into Perez’s head that it would suit him very nicely if Wilding turned out to be a murderer. He hated the idea of the man living in Buness, which wasn’t so far from Fran. But he knew that was a dangerous way to think. If you hoped for a certain outcome in an investigation, you lost perspective, saw shadows that didn’t exist, ignored other possible scenarios.
‘Have you eaten yet?’ she asked. ‘If you can wait until I’ve got Cassie to bed, I can pull together a meal for us.’
‘I’d like that.’
They were at the table when the phone call came. It was on the landline and Perez had no thought that it might be for him. He sliced bread and helped himself to salad while she answered it. She frowned, handed him the receiver. ‘It’s Sandy for you.’
It was Sandy at his worst. Childish. Full of himself. ‘I tried you at home, boss. And I couldn’t get a signal on your mobile. Thought I might find you at Mrs Hunter’s . . .’
‘What can I do for you?’ Across the table Fran was pulling silly faces at him.
‘There’s been another death.’ Sandy paused. He’d developed a sense of the dramatic.
‘Who?’
‘Roddy Sinclair. Kenny Thomson found him at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista. I sent Robert, the new PC who’s based in Whiteness, to confirm it. It’s definitely Sinclair. Could have been an accident.’
‘A bit of a coincidence.’ Perez thought of his sense that Roddy had something to confide and knew that this was no accident. He remembered the walk he’d taken with the boy, the morning they’d found Booth’s body. Roddy had grown up there. He wasn’t the sort to fall. He pictured Roddy playing the fiddle at the Herring House party, caught in the spotlight of the evening sunshine, dancing. He was as lithe and nimble as one of the feral cats that lived on the cliffs. He’d liked the boy and was overcome by a sense of waste.
‘Does Bella know?’
‘Not yet,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought I’d best get hold of you first.’
‘Good, I want to tell her.’ Roddy had been Bella’s golden boy. His death would devastate her. Perez felt a stab of pity, then the thought of work took over. Bella had been playing games with him throughout the investigation. The shock of her nephew’s death might persuade her to talk.
‘You’d best be quick then. You know how news gets out.’
‘I don’t think Kenny will be on the phone to her. He and Bella aren’t that close and he’s not the sort to blab. But don’t send anyone on to the hill until I’ve talked to her. Tell them to stand by.’
‘I told Kenny to keep the news to himself.’ Sandy seemed extraordinarily proud that he’d thought of such a thing.
Perez smiled. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’
‘I wondered if I should phone Mr Taylor now. He’s going to be pig sick, being stuck down in England while everything’s happening here.’
‘Aye,’ Perez said. ‘I think maybe you should.’
Fran had been eating, but she stopped now, her fork poised. ‘You’ve got to go, haven’t you? And you won’t be able to tell me what it’s all about.’
‘Roddy Sinclair’s dead. Kenny Thomson found him at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista.’
‘Poor Bella!’ He could tell that Fran was nearly in tears. ‘She cared for Roddy as if he was her son.’
‘I’m just off to tell her. Can I say you’re here if she needs company? I know she was born and reared in Shetland, but it seems to me she doesn’t have many friends.’
‘Of course.’
He could tell she was pleased he’d told her so much. It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her not to tell Wilding, but he stopped himself just in time.
‘Roddy always had so much energy,’ she said. ‘It was as if he was lit up inside. It’s hard to imagine he’s dead.’ She paused. ‘Another death. What is going on here? You do realize the press will go wild over this? He was a celebrity, even in the south. As soon as word gets out there’ll be hundreds of journos here.’
‘No pressure then.’ Perez was thinking there’d be more pressure from the community too. Roddy was a Shetlander. He represented Shetland in the rest of the world. People would want his killer found now. It wasn’t the same as some strange Englishman found hanging from the roof.
‘Jimmy?’
He was already at the door and he turned back to her.
‘It wasn’t an accident, was it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it can have been.’
‘Suicide? Because he’d killed the Englishman and couldn’t face the consequences?’
‘Maybe.’ He remembered Roddy standing at the top of the cliff, arms stretched wide like a gannet’s. It would be the sort of grand gesture he’d go for, killing himself by launching himself into the air. As close to flying as it was possible to get. But he’d want an audience. Without an audience it wouldn’t be any sort of performance.
‘Come back here when you’ve finished,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter how late it is. If you want to.’
Bella was sitting in her garden when he got to the Manse. A wrought-iron table and chair stood on a terrace by the side of the house and he found her there. The light was diffuse, milky, and he realized it was already ten o’clock. There was a book on the table but she hadn’t been reading. Perhaps she’d dozed off. Next to the book was a large glass of wine and a half-empty bottle.
‘Jimmy,’ she said when she opened her eyes, ‘isn’t it a lovely evening? So still. There are so few days when we can do this. Have a drink with me!’
He sat on the wall beside her.
‘When did you last hear from Roddy?’
‘I saw him at lunchtime. He was booked on the last plane south. He’d planned to go yesterday, but you know what the young are like. Time has no meaning for them. It’s as if they have for ever. I was expecting him to phone, but he’ll have met up with some friends.’
He thought there was no easy way to do this. If he lost someone close to him, he’d want to hear it straight. No platitudes and no prevarication. ‘Roddy’s dead, Bella. His body was found this evening at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista.’
Her eyes widened. ‘No. No,’ she said. ‘There’s been some mistake. He was on the plane.’
‘Did you take him to Sumburgh?’
‘I had a meeting in Lerwick this afternoon. He said he’d get himself there.’
‘He was going to drive?’
She stood and began to walk backwards and forwards across the terrace, her glass still in her hand. ‘I assumed he was, but when I got back his car was still here, so I thought he’d got a lift from a friend.’
‘Can I have a look in his car?’
‘Of course.’ Perez could see she was sure she’d be proved right. Bella Sinclair had never admitted to being wrong in her life. She’d convinced herself Roddy was in some bar in Aberdeen, surrounded by admirers. That was why he hadn’t phoned her to say he’d arrived safely.
The car was an old black Beetle, restored. It had probably cost more than Perez’s new saloon. It wasn’t locked. In the boot he found the bag Roddy must have been packing the day before, when it all got too much for him and he went to visit his father’s grave. Lying on top of it was his violin. Perez had left Bella sitting on the terrace, but now she came up behind him. He heard her footsteps, then a throaty cry, so quiet it sounded as if she was just catching her breath. ‘So it’s true,’ she said. ‘He’s dead. He’d never have left his fiddle behind.’ She wrapped her arms around her body and, bending double, she began to weep.
Perez led her into the house and into the kitchen. There was little light now. Sitting on the dark wood bench, she seemed small and very frail, like a child in Sunday school.