Thin Air: (Shetland book 6) (24 page)

‘I think I did. She seemed calmer, better than she’d been for ages.’

‘Did she talk to you about her ghost project?’

There was a long pause and Perez expected another confidence. ‘No,’ Lowrie said. ‘She didn’t talk about her work at all.’

‘It seems odd that she didn’t ask you about the project before she headed north for the party. We know she researched the background to Peerie Lizzie. She’ll have known that the nursemaid in the story was a relative of yours.’

Lowrie continued his walk. ‘Maybe she realized that Caroline and I were too wrapped up in the wedding to have given any time to her. Sensitivity wasn’t exactly Eleanor’s strong point, but she’d have seen we’d be too busy to help with a TV show.’

Perez thought about that. The Eleanor who’d been described to him was self-centred and passionate about her work. He couldn’t believe that she’d turned away from a useful source of information just because Lowrie was planning his wedding. It wouldn’t have taken more than a quick phone call after all.

‘Did she ask to meet you at all in the last few weeks? More recently than when you met her for that drink?’

‘Not to discuss her work!’

‘But to discuss anything?’ They’d come to a piece of driftwood. It was huge and twisted, white as bone. The trunk of a tree, sculpted by the water. Perez sat on it, forcing Lowrie to stop too.

‘The six of us had dinner together about a month ago, to make final arrangements for the wedding in Kent and to talk about their trip north. You’d have thought they were trekking to the South Pole, the fuss they all made about it.’ He sat beside Perez. ‘What are all these questions about, Jimmy?’

‘Eleanor met a man sometime before you were married. We’re trying to trace him. It might not be important, of course, but it’s a loose end.’

‘Is that the guy Caroline saw her with in the restaurant in Bloomsbury?’ Lowrie gave a little laugh. Perez thought he sounded almost relieved. ‘Well, that wasn’t me. Caroline rushed straight home that night and told me she’d seen Eleanor with a stranger. She made a big drama of it. I said if Eleanor was having an affair I wouldn’t be so surprised, but it was none of our business.’

Perez wondered about the implications of that. Only the day before he’d been in London, but now he found it hard, looking out at the North Sea, to imagine himself back in the little French restaurant in Bloomsbury and to recapture the image described by the waiter of the couple sharing a meal. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Caroline had told Lowrie about seeing Eleanor; her loyalty to her fiancé would be greater than her loyalty to her friend. ‘And Eleanor never contacted you about her television project? Not even an email?’ This was what he found most difficult to believe.

Another hesitation. ‘Sorry, not even an email.’ He turned away, so Perez couldn’t see his face. If Lowrie was lying, what possible reason could he have?

They stood up to continue their walk.

‘What’s the talk on the island about Hillier and Gordon?’ Perez asked. ‘Your mother bakes for them and they buy your eggs, so you probably know them as well as anyone.’

‘Are you saying that that makes us suspects, Jimmy?’ Lowrie’s voice was suddenly hard and reminded Perez of Caroline.

‘Of course not. But you’ll have heard what people are saying about them.’

‘A gay couple taking over the big house, do you mean? Things have moved on. We’re not as bigoted as we used to be, even here in Unst.’ Lowrie paused. ‘There was some excitement because some folk recognized Charles Hillier from the television. He was quite famous at one time. One of those cheesy stage magicians. He did clever tricks, despite the dreadful patter. I was fascinated with them as a kid, got a magic set for Christmas. But most of us were just glad the house wasn’t going to be allowed to fall into disrepair. None of the locals could have afforded to take it on.’ He paused again. ‘I only met them a couple of times, but they seemed fine men. I’m sorry that Charles is dead.’

‘Does the name Monica mean anything to you?’ Perez asked.

‘In what context?’

‘I’m not sure. Your father said that a mysterious woman turned up to your great-aunt Sarah’s funeral. A daughter nobody had ever heard about. Could it have been her?’

Lowrie shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Sorry.’ It was as if he was bored by the whole conversation. Perhaps, like Caroline, he wanted to get back to planning his new life in Shetland. Perhaps young Shetlanders had learned to let go of the past. Perez thought it was hard now to picture him as a young man obsessed with Eleanor Longstaff and desperately in love. Or even as an older friend who’d visited her in psychiatric hospital and listened to her troubles. He seemed cold and disengaged.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Throughout the interview with the detectives Polly wanted to ask if they would still be allowed to leave the following day, but she felt it would seem selfish to press the point. She sensed the officers’ disapproval already: they considered the group at Sletts as spoiled incomers whose lives were too affluent and too easy. In the end it was Marcus who put the question, when Perez and Willow were on their feet on their way to the door.

‘Polly and I have to start home tomorrow. We need to be at work on Monday and we’re booked onto the overnight boat south. I suppose that
is
OK.’ Not tentative as she would have been, but breezy, confident. ‘I mean, it’s not as if we knew the man, and we’re not even sure yet that it wasn’t an accidental death.’

The detectives looked at each other. They seemed to have a way of communicating that didn’t need words.

‘Of course,’ the woman said at last. ‘We have no reason to keep you here. What time were you planning to leave Unst?’

‘We told our landlady that we’d clear the house by one o’clock,’ Marcus said.

Another look flashed between the officers and Polly sensed they were giving each other a deadline for making progress. Or for catching the killer.

‘And you, Mr Longstaff?’ Willow asked. ‘Are you planning to leave tomorrow too?’

Ian paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It seems like a kind of desertion to go while there’s still no news about what happened to Eleanor. But I can’t stay at Sletts. There are other guests due in the house.’

He looked at Lowrie and Caroline, a plea for help. There was no immediate reply and Polly thought that the couple had already discussed this. She suspected Lowrie would have been happy to offer Ian a bed in Voxter for a few nights, but Caroline disliked the idea. Even now the woman remained impassive and there was a moment of awkward silence.

‘So I’ll probably go back with Marcus and Polly then,’ Ian said at last. ‘It seems as if I have no choice.’

They followed the police officers outside. The female detective drove off and Perez and Lowrie set off along the beach towards Voxter. Polly wondered what they might be saying to each other and thought again that if anyone was to find Eleanor’s killer, it would be Jimmy Perez. Marcus and Ian wandered back into the house, to their laptops and their phones.

‘You must be desperate to get away,’ Caroline said to Polly as soon as they were alone. ‘You’ve had a dreadful week. I’ve only sat in there for an hour and I feel so claustrophobic I want to scream. Perhaps it’s the hill behind the house that makes this feel so shut in. I always think of Shetland as a place with long views and low horizons. That’s what I love about it, the sense of space, and you don’t really get that here. It’s why I fell for our place in Vidlin – the fact that it’s so light.’

‘I do feel as if I’m going a bit crazy.’ Polly wasn’t sure how much she could say to Caroline, how much she should confide. Caroline wouldn’t imagine girls in white dresses dancing in derelict houses. She was entirely sane.

‘Why don’t we escape for a couple of hours?’ the other woman said. ‘I’d planned to visit the gallery in Yell anyway and it has a nice coffee shop attached. We can have lunch and look at the art. Pretend we’re back in London. Lowrie and I were given a voucher for the place as a wedding present. You can help me choose something for our new home.’

‘Yes,’ Polly said. She felt suddenly lighter, less depressed. For a couple of hours at least she could go back to the time before Eleanor’s death. She and Caroline would look at beautiful things and drink coffee, and the talk would be of selling and buying houses, holidays and office gossip. And when they returned to Unst there would be just one evening to sit through and she could spend that time packing and preparing to go home. Life would be normal once more.

‘Should we ask Grusche to come with us?’ Caroline frowned. ‘Of course there’s no problem if you’d rather it was just the two of us, but she would love it.’

For a moment Polly was hurt. It seemed as if Caroline had already shifted her allegiance to her new family in the islands. Then she thought it would be good to take Grusche with them. If it was just her and Caroline they might end up talking about Eleanor after all. And she liked the older woman, with her sharp wit and laughter, her ability to sum up a character or a situation with a funny expression and a few words. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

It was the small ferry carrying them across the Sound to Yell, so there was no passenger lounge and they stood on the deck next to the cars. Grusche and Caroline chatted to the crew, calling them by name. Polly looked back at Unst. There was still a breeze and the water was chopped into small white-peaked waves. Back in the vehicle, waiting for the jaw of the ferry to open and let them out, Grusche and Caroline were still talking as if
they
were old friends – allies at least – and she was the stranger. Polly was sitting in the back of the car and Grusche turned to speak to her. ‘The ferry boys said that Sumburgh’s closed because of fog. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? That the weather down there could be so different.’

‘Will the fog come here again?’ Polly hated the mist and the way it shut everything down. The way it made her imagination run away with her.

‘Who knows? It depends on the direction of the wind.’ Grusche turned again and continued her conversation with Caroline about plans for the move. Polly wondered if she’d ever have that sort of friendship with Marcus’s mother.

The gallery was new and built in the shelter of a small bay. The walls were of rough stone and rounded, so Polly thought of the sheep crus and planticrubs she’d seen on the hills at Unst. Of the place where Eleanor’s mobile had been found. The owner was English, it seemed, and had made his money from a graphic-design company. This was his hobby and his indulgence. He’d brought a local potter in to run it for him, and she had her studio in the same building. Through a glass wall they could watch her at work. The owner was nowhere to be seen.

‘No expense spared, apparently,’ Grusche said. ‘That’s the way it is with some incomers. David and poor Charles must have spent a fortune at Springfield. That was such a big job, and they wanted it just so.’

They’d decided it was lunchtime and had found places in the cafe. Two elderly women were eating at the table next to theirs and Grusche greeted them and started talking about a mutual friend. The view from the big, curved window was of a pebble beach and hills beyond the bay. Inside there were examples of the gallery’s art on the wall. Polly’s attention was suddenly drawn to the painting of a young girl dressed in white. While the others looked at the menu, she stared at the painting, wondering if her imagination was playing tricks. The outline was misty, indistinct, and the background was all shadow. It was impossible to make out the features, but the dress and the ribbons in the hair looked horribly familiar.

‘Who’s that?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Grusche had noticed that Polly was staring. ‘Though the name of the artist sounds familiar. Of course it doesn’t have to be anyone local. The gallery stocks work by people from all over the country. That painting’s rather old-fashioned, don’t you think? Maybe something that’s been done with the tourist market in mind.’

Polly thought there was nothing of the chocolate box in the picture. The way the girl looked out at the viewer was disturbing, a kind of challenge.

‘I think I saw that child.’ Polly saw there was no escape from the nightmares even here. ‘On the beach during the wedding party.’ She looked at them, hoping for reassurance. Perhaps Caroline and Grusche, with their strength and their common sense, would have a rational explanation for her unease, her sense of being followed and undermined.

‘You mean it looks like the ghost of Peerie Lizzie?’ Caroline couldn’t keep the mockery from her voice. ‘Really, you can’t let your imagination run away with you, Pol. It’s being locked up in that dreadful house.’

A young waitress came with bowls of soup and bannocks and they began to eat.

Grusche frowned. Perhaps she thought Caroline was being unkind. ‘There’s only one painting of Lizzie Geldard and that’s in the museum in Lerwick. She doesn’t look anything like that girl, you know. I think you must be mistaken. All these dreadful things that have been happening . . . it’s easy to let your imagination run away from you.’

‘I’ve seen the portrait in Lerwick.’ Polly thought Grusche was treating her as if she were a child who needed to be humoured.

‘I always think the girl in the museum painting is very plain,’ Grusche said. ‘This lassie is quite different, don’t you think? She’s very bonny.’

‘Do you believe in the ghost?’ Polly looked up from her soup and waited intently for the reply, her spoon poised above the bowl.

‘Not at all!’ Grusche gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve lived in Meoness for thirty-five years and I’ve never seen her. Though I have a sneaky suspicion that George is a believer. He claims not to be, but men who’ve worked close to the sea are terribly superstitious and he has some strange ideas. He doesn’t talk about her, though. He thinks her death reflects badly on her family.’

‘Why does he think that?’ Caroline had already finished her soup and was spreading butter onto the remaining bread with brisk efficiency. Polly thought she’d never seen Caroline being dreamy or idle. Even her pursuit of Lowrie, when they were all students, had been carried out with a ruthless precision. She’d fancied him from the moment she first saw him and had decided she would make him ask her out. She’d just seen his infatuation with Eleanor in their first year as a challenge.