Thin Air: (Shetland book 6) (12 page)

Longstaff shrugged. ‘She probably talked to Lowrie about it. They’re old friends from her uni days. He’d be a good local contact.’

‘Had she met Lowrie to discuss it? In London perhaps, when the project was still in its initial phase?’

Willow wondered where Perez was going with this. Perhaps he thought Lowrie was the man with whom Eleanor had been seen in the restaurant. But surely Caroline would have recognized her lover, even from the back in a crowded bar?

‘I don’t know.’ Longstaff’s original impatience had returned. ‘And I don’t know how these questions will help us find out who killed Eleanor.’ He had his legs crossed and one foot was twitching, tapping the polished wooden floor in a strange Morse code.

Perez seemed unbothered by the noise, which had set Willow’s nerves jangling, or by the man’s words. ‘Because I understand that Eleanor and Lowrie were very close when they were at university. They had a relationship, didn’t they? So perhaps it would be natural for her to go to him with her questions.’

Longstaff gave a harsh little laugh. ‘Nell had lots of relationships when she was at university. The way she tells it, she worked her way through the whole dramatic society. Lowrie might have thought they had a special thing going, but from her point of view he was just another recreational shag.’ He paused. ‘I still don’t understand how this will help us find her killer.’

The foot began tapping again.

‘I’m sorry to press the point,’ Perez said, ‘but it’s important to find out if Eleanor had made any local contacts – someone she might have arranged to meet, perhaps on the night of her death.’

‘She wasn’t crazy enough to go wandering around in the early hours of the morning to meet a total stranger!’

‘Really?’ Perez gave that smile again. ‘Most of us think of Shetland as a safe place. We leave our doors open and we feel happy to go out alone at night.’

‘One of you killed her!’

‘Really?’ The question repeated itself like the chorus of a song. ‘Most homicides in the UK are committed by people we know. Much more likely, I’d think, that she was murdered by one of her friends.’

Longstaff looked up sharply, but didn’t answer. They sat for a moment staring at each other in silence.

The interview over, the three of them stood outside Springfield House. The breeze tugged at Willow’s hair, until she pulled it out of her eyes and her mouth and tied it in a knot at the back of her head.

‘I don’t believe any of her friends killed her.’ It was clear that Ian Longstaff had been thinking about Perez’s last comment, and the words came out without warning. ‘They adored her.’

Neither of the detectives answered him. They watched him climb into his large car and drive away.

They ate that night in the kitchen, while the B&B guests sat in the dining room. Charles’s partner David had arrived back from Lerwick with fish from the Blydoit shop and he cooked scallops, quickly seared while they waited at the table, and followed it with a rich lamb stew. He was an intense man, very quiet and dignified. He’d taught classics in a provincial university and Willow wondered what had brought the pair together; the scholar and the stage magician seemed to have little in common. He left the casserole on the middle of the table so that they could help themselves. There was a home-made loaf and Shetland butter to complete the meal.

‘The bread’s Grusche Malcolmson’s,’ he said, on his way out of the room, unwilling to claim credit for another person’s work. ‘She does all our baking.’ He paused. ‘If anyone asks, you’re our family. We’re not supposed to have guests in the kitchen. Health regulations.’ He gave another tight smile.

Willow gave an absent-minded nod, but she was preoccupied. Grusche was the mother of the bridegroom at the hamefarin’. Another witness. Another possible suspect. In these islands there were too many connections. It would be just the same at home in the Western Isles.

‘So, Sandy.’ She looked at the young man over the table. ‘You got Eleanor’s body onto the ferry for James Grieve. Do you have any other news for us?’

He looked like a schoolboy asked to stand up in front of the class to show what he’d learned, uncertain and flushed. ‘Just confirmation of what Eleanor’s friends told us. I checked with the ferry terminal and they were booked on the boat on Friday night. Two executive cabins and two cars. None of them has a criminal record. I’ve got details of her next of kin and her work colleagues. Her mother, Cilla, was informed of Eleanor’s death yesterday. She’s expecting Jimmy to visit. She’ll be at home, not at work.’ He paused for breath and looked up from the stew.

Willow wondered if it would be patronizing to tell him that he’d done very well and resisted the impulse. ‘And you, Jimmy? Did you get anything new from Lowrie’s mother and father?’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Lowrie was in love with our victim when he was a student. A grand passion, apparently. He came home one holiday threatening to leave university, and his parents even worried that he might kill himself.’

‘A young man being melodramatic, do you think? Or is it still significant after all this time?’ Willow thought she must have been a cold and heartless girl herself, for she couldn’t remember having lost sleep over a man. There were men she’d fancied and had enjoyed being with, but after a few months she’d grown impatient with them all, had made an excuse and moved on.

Perez shrugged. ‘Maybe it says more about Eleanor. Perhaps she enjoyed provoking that sort of reaction.’

‘So if she was having an affair,’ Willow said, ‘it had less to do with needing comfort after the miscarriage than with putting some excitement and danger into her life.’

‘Perhaps.’ He considered the idea. ‘Or needing to be loved. When I’ve spoken to her family and her friends in London I might have more idea what was going on.’ He paused. ‘Do you think it might be worth trying to trace this child that Eleanor saw on the beach the afternoon she died, and that Polly saw at the party?’

‘Are you believing in ghosts now too, Jimmy?’ Willow kept her voice light. She hoped he wasn’t going all flaky on her.

‘I wondered if she might be a possible witness,’ he replied. ‘If Eleanor wandered out to look for her.’

‘Good point.’ She nodded towards Sandy. ‘Will you look into that while Jimmy’s on his jaunt to the south? See if you can track down Peerie Lizzie for us.’

She’d meant it as a joke, but she noticed that Jimmy didn’t laugh.

Chapter Fourteen

Polly had never dealt well with stress. Sometimes she felt fragile, like one of her mother’s favourite porcelain vases, as if it would only take a loud noise or an unintentional jolt for her to crack, or to topple and smash into pieces. She’d never been to see a doctor about her anxiety and had rather admired Eleanor for having submitted to treatment, even for a short while. There seemed such a stigma to a psychiatric hospital, even the private places full of celebrities struggling with addiction.

The worst time had been straight after she’d graduated. An inner-city public library where youths had gathered round the computers as if they were in an amusement arcade full of gaming machines. Where the reading-group members had demanded edgy contemporary fiction instead of the classics that Polly offered them. Her boss had been a loud woman who despised weakness and pretension and accused Polly of both. She’d had grey teeth and body odour and they’d disliked each other immediately.

It was Eleanor who’d seen the advertisement for the Sentiman job in the
Guardian
.
You like all this strange stuff, Poll. Why don’t you go for it?
Another reason to be grateful to her.

They were gathered in Sletts now, and Polly could feel the tension as pressure on her forehead and squeezing against her eyes. Mary Lomax was no longer camping out with them, but the three felt constrained, choosing every word carefully as if there was still someone listening in. The landline rang. For a moment they stared at it. Were they expecting another message from the dead Eleanor? Polly reached out and answered it. It was Caroline, her voice normal, almost cheery. Again it seemed strange to Polly that Caroline could be so cool and restrained when her best friend was dead. ‘Grusche wonders if you’d like to come to dinner here in Voxter? Get you all out of the house for a bit.’

Walking down the track towards the hall they found that they were chatting freely for the first time all day. About Willow and Perez, what odd police officers they were and nothing like the detectives you’d find in London, comparing notes on the interviews in Springfield House. And about Eleanor. Snatches of anecdote and pieced-together memories of the times they’d spent together. Even Ian seemed to be able to escape his anger for a moment. At one point in the conversation he stopped in the middle of the road. ‘The thing about Eleanor was that she could be
so
sodding annoying.’ Marcus and Polly gave a surprised laugh of agreement and they all continued on their way.

Walking past the houses, the old, apparently derelict croft and the new-build family home, Polly was tempted to say something about the little girl.
I think Nell’s ghost lives in one of these. I saw her playing on the beach. Not a ghost at all.
But in the end she stayed silent. It would have felt disrespectful to Eleanor’s memory, and she didn’t want to remind the others that the last hour they’d shared with their friend had been odd and a little embarrassing. She sneaked a look in through the windows as she went past, though. Still it was impossible to see anything through the mucky glass of the old house; she thought there might be a faint warm light in the corner of the room – the embers of a fire perhaps. And, looking at the chimney, there was a drift of smoke, the smell of peat. No other sign of life.

There was more washing on the line of the new house. Casual women’s clothes and a row of baby jumpsuits and tiny cardigans. Nothing that might belong to a girl aged about ten. A pushchair stood in the front porch. Polly lingered while the others walked on. It was still a fine day and the window was open. From inside the house came the sound of a radio playing country music, then of a baby crying and a woman’s soothing voice.

In the Malcolmsons’ kitchen there was the smell of meat cooking, and Polly was sure there’d be the awkwardness of reminding everyone that she was vegetarian and then a scramble while they found something she could eat. The inevitable omelette or lump of old cheese. But it seemed that Caroline and Lowrie had explained, and Grusche pulled out of the oven an open tart with leeks and mushrooms and home-grown chives, which she left to stand on top of the Rayburn while drinks were poured and the table was laid.

For a while during the meal Eleanor wasn’t mentioned at all. Ian and George were drinking steadily, both intent, Polly thought, on getting drunk. All she knew of George was that he’d once been a lightkeeper. Lowrie had talked of growing up with the ritual of his father disappearing for four weeks out of eight. ‘The Lighthouse Board flew him out to Muckle Flugga in the helicopter and sometimes the weather was so wild that he couldn’t get home.’

‘That must have been tough,’ she’d said. She and Lowrie were both only children, and her father had doted on her. She’d looked forward to him coming home each day from the factory where he was a supervisor, the sound of his key in the door. She couldn’t imagine having grown up without him.

‘Not at all.’ Lowrie had laughed. ‘My mother spoilt me rotten. And it wasn’t so unusual then. Lots of kids’ parents were at sea or worked on the rigs. It was almost easier when he was away. He’s found it hard to adjust to life with more than two other people. If he seems a bit odd just now, that’s the reason for it.’

Polly wondered if George had developed the habit of heavy drinking when he worked on the rock. There’d surely be no drink allowed in the lighthouse, so perhaps he’d made up for it when he was at home and that had formed a ritual too. Lowrie’s parents seemed a strange couple to her. Grusche was cultured. She knew about books and films and talked about her weekly treat – a trip to the matinee movie at the Mareel arts centre in Lerwick. ‘It’s not all blockbusters from the US, you know. We get our share of art house too. I can’t wait until I’m a pensioner and then I’ll get a free cup of tea at the afternoon viewings.’ George seemed entirely absorbed by the work of the croft and had no interest in any life away from the islands. It had always been Grusche who’d come to visit Lowrie when he’d been at university, dragging him off to plays and art exhibitions, exhausting him with her energy. Polly could only remember seeing George once. He’d been there for Lowrie’s graduation, uncomfortable in an old suit that didn’t quite fit, while Grusche had been splendid in a dress that she’d made herself. And as soon as the ceremony was over George had taken them all to a pub and stood a round of drinks for the whole crowd. Her own parents had stood awkwardly beside her; it had been the first time they’d been in a bar for years.

It was Grusche who first brought up the subject of Eleanor’s murder. ‘You’re very lucky to have Jimmy Perez working on the case. He’s a good man. I knew his girlfriend, Fran. She was a fine painter.’ The table fell silent and everyone looked at her. She seemed not to notice, though, and began to clear the plates. Then she paused. ‘Of course Jimmy will understand what pain you’re going through. Fran was murdered too.’

Then there was another silence until Grusche dished out the pudding, a fool made with rhubarb from the garden and Shetland cream, and Marcus shifted the mood by beginning one of his stories – this one about walking through the desert in the Yemen with an elderly American botanist.

Polly tuned out Marcus and watched the others instead. She’d heard the story before and she’d always been an observer. This felt like a traditional family meal, with George and Grusche as the parents. It occurred to Polly for the first time that most of her friends had been only children, in one way or another. Caroline had a much younger sister, and Eleanor had half-brothers whom she rarely saw, but Marcus and Ian had no siblings. Like her.
We made our own family.
She wondered what relevance that might have had to Eleanor’s murder.