oatcakes and cheese, scones and cakes. Today they needed comfort food. It was eleven thirty. There was time to talk to Perez before she had to serve it. She tapped on the common-room door and looked inside. Perez was on his own, his mobile in his hand. He’d finished the conversation and seemed preoccupied. She followed his gaze out of the window. It was more exposed here, north facing, and the sound of the storm was louder.
‘I wondered if I could talk to you. It’s about Angela.’
‘Of course.’ It seemed something of an effort for him to drag his thoughts back to the present. ‘Could we sit somewhere with a bit of privacy?’
She hesitated. ‘We could use my room, I suppose. It’s a bit cramped but nobody will disturb us.’ She never invited anyone into her room, was shocked that she’d been the one to suggest it.
They passed the door of the bird room on the way to the stairs.
‘Is Angela still in there?’ Where had such a ghoulish question come from? Jane thought it was as if someone else had stepped inside her skin and was talking through her mouth.
He looked at her as if he was considering how much he should tell her. He must have reached the same conclusion as she had earlier: there could be no secrets in this place. ‘I thought I’d go in when the rest of you are having lunch. I’ll move Angela’s body this afternoon. I’ll take it to Springfield. There’s a shed we can padlock. She’ll be cool there. Then hope the wind drops tomorrow, at least enough to get a helicopter in.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you have a digital camera I could borrow? It would save me going home.’
‘Sorry.’ Jane was going to ask why he might need a camera, but then she remembered an American TV programme beloved by her sister. Beautiful young men and women in designer clothes investigated brutal murders by swimming pools or in grand houses. They always took photographs of the crime scene. How excited her sister would be to know that Jane had been caught up in a real investigation.
There was only one chair in her room. She nodded for him to take it and sat on the bed. She saw him taking in his surroundings, the books and the newspaper clippings.
‘Do you enjoy crosswords, Inspector?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think my mind works that way.’
‘I suppose I have a motive for killing Angela.’ After all, she hadn’t brought him here to make small talk. ‘I thought you should know.’
He said nothing and waited for her to continue.
‘We had a conversation in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, while I was getting food ready for your party. She said she wouldn’t want me back at the North Light next year.’
‘And that’s a motive for murder?’ He wasn’t mocking her, but seemed genuinely puzzled. She wondered that he couldn’t be as passionate about the place as she was.
‘I would have killed her then if I’d thought I could get away with it.’ Jane looked up, gave a little smile to show she was joking. ‘I didn’t. I’m not sufficiently brave.’ She saw more explanation was needed. ‘I love it here at the lighthouse. I suppose it’s a sort of escape. There were things in my personal life… It was a mess… And Fair Isle captivated me from the moment I arrived.’
‘Did she give you a reason for not wanting you back? Your reputation on the island is high. The best cook they’ve ever had, my mother says. I’d have thought she’d be bribing you to stay.’
‘According to Angela, someone else was bribing her to get rid of me.’ Jane explained about the chair of trustees, the massive donation to develop the library and replace the computers, the goddaughter straight out of catering college. ‘But I’m not sure it happened like that. Angela might have been glad of an excuse to be shot of me and made the offer herself.’
‘Why would she want shot of you?’
Jane hesitated a moment. She found it hard to be bitchy about a woman who’d recently been murdered. It was a matter of manners, etiquette. It seemed rather common to be unpleasant in these circumstances.
‘Angela liked to be in charge, the centre of attention. She was accustomed to admiration.’
‘And you didn’t admire her?’
‘I’m sure she was a very good scientist.’
‘But?’
‘I didn’t like her as a person. She was capricious, wilful, determined to get her own way. I probably gave her less deference than she was used to. I’m sure that irritated her. After all, I’m only the domestic help. When the chair of trustees mentioned the possibility of finding a job here for his goddaughter, she’d have seen it as a good way of finding someone more biddable to take my place. Someone who owed her a favour.’
‘I didn’t really know her,’ Perez said, ‘though I’ve seen her on television, of course.’
‘How did you think she came across?’ Jane realized she was very interested in the inspector’s opinion. He was a man whose judgement she’d trust.
He thought for a moment and it seemed as if he would refuse to commit himself. ‘As very charming,’ he said at last. ‘But only while the camera was running. I was never really convinced by it. She always seemed rather miserable to me.’
It was the last thing she would have expected.
During lunch she was aware of his absence, imagined him in the bird room. How would Angela look now? Just the same as when Ben Catchpole had found her? How soon did a corpse begin to decay, to look not entirely human? Jane had seen the body when Ben had called out to her, and the feathers woven into the hair had seemed to her grotesque, a bizarre show.
Before she began to serve the meal Fran Hunter arrived, blown in it seemed from another world, a reminder that life was continuing outside the solid field centre walls. She had a camera round her neck and a small rucksack on her back. She had arrived in Leogh Willy’s truck and immediately joined Perez. Jane supposed that he’d summoned her to bring what he needed to record the crime scene and take Angela’s body away.
In the dining room conversation was desultory. Again Maurice and Poppy stayed away, though Ben ate with them. Jane thought that all the people there wanted to talk about the murder, to enjoy the drama, share scraps of gossip about the dead woman, but no one could bring himself to start the discussion for fear of appearing callous. Jane wanted to give them permission to do it:
Later she knocked at the door of Maurice’s flat. He came to open it. He was dressed now, but he still hadn’t shaved and looked as he had when he’d had a bad bout of flu earlier in the year. Jane had looked after him then too. Angela had been far too busy with the seabird ringing. She’d never even had a cold in all the time Jane had known her and had no sympathy for people who were ill.
‘I’ve brought a pan of soup,’ Jane said. ‘It’ll just need heating up.’
He took the saucepan from her and stood in the doorway.
‘How’s Poppy?’ Jane really wanted to ask what he would do now. She presumed that he would want to leave the island as soon as the weather improved. Then she would have the place to herself. To tidy and scrub and order. The new warden would be glad of a cook who knew the ropes.
‘I’ve sent her back to bed,’ Maurice said. ‘She’s exhausted. The shock, I suppose.’ He looked up at Jane. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without Angela. I can’t imagine life without her.’
It wasn’t the sort of practical answer Jane was looking for, though she would have been happy to talk to Maurice, even about Angela, if that would have helped. But he shut the door without asking her into the flat, more distressed now, it seemed, than when he’d first learned his wife was dead.
Jane couldn’t bear the idea of spending another minute in the field centre. It wasn’t just the image she created in her head of Perez in the bird room, taking his photographs, collecting his samples, moving in his quiet, precise way around the dead woman. She needed to get away from the place for a while. She felt as if she’d been indoors for weeks. The truck was parked just outside the back door so she assumed that Fran was still in the bird room with him. Jane thought she’d walk down the island, talk to Joanne in the shop, and perhaps call in on Mary at Springfield as long as Perez and Fran hadn’t returned. The wind would be behind her and she thought someone would give her a lift back. Jane wouldn’t want to be thought curious or ghoulish, but Mary was the closest thing to a friend that she had in Fair Isle.
Outside, the wind took her breath away, but the rain had stopped and there were flashes of sunshine, sudden spotlights on the green sea and the sodden grass. For the first time she began to wonder who could have killed Angela, to work out how it might have happened. Like everyone else she’d assumed at first that Poppy had been
