responsible, but perhaps it wasn’t that simple. Away from the tension and the raw emotion inside the building it was possible to regard the murder as an intellectual puzzle. Surely her intellect was as strong as the inspector’s and she knew the people there better than he did. Angela had been right about one thing: Jane was ready for a new challenge. She imagined going to Perez and offering him the solution. She would enjoy his approval.
There were a couple of people in the shop, there not to buy, Jane thought, but to talk. They were delighted to see her, of course, and much less restrained about gossiping than the residents of the North Light.
‘They say there were gallons of blood.’ ‘Has Jimmy arrested the child yet?’ ‘What a terrible thing to happen on the Isle.’
Jane said very little. She understood their voraciousness and their desire for information. They were outsiders looking in at the drama. No one was suggesting, for example, that they might be murderers. But still she was restrained. She told them there had been no arrest as far as she knew. And of course, she said, everyone at the North Light was very shocked and upset.
She wrapped her coat around her and went out again. The turbine blades of the windmill on the mound by the shop were spinning furiously and the machine gave off that low humming sound that meant the generator was storing power. The children must just have come out of school because they were making their way down the road, laughing and chasing, bent against the wind. There was no truck outside Springfield, no sign of Big James’s car, so she opened the door and went in. Mary was standing at the kitchen table whisking egg whites.
‘I hope you don’t mind my turning up out of the blue,’ Jane said. ‘I just had to get away from the lighthouse.’
‘Of course. Come in.’ Mary shook the egg from the whisk. ‘Just wait till I get this in the oven and I’ll make us some tea.’ She tipped caster sugar into the mixture and spooned it onto a tray. ‘How’s Jimmy doing?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jane said. ‘He’s just getting on with it.’ She paused. ‘I suppose we’re all suspects.’
‘I worry about him,’ Mary said. ‘What must it do to a man to be mixing all the time with crime and violence? I thought he’d come back home and settle here on a croft. He always said it was what he wanted. But when Skerry was vacant and he had the chance he threw it away.’
‘He seems very good at what he does.’
‘He’ll have a wife soon. She’ll not want him away all hours, never knowing when he’s getting home. I thought this week on the island would let her see what the place has to offer. Then this has to happen.’
‘If she wants him to be happy surely she’ll let him work…’
‘Ah.’ Mary’s voice was impatient. ‘We all start off thinking we can change our men. It never happens that way.’
Suddenly there was a thunderous knocking on the door. Mary stood white and shocked, her hand resting on the kettle. She looked at Jane. The banging continued. ‘Come in,’ Mary shouted. ‘Whoever you are, stop that noise and come in.’
The door was flung open.
‘My God, man, whatever is the matter?’
It was Dougie Barr, flushed from running. His coat was flapping open and his telescope was still on its tripod, hanging from a strap on his shoulder. His binoculars hung round his neck.
‘I need to use your phone.’ The words came out in a pant. ‘My mobile’s not working. No reception.’
‘What’s happened?’ Jane imagined another body. Her mind was racing.
‘I have to call the lighthouse.’ He saw they were staring at him. ‘There’s a bird in the South Harbour. Trumpeter swan. A first for Britain.’ When they didn’t answer he repeated, yelling at the top of his voice: ‘A first for Britain.’
Chapter Ten
All morning Dougie Barr hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Angela. Images of her swam in and out of his head. Of course he’d seen her on the television before he’d met her. She’d been famous before she married Maurice and was appointed as warden of the field centre, one of the new wave of young people brought in to present wildlife programmes, employed to make natural history more sexy and pull in a fresh audience. Dougie understood what they were doing. He knew about selling. Since then Angela had become a part of his life. A secret obsession.
Everyone remembered Angela because of her hair. Right down her back, sleek and beautiful even when she’d been camping out in the wastes of Alaska for a fortnight, or trekking across a desert. But it had been the hands, long and brown, that had stuck in his mind when he’d first seen them on screen. He’d noticed them at once, holding binoculars to her eyes, and later picking up a young razorbill as she prepared to ring it. When she first greeted him in the field centre he’d stretched out an arm to shake hands and looking down at the grip he’d been thrilled: the long strong fingers were just as he’d imagined. He’d thought that handshake had been one of the most intimate experiences of his life. He was finally touching the woman he admired more than any other.
One evening, plucking up courage after a couple of beers, he’d asked her why she’d applied for the field centre job. She’d been sitting in the common room preparing to call the log of the species seen that day, squatting on a chair, her knees under her chin, drinking lager from a can.
‘You’re famous,’ he’d said. ‘You could travel all over the world for the telly. You could make a fortune. Why come to Fair Isle?’
She’d smiled. ‘It’s an addiction. I love it. Just like you do. I came to Shetland when I was still a student and was seabird assistant here for a season after I got my degree. I swore I’d be warden one day. The first female to run the place.’ She’d set down the can. ‘Television is just other people telling you what to do. I’m in control here. That’s important to me.’
Dougie pictured her dead in the bird room and thought she wasn’t much in control now. There were people who said she’d only married Maurice because she needed a partner to be administrator; it was the only way the trustees would appoint her. Dougie didn’t know anything about that – he’d never had the nerve to ask her. They’d always seemed a strange kind of couple. Now, he thought her ambition to run Fair Isle Field Centre had killed her.
It was unusual for him to stay inside when it was light, even in weather like this. His office in the call centre was small and cramped and had no natural light. He joked with his colleagues that it was like being banged up in prison. On holiday he needed to be in the open air. Otherwise he felt he might just as well be working.
He found Hugh reading a trip report in the common room. The younger man held out the brochure. There were glossy photos of jungles and mountains, improbably coloured birds. ‘I’m checking out the possibilities for work,’ he said. ‘I might apply to run this one. I quite fancy getting paid to spend three weeks in Argentina. I still need a few endemics there.’
Dougie wished he had the younger man’s confidence. Hugh assumed the job would be his if he wanted it and that he’d do well at it. Perhaps that was what going to a smart school did for you.
‘I’m going to the south end. Do you want to come?’ Dougie liked company when he was birdwatching. It was part of the pleasure, the gossip as you walked down the island. He’d never been in a gang at school; his birdwatching friends had come from the more affluent parts of his town. Besides, he thought, conversation might distract him from thoughts of Angela.
Hugh tore his attention from the pictures. ‘Nah, it’s been westerly for weeks. It’s a waste of time. I should have gone out on the plane when I had the chance.’ He flashed the old smile that for a moment made Dougie want to lash out. Hugh of all people should show more respect. For this island and the craft of birding. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to miss the excitement. You don’t get involved in a murder every day.’
Dougie supposed he meant the policeman poking around in the bird room – although the door was shut Dougie had heard movement inside and soft voices when he went to put on his boots – and Angela’s body being carried away. That was excitement he could do without. Hugh’s attitude was ghoulish, weird.
Walking down the road towards the crofts Dougie saw nothing but a couple of meadow pipits being blown over the double dyke trap and a hooded crow close to the cliff, but he felt his mood lighten. He caught a glimpse of
