Chapter Eleven
Perez’s call, asking to borrow her camera, came as a relief to Fran. Mary was great. Good company. She could see that they might become friends. But by lunchtime Fran was starting to get so bored that she wanted to scream. What must it have been like for island women before electricity and flights to the mainland? Fran thought she could have coped in the summer. Then there’d have been shared work in the fields, light nights, music. But at this time of year when the stormy weather kept folk indoors, you’d go slightly mad by the end of it. There’d be nothing to do but gossip and knit. She imagined knitting all day in poor light in a room filled with stir-crazy children and thought that at the end of it she’d feel like committing murder.
‘I’ll bring the camera up to you,’ she said as soon as Perez had explained what he wanted. ‘I’m sure you’re busy there.’
‘I don’t know…’ He was thinking rules, she could tell. Procedures. He was a great one for going by the book.
‘Please, Jimmy.’
He must have heard the desperation in her voice.
‘OK then, but could you come up in Leogh Willie’s truck? Mum will arrange it for you. You could take Dad’s car back. And there’s a big roll of polythene at the back of the shed at home. The new bedroom carpet was delivered in it. Could you bring that too?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Sure.’ No questions. She always asked too many questions and she didn’t want to give him time to change his mind.
She loved driving the truck up the island towards the North Light. The vehicle was so eaten away by rust that it was hard to believe it would go at all, but perched in the cab, she felt as she’d done as a child on a fairground ride. There was the same engine noise and smell of diesel and she had a new perspective on the landscape around her. There was a joyous sense too that she was playing truant. She was such a kid. Perez was waiting for her.
‘The keys are in Dad’s car,’ he said. ‘You’d better get straight back.’
‘Jimmy!’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said.
‘I could help. Hold things. Take notes. Everyone else here is a suspect. You know I couldn’t have killed the woman. I wouldn’t get in the way.’ She could tell she was wheedling like Cassie on a bad day and was certain he’d send her away. But he relented. Perhaps this was such an unusual situation that rules weren’t so important. Perhaps he felt isolated in the field centre, where everyone was English and he was like an impostor in his own land. And she was a much better photographer than he was.
‘I’ll need to phone the Fiscal and check that it’s OK. I couldn’t do anything to prejudice a possible case.’
He left her standing in the lobby, unlocked the bird room door and went inside. She realized he would feel awkward talking to the Fiscal in front of her. She wondered if he would stretch the truth? Would he tell the woman he couldn’t possibly manage without an assistant? He wouldn’t want Fran to hear him lying. She imagined him standing next to the body of Angela Moore, conducting a normal conversation with Rhona Laing, and wondered how he could do that. Did she really want to work with him after all? She’d seen a dead woman before and the sight had haunted her for weeks. Perhaps Perez had only been trying to protect her.
The door opened. ‘Are you sure about this?’ As if he’d been tuned in to her doubts.
She nodded. This was his work and she wanted to be involved in it. She wouldn’t have another chance. He stood aside to let her in and locked the door behind them. She looked at the figure as if Angela were a subject for a painting; it would be a big canvas because this was a strong woman. There was the texture of the hair, the muscular shoulders. The handle of the knife, smooth, cream-coloured, in contrast to the hair. The long, bony hands that already looked skeletal, lying on the desk. The strange arrangement of feathers resting on the head.
‘What’s going on with the feathers?’
‘I don’t know,’ Perez said. ‘They must have been arranged after death, I think. But I haven’t a clue why.’
‘It makes her look like a child who’s been dressing up.’
‘Do you think so?’ Perez seemed surprised. ‘The first thought that came into my head was that they look like those silly hats smart women wear to Ascot. Then I wondered if they might be sending a message. Something about cowardice, maybe? Didn’t women hand out white feathers to men who wouldn’t sign up to fight in the First World War?’
Fran thought that seemed too elaborate. Too preachy. This was about decoration. ‘Were the feathers already in the room?’
‘I don’t know,’ Perez said. ‘Something else to check.’
‘What about the knife?’
‘It was hers. Maurice said she brought it back from one of her trips abroad. India, I think. Apparently she used it to cut a net if a bird got caught while she was trapping. She kept it in her belt when she was out, otherwise here in the bird room. The assistant warden said it was always very sharp.’
‘She bit her nails,’ Fran said. ‘Strange, you expect nervous people to bite their nails and she didn’t come across that way at all.’ She looked up at him. ‘Does that mean they won’t find anything under them?’
He shrugged. ‘They’ll take samples at the p-m. We don’t have the facilities to do it here and we can’t leave the body here in the centre for another night. It would mean me camping out outside the door to make sure no one tampers with her. Besides, I need to get her somewhere a bit cooler. The radiator’s switched off here now but it was on all night – Angela would have been the person to switch off the generator before she went to bed – and the room’s still quite warm.’
‘What would you like me to do?’ She refused to play the little woman and go all squeamish on him, but suddenly she imagined the stink of decomposition and felt faint. She needed to concentrate on the practical.
‘Take photographs,’ he said. ‘Loads of photographs. Of everything here. The whole room from as many angles as you can and then everything in detail. Have you got gloves?’
She grinned and took a thin woollen pair from her jacket pocket. ‘Just call me Dr Watson.’
‘Mm?’ He looked at her and she saw he was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he hadn’t understood the bad joke.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She took her camera from its case and positioned herself to take the first photograph.
‘I don’t have a fingerprinting kit,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose it’s important. Everyone staying in the lighthouse would have been in here at some point. It’s where Angela ringed the birds and apparently the visitors are invited to watch.’
Through the camera lens she looked at the room in detail. There was the ringing equipment, a shelf of bird books, a PC and printer. There was dust on the shelf and the floor was mucky.
‘They haven’t cleaned in here recently,’ she said. ‘Not as recently as in the common room at least. That was spotless last night. I suppose they must be allowed in here in their boots.’ She guessed that was Jane’s job too. It seemed overwhelming, to be cook and housekeeper for the whole place.
‘No point looking for footwear impressions then.’ Perez was talking almost to himself. ‘Again, any of the staff or visitors would have had a reason to be in here, and the killer would have come straight from the party. He’d have been wearing indoor shoes and wouldn’t have left a mark.’
‘He?’ Fran looked up from the camera.
‘Or she,’ he said.
She couldn’t tell whether he had any idea who the murderer might be and she didn’t ask. She thought of the people who’d been at the party the night before; she’d been chatting and laughing with them. When she said goodbye, she’d touched them, held their hands and kissed their cheeks. One of them had stuck a knife in the back of the young woman who lay in front of them, then carefully laid feathers over her hair. She tried to imagine being so angry that she might do that.
