some sort of Russian prison camp. Like I’m some political fucking prisoner.’
Fran didn’t say anything.
A raven appeared overhead. Fran heard it croaking before she saw it and the noise made her shiver and remember past horrors, distracted her again from the girl ambling along beside her.
‘They don’t like my boyfriend,’ Poppy went on. ‘He’s older than me. Different background. They pretend to be open-minded, but they look down on him because he gets his hands dirty when he works and he doesn’t talk like we do. Just because his parents couldn’t pay for him to go to a smart school. They blame him because I lose it sometimes. But they’re the ones who make me angry. They make me want to lash out.’
‘Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to spend a bit of time apart.’
‘I’ve been trying to text him,’ Poppy said. ‘And phone him. But he hasn’t answered. He’s probably found someone else.’
Fran saw this was at the root of the girl’s misery. It had affected her more than Angela’s death and her father’s grief; she felt abandoned. She had been desperate to leave the island to find out why her older man was refusing to respond to her. When she was mooning in her bedroom, listening to depressing music and watching endless television, it was the man she was thinking of, not the violence of her stepmother’s death.
‘Angela knew,’ Poppy said. ‘She knew that Des hadn’t been in touch. She laughed about it: “What would a grown man see in you?” She didn’t do it when Dad was around, but when we were on our own she’d pick away at me: “Heard anything from the boyfriend yet? Still no news?” I think it drove me crazy. In the flat with the wind howling outside. Nobody to talk to. I dreamed of killing her. When it actually happened I could almost believe I’d done it, I’d wanted it so much. I was drunk and I couldn’t remember much about the night of your party. Perhaps it was me after all.’
She turned so Fran saw her face and realized how scared she was. She wanted a reassurance Fran wasn’t able to give. Fran tucked her arm around Poppy’s and they walked together into the shop. ‘Chocolate,’ Fran said in the no-nonsense tone she used to Cassie when she woke with nightmares. ‘That’s what you need.’
They sat on the bench outside the shop to eat the sweets they’d bought. ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Angela?’ Fran asked. She couldn’t help herself. ‘You were there all day, every day.’
Poppy shook her head. ‘She was in a weird mood all week,’ she said. ‘I mean, even weirder than usual. Something was freaking her out. She treated them all like she did me – poking and prying. It could have been any of them.’
Later Fran and Mary distracted Poppy with long games of Scrabble and Cluedo. They sat at the kitchen table and at last could hear the sound of sheep and herring gulls over the wind. James was at the Haven supervising the return of the
At four o’clock Fran offered to drive Poppy back to the North Light. She hoped she might catch up with Perez there, even for a few minutes, and thought she was as star-struck about him as the girl was with her unsuitable boyfriend. But Poppy said she would walk.
‘Are you sure? It’s a long way. It’ll be almost dark by the time you get there.’
‘Like you said, I need the exercise.’
‘I’ll come with you then.’ Fran was already on her feet.
‘No,’ Poppy said. ‘I could do with some time on my own.’ Suddenly she became almost gracious. ‘You can understand how I feel. I’ve been trapped inside with all those people for almost a week. But thanks for today. It’s been great. A real help.’
Fran went out to the track and watched her take the east road past Kenaby. A small dark figure, the hood of her cagoule pulled over her head, disappearing into the distance. The light was beginning to fade and just before Fran lost sight of her, she was tempted to run after her. Perhaps she should have insisted on accompanying her back. Perez might disapprove of Fran allowing her out alone. But Poppy needed the chance to make her own decisions and Fran went back into the house.
Chapter Nineteen
While the field centre staff and guests were having lunch, Perez walked down to the haven to talk to his father. There was the habitual anxiety before the encounter. He’d grown up with the sense that he’d never match the older man’s expectations. Big James wanted a son who was an islander, who understood the traditions and sensibilities of the place. Most of all he’d wanted a boy who wouldn’t question his own authority.
The crew were lowering the boat from the slipway into the water. Perez would have been glad to help but the operation was over before he arrived at the jetty. Old school friends grinned up at him.
‘You arrived just in time then, Jimmy. Are you volunteering to come out with us tomorrow?’
They knew he suffered from seasickness if the water was very lumpy. More teasing. Had he always been the butt of their jokes? It wouldn’t have been because he was a Perez – here in Fair Isle that was a mark of honour – but because he was different, more thoughtful. They’d all been surprised when he said he wanted to join the police. It was the last thing they would have expected of him. He’d joined up for all the wrong reasons: not for car chases and action, or even a regular salary. He’d had a romantic notion of making things right.
‘The body of the murdered woman went out on the chopper,’ Perez said, smiling at them, because really there was no malice in the teasing. ‘No point me coming out with the boat. And you won’t have to deal with her.’
‘That wouldn’t have caused us any bother. It’s the living that make the fuss.’
Mary had made Perez sandwiches, enough to feed an army. He stepped onto the deck of the
‘What did you make of Angela Moore?’ Perez leaned against the rail. The sun had come out again and he could feel the faint warmth on his face.
The young men looked at each other and then at James in the wheelhouse to make sure he couldn’t hear. The skipper disliked lewd jokes and bad language.
‘She knew how to have a laugh,’ one said. Careful. After all, Jimmy Perez was police, also his father’s son.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Tammy Jamieson was the youngest crew member, a clown, easy-going, generous. Not given to discretion. ‘She’d shag anything that moved. If he was fit enough.’
Then they were all jumping in with stories of Angela’s wildness, the flirting and the drinking. They’d been talking about her among themselves since they first heard of the murder. There was the day the cruise ship put in and she disappeared below deck with the head purser. The politician who’d flown in for an hour to speak to a meeting of the island council, and was still in the North Light two days later, and most of the time spent in her bed. ‘At least her husband was away that time.’
‘Has she ever had an affair with an island man?’ Perez asked.
Now they were careful again. They shuffled and giggled but they wouldn’t speak.
He pressed them: ‘There must have been rumours.’
‘Oh, you know this place. There are always rumours.’ And he could get no more out of them than that. It was already two o’clock and he had an appointment in the community hall with assistant warden Ben Catchpole. He might get Tammy on his own later. He might talk with a few beers inside him.
On the way south Perez thought about Angela. He hadn’t realized the reputation she’d gained on the island. His father would call her a scarlet woman. Perez had known her as a celebrity, someone the place was proud to acknowledge as a resident. This was another woman he couldn’t get a fix on. Sarah Fowler and Angela Moore: two unfathomable women. He was losing his grip. He thought maybe he should speak to Angela’s family. They had no record of her mother’s whereabouts, but there was a father, who’d brought her up. He lived on his own in
