Blue Lightning

about her and I didn’t ask.’

Walking back towards Springfield, Perez realized that the wind had dropped almost to nothing and suddenly it seemed very cold. Maurice had been right about the high pressure. The sky was clear and that night there would be a frost. What weird weather they were having this year! Storms followed by this sudden chill. The light was fading quickly. Soon it would be the shortest day, followed by the madness of Up Helly Aa, Lerwick’s fire festival. Another Shetland winter. He’d first met Fran in midwinter and liked to think of her in the snow, flushed with the effort of pulling Cassie on a sledge up the bank to the Ravenswick house.

On impulse he turned away from the road by the Feelie Dyke and walked west towards the Pund. If Angela took her lovers there perhaps it might hold other secrets, a diary perhaps, information about her parents, scraps of her life that she hadn’t wanted Maurice to see. Perez imagined how he’d feel if he’d given up on his mother and father, deciding he wanted to have no more to do with them. There were times when he’d thought that would make his life less complicated, but he knew he could never turn his back on them. Guilt was part of his make-up, part of what his first wife had called his emotional incontinence. There was a connection he had no way of breaking. He felt miserable if he left his mother’s phone calls unanswered even for a day.

The Pund was even more dilapidated than he remembered. Once it had been solid and weatherproof, lined with wood. There was still a loft bed reached by a ladder, but the place smelled damp. He pushed the door open. By now it was too dark to see much inside and he didn’t have a torch. In the last of the daylight coming through the open door he saw there was a candle stuck in a grubby saucer on a makeshift table made of a packing case. The place looked like a child’s den. Next to the saucer sat a box of matches. He lit the candle. In the first flare of the match being struck, he picked up details – there was a fire laid in the grate: white twisted pieces of driftwood and a few lumps of coal; a rack of wine stood in one corner, two glasses and a biscuit tin on a shelf. The candle caught and the light became more even. He stood in the centre of the room and looked around.

Again he had the impression that this was a Wendy house, a space for playing. The floor had been swept. There was a jam jar containing dried flowers on the windowsill. But he didn’t think the island children had been in here. This had been Angela’s room, the place where she escaped from field centre life, where perhaps she had lived out her fantasies with her young lovers. It threw a new perspective on the woman. Here, he saw, she had been domestic, even romantic.

Perez walked around the walls, carrying the candle with him, looking for a hiding place for her treasures. The Angela who was a media star and warden of Fair Isle field centre would have nothing to do with sentiment or nostalgia, but the woman who had created this space might have kept mementos from her past. Perez hoped for a letter from her mother. It still seemed inconceivable to him that the mother had abandoned her daughter entirely. But there was nothing. He tapped on the panels, thinking he might find a space between the stone wall and the panelling, was excited when he came across a polished wooden box hidden behind the wine rack. But when he opened the lid, there was only a pair of silver earrings and a plain silver bangle. Presents perhaps from one of the lovers.

He began to climb the ladder into the loft, struggling to keep his balance with the candle held in one hand. He’d brought Sarah, his wife, here before they were married. It had been summer, a mild day with the scent of cut grass and meadow flowers coming through the open door. He’d thought he would never love anyone else in his life. They’d covered the old straw mattress with sheepskins and lain there for most of the afternoon, stroking each other, kissing and whispering. They hadn’t made love there. Sarah was religious in an old-fashioned, matter-of- fact way and had asked that they might wait. He’d thought himself magnificently restrained in agreeing, but in fact the delay had only added to the excitement, to his view of her as the perfect woman. When sex had been allowed it had been something of an anticlimax. He hadn’t been able to admit that at the time, even to himself. Certainly not to her.

There were still sheepskins on the bed. White ones and black ones, piled in profusion, more of them certainly than had been there when he’d spent the lazy afternoons here with Sarah. Perez saw them while he was still standing on the ladder. He reached in to set down the candle, so he could use both hands to climb into the loft. At the same time he saw the woman’s body lying, as if in abandon, on the rugs, and the blood that had turned the sheep’s wool pink, as if it had been dyed. He saw the small white feathers that covered the skin like flakes of snow.

Perez stood for a moment, so shocked by the scene in front of him that it was as if his hands were frozen to the ladder rungs. A draught caught the candle flame, made it flicker and then burn more brightly, and he saw the patterns of blood spatter on the wooden walls of the loft: at some point the killer had pierced an artery. This was quite a different murder. The first had been planned and calmly executed. This was wilder. If it had been committed by the same person, the killer was beginning to panic or to lose control.

Chapter Twenty-two

Sitting at the makeshift table in the ground floor of the Pund, Perez made phone calls. His voice was abrupt and urgent. The colleagues on the end of the line hardly recognized it. The Perez they knew was relaxed and softly spoken. He didn’t bark out orders or shout down their objections.

The first call was to Sandy. ‘Is Vicki Hewitt in from Aberdeen yet?’

‘Aye, she’s ready for the boat in the morning.’

‘I need you to charter a plane and get into Fair Isle now. Bring Vicki with you.’

‘You’ll not get a plane tonight.’ Sandy would have liked the drama of the emergency flight; Perez could tell that. He just didn’t see how it was possible. ‘It’s almost dark.’

‘There’s no wind to speak of and there’ll be a moon. We’ll light the airstrip. They’d do it for an ambulance flight.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘There’s been another murder. I need the crime scene assessed by an expert before it gets contaminated. This doesn’t look to me like the same sort of killing. This victim’s been stabbed, but it’s not such a clean job. More wounds. More of a struggle, I’d say, though the scene’s been posed like the first time.’ Perez paused for breath. ‘And I want suspects properly interviewed. I can’t do that on my own. I need you both here tonight. Within an hour if possible.’

Perez switched off his phone before Sandy could argue. He sat in candlelight. The candle was tall and fat. Occasionally a pool of melted wax threatened to douse the wick so he tilted it to pour out the liquid, but it would provide light for him until the plane came in. Then they’d have a generator and powerful torches, the equipment and the manpower needed to prevent another murder.

He phoned Springfield next, hoping his father would answer. He would need a team of men to light fires along the airstrip to guide in the charter plane and his father would organize that. Just now he didn’t want to speak to Fran. She’d be full of questions and he wasn’t sure what he would say to her. You see, you get violence everywhere. Coming back to Fair Isle wouldn’t protect us from that.

Mary answered. ‘Jimmy, we started tea without you. When will you be coming home?’ Ordinary words that seemed almost blasphemous when he thought of the scene in the loft above his head. Before he could answer her she shouted: ‘Fran, Jimmy’s on the phone for you.’

‘Hi, sweetie.’ Her usual greeting.

He struggled to find words and her response to the silence was immediate. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘There’s been another murder.’ It came out as a confession, as if it were his fault. And of course it is, he thought. If I were better at my job I’d have prevented it.

‘Who?’ she demanded. And before he could reply: ‘It’s Poppy, isn’t it? I let her walk back to the North Light on her own. She wouldn’t let me go with her.’

‘No!’ The last thing he wanted was for her to feel guilty. He could do that well enough for the both of them. ‘No, it’s Jane Latimer, the field centre cook.’

Another pause. No hysteria. ‘I liked her,’ Fran said at last. ‘I wanted to know her better. I thought we might be friends. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No. Stay in Springfield. Tell Mother to lock the door. Now I need to speak to my father.’

Perez explained to James what had happened and what he needed. ‘You’ll have to meet the folk from the