Blue Lightning

lying outside on the frozen ground.

Chapter Twenty-six

Perez stood on the bank above the Pund and looked down on it. He thought the building was crumbling back into the hill. The stone that had once formed the surrounding wall had been scattered and was indistinguishable now from the rocky outcrops that grew out of the bog. The building itself sagged at one end. There was a pool of mist covering the low land from Setter to the Pund, so in the dawn the house looked almost romantic. An ideal place for lovers to meet.

Perez hadn’t slept, had turned occasionally during the early hours to look at the alarm clock, surprised at how slowly time was passing. The implication of the empty wooden box had struck him as soon as Vicki had given the puzzled frown, had turned to him in the stinking van and murmured: ‘What stuff?’ It had stayed with him all night, going round and round in his mind.

He had known his father had taken the jewellery. Who else would have done it? Not Sandy or Vicki. Why would they? They hadn’t any personal connection with the investigation. And nobody else had had the opportunity. He had realized his father must be involved as soon as Vicki had asked the question, but he hadn’t answered. Did that make him as corrupt as the people he despised? The politicians who found work for their children, the businessmen who paid for planning rules to be overlooked. The Duncan Hunters, who blackmailed and bribed their way to success.

James had got up at the same time as Perez. They’d stood in the kitchen at Springfield drinking tea, eating toast made from his mother’s home-baked bread. But Mary had been there too and besides, tense and confused after a sleepless night, Perez wouldn’t have known what to say to the man. He wouldn’t have been able to control his anger. Because after the first realization of what his father had done, rage had swamped his brain and drowned out reason. How could his father, who blethered from the pulpit in the kirk about righteousness and morality, live with himself? How could he be such a hypocrite? Perez, who’d never really understood the impulse to physical violence, was scared of what he might do. He imagined how it would feel to smash his father’s face with his fist until the blood ran through his fingers. So he’d stayed silent and just nodded when James offered him a lift up the island on the truck with the rest of the Shepherd crew.

They’d dropped him at Setter and he’d walked to the Pund from there. It was just starting to get light. Every blade of grass and head of heather was covered in hoar frost. As he got closer to the house he disturbed a snipe in the grass. He stopped for a moment and watched it zigzag away across the hill. In the old days, he supposed, men would have shot it, though it wouldn’t have provided more than a mouthful of food.

After the first shock, Perez wasn’t even surprised that his father had taken the earrings and bracelet or by the betrayal that the theft implied. It made sense, explained details that had previously seemed irrelevant. Perez remembered the embarrassed shuffling of the boys on the boat when he’d asked if Angela had an island lover. His father’s offering to help by staying with Jane’s body if Perez wanted to meet the plane. Later, James must have taken the opportunity to steal the jewellery when he was setting up the lights in the Pund and their attention was elsewhere. He wouldn’t have realized Perez had searched the ground floor of the building before finding Jane’s body.

And James had always liked younger women. He’d been flattered by their attention. He liked to dance with them. They liked him too, were taken in by the old-fashioned courtesy. Even Fran, the most discerning of people, had been seduced by his charms.

How many women have there been? Perez thought now, watching the sky lighten over Sheep Rock. How many lies has he told my mother? Then it came to him that Mary must surely have known about his father and Angela Moore, guessed at least that something was going wrong. She was a perceptive woman and they’d been married for more than thirty-five years. James would be the worst sort of liar. Perez wondered that he hadn’t realized there were problems in the marriage; between them his parents had managed to keep the crisis secret from him.

He saw that Sandy was already at the ruined croft. He was sitting on the threshold watching Perez approach. Perez hoped that Vicki was still in the lighthouse catching up on some sleep. He’d ordered the helicopter in with the search team at ten o’clock. She could take the body and her evidence back on that and would be in Aberdeen by lunchtime. Now he wanted to talk to Sandy alone.

Again he had coffee in his bag, and bacon sandwiches and sticky date slices. His mother had got up before James to prepare food for him and the crew and had made up a parcel for Jimmy too. Every boat day was the same. Why would you do that if you knew he’d been sneaking here to the Pund and having sex with Angela Moore? Perez thought it would be about pride and presenting a united front in the face of island gossip. She must still care for his father and wouldn’t want him to look a fool.

Perez sat on the doorstep next to Sandy. ‘How were things at the field centre?’

‘Fine. The Fiscal said she’d be here to see the body away. She’ll borrow their Land Rover. Vicki will make sure it’s all done right.’

‘I need your advice.’ Despite himself he smiled at the surprise and pride on Sandy’s face. People usually offered Sandy advice, whether he wanted it or not; they didn’t often ask for it.

Perez told his story. About finding the silver earrings and bangle in the wooden box, while he was searching the Pund before finding Jane’s body. About the implications of their disappearance.

‘What does your father say about it?’ Sandy had lit another cigarette.

‘Nothing. I’ve not asked him.’

‘Maybe you should. You could have got the whole thing wrong. Do you not think you could be jumping to conclusions?’

‘I wasn’t sure how that would look. If we were to charge him…’

‘Ballocks.’ Sandy blew smoke into the cold air, watched it rise above him. ‘You’re not saying the man’s a murderer?’

‘No.’ That at least was something Perez had discounted almost immediately. His father had been at Springfield when Angela Moore had been killed and if he’d stabbed Jane Latimer to prevent her from talking about his affair, he could have taken the jewellery out of the wooden box then. Besides, the show with the feathers wasn’t his style.

‘Then charging doesn’t come into it,’ Sandy said. ‘But if he knew the woman then he might have something useful to tell you. It would be wrong not to ask him about her. He’s an important witness.’

‘He’s tampered with a crime scene,’ Perez said. ‘Perverted the course of justice.’

‘Maybe,’ Sandy said, ‘if you have got this right, he’s trying to save his marriage.’ He paused. ‘And his son from embarrassment.’

They sat in silence and watched a huge orange sun rise over the sea beyond Sheep Rock. In the distance there was the sound of an approaching plane.

Perez went to the airstrip to watch the plane arrive. It must have left Tingwall at first light and it certainly wasn’t a regular scheduled flight. He met Dougie Barr, the fat birder, on his way; the man was flushed despite the cold and out of breath.

‘I’ve just been up to Golden Water,’ he said, the words coming out in short, painful bursts, ‘to check that the swan’s still there.’

‘And is it?’ After a night of anxiety about his father, Perez saw the birdwatchers now as an amusing distraction. He’d always found the obsession of these men faintly ridiculous. He realized that they were mostly men. Angela Moore was a rarity.

‘Yes. Just where it went to roost yesterday evening.’

‘You’ll take them straight up to the north end and then back to the plane. No detours. Otherwise the flights will be stopped.’

‘I’ve explained all that to them.’ They both stepped off the track to allow Dave Wheeler to drive past.

There were still signs on the airstrip of the preparations for the emergency flight the night before – piles of ash where the fires had been lit, scorched grass. The plane circled the strip and came in low to land, smooth and easy. Tammy Jamieson’s wife turned up, not in the van – Sandy was still using that – but in a gold Ford Capri with