‘I know about the conviction, Mother. It’s one of the first things we do: check the criminal records of suspects.’ He hadn’t known that Ben had received a suspended sentence though. Or if he had known, he’d forgotten. He remembered the case, even though he’d been working in the south when the offence was big news in Shetland. The protesters had had some support locally, the effect of the
Chapter Thirty-two
Monday. Fran’s last day on Fair Isle. She found herself looking forward to being back in the small house in Ravenswick. Her own space and her own rituals: working in the early morning while she was still in pyjamas, catching up with her friends over more than the one glass of wine she felt she could take in front of Jimmy’s parents, cooking for herself and for Cassie. And being free to swear when the mood took her. They’d decided they would sell Perez’s place and the Ravenswick house and buy somewhere bigger before they got married. Fran had enjoyed driving around Shetland mainland looking at prospective homes. The west side was so pretty, she thought, but if they moved somewhere like Walls, it would be a long trek into work for Jimmy and to school for Cassie when she started at the Anderson. Now she wondered if she could bear to leave Ravenswick. Maybe they could build on to the small house there. She imagined something wonderful, very light and spacious to contrast with the original space, new and old Shetland together. And a purpose-built studio. Would that be too much of an indulgence? It would be a project and she loved projects. She’d discuss it with Jimmy when this case was over. Now it would be pointless; he’d never concentrate.
He’d been back late the night before and when she’d asked how things were in the centre he’d been noncommittal, not uncommunicative, but not sure himself what to make of events surrounding the case. It seemed to her that he brooded about it all night. She woke to find him already up and dressed, a shadow in the room, though it was dark still outside.
‘Shall I bring you tea?’ Usually she adored tea in bed. It was his way of pleasing her.
‘No. I’ll get up,’ she said. ‘Our last day before I go back.’
They had the kitchen to themselves. They giggled and whispered, supposing Mary and James to be still in bed. Again she thought there was something exciting, illicit in their being alone together in his parents’ house. She fancied herself like a heroine in a nineteenth-century novel maintaining the proprieties. But not like Sarah Fowler, she thought. Fran would always have more spirit than her. Perez was standing behind her chair, watching the toast on the Rayburn. She reached up, put her arms around him and kissed him. By the time they’d finished breakfast the sky was getting lighter.
‘What are your plans for today?’ She’d always promised herself that she wouldn’t interfere with his work. She had her own life; she didn’t need to meddle in his to stop herself being bored. But here on the Isle things were different. Boredom had crept up on her over the last two days. Another hour alone with his parents and she’d go stark staring mad.
‘Angela’s mother arrives on the midday plane,’ he said.
‘And this morning?’
He gave her a sudden, wide grin, so she realized he knew how she was feeling.
‘I’m going back to the North Light. Come with me. I promised Sarah I’d find her someone to help in the kitchen.’
‘So it’s a skivvy you’re after?’
‘I thought you might talk to her,’ he said, serious now. ‘Find out if her husband knows more about Angela than he’s letting on. He admits to having met her. I sensed something. A tension.’
‘You think he’d had an affair with her? His wife’s not going to know about that, surely. She would never have agreed to come here with him if she thought there was something going on. And even if she had suspected they were lovers, she’s not going to talk to me. It’s not something she’d want to chat about to a stranger while we’re washing the dishes.’
‘You don’t want to come with me, then?’
‘Hey, Jimmy Perez. Just try and stop me.’
The wind had increased again, buffeting the car from the north. Fran tried not to think of her trip back to Shetland mainland in the boat the next day. As they approached the lighthouse there was a sudden shower of hail, ferocious, so the balls of ice bounced off the windscreen and the noise in the car meant they had to stop speaking. The yard was white as if it had snowed. Fran remembered her first meeting with Perez. The ground had been white then too.
The residents were still sitting in the dining room over scraps of toast and cold coffee. They were all at one table and the rest of the room looked empty and bare. Maurice was with them. He wore the same clothes he’d had on when Fran had last seen him. There was a small grey splash of what might have been porridge on his jersey. She had a sudden urge to shake him.
Perez, she knew, would only feel sympathy. She thought again he was more like a social worker or a priest.
Maurice looked up with sad, red eyes. ‘If you’re looking for your colleagues from Inverness, they went out early. They wanted to look at the ground near the Pund one last time. They said Ms Blake took footwear impressions from the track, but the heather’s long and they still haven’t found the knife. Sandy’s in the bird room.’ Then he rested his head in his hands as if the words had exhausted him.
Sarah got to her feet and began to clear the tables. Fran found a tray and began to help. ‘I’m your assistant for the day.’
‘Really, there’s no need.’ Sarah gave a quick, sharp smile. A touch of panic? What would she be frightened about? Sharing the place with a murderer. Of course that would be reason enough.
‘Trust me, there is. Another day at Springfield with Jimmy’s folks and I’d go quietly crazy.’
So Fran found herself in the field centre kitchen, peeling carrots to make soup, while Sarah was kneading dough for pizza.
‘Doesn’t it feel weird doing all this?’ Fran asked, the first thought that came into her head. ‘I mean, doesn’t it feel like stepping into a dead woman’s shoes? It always seemed to me that the kitchen was entirely Jane’s domain.’
Sarah stopped for just a moment and then returned to work, pressing the heel of her hand into the dough. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.
‘I’d never thought of it like that,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t have that sort of imagination. Maybe I need to work because it stops me worrying about what’s happened here. I mean, if you really thought about it, how could you carry on?’
‘Sharing supper with a murderer, you mean?’ Fran looked up but she didn’t stop slicing carrots. Nosy neighbour, that was the tone she was aiming for. And really, she’d once worked for a women’s magazine: she could do gossip as well as any Shetlander.
Sarah shook her head. ‘I really can’t believe anyone here killed two women. They seem so pleasant, so…’ she paused, ‘civilized, ordinary.’
‘So you don’t sit here in the evenings with a glass of wine, all looking at each other, wondering which of you is going to be the next to die?’
‘No!’ Sarah looked horrified and Fran wondered if she’d gone a bit too far. She could occasionally be flippant and felt liberated – and a little wicked – after a week of watching her words carefully. The chopping board was full and she pushed the sliced vegetables into a pan, before continuing with the neeps.
Sarah rolled the dough into a ball and lifted it into a bowl. She took a clean tea towel from a drawer and covered the dough. ‘Now I’ve just got to wait for it to rise.’ Fran thought she seemed very happy in this domestic
