pass on. ‘How did he die?’
‘We’re not sure yet. The circumstances seem a little unclear.’
What are you hiding? Fran thought.
‘My God,’ Bella said. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit spooky? The flyer, I mean. “A death in the family”. Do you think he was predicting his own death?’
‘But he wasn’t family, was he?’
‘Don’t be silly, Jimmy. Of course not. I don’t have any immediate family left. Only Roddy and he’s still alive, thank God.’
‘We want to inform the man’s relatives and he has no ID. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him, either of you?’
‘Quite sure,’ Fran said.
‘I didn’t know him last night.’ Bella was twisting the stem of her glass. ‘But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t an acquaintance. Someone from my past. I’ve met so many people and my memory isn’t what it was. I’m an old woman now, Jimmy.’
She smiled, waiting to be contradicted.
It seemed to take him a moment to understand the rules of the game. Fran found that she was holding her breath. This was such a blatant cue for a compliment. Would he really have the nerve to ignore it?
At last he smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll never seem old, Bella.’
In the silence that followed, Fran saw the scene as a painting. A gloomy Dutch interior, all dark wood and shadow. Bella’s face in profile had an anxious, almost haunted look, and the lines of stress round her eyes made Perez’s words seem cruel, mocking.
‘I wonder if I might talk to Roddy.’ He leaned forward. Fran could smell the soap, her soap, on his skin.
Bella seemed about to refuse, but there were footsteps on the wooden floor outside and the kitchen door opened. Roddy Sinclair stood, backlit by the sunshine flooding through the long window in the hall. He yawned and stretched, aware that they were all looking at him.
‘A party,’ he said. ‘Oh good. I do love a party.’
Fran pulled up by the side of the road opposite the Herring House. She didn’t want to park too close to the jetty, to be thought the sort of rubberneck who’s excited by road accidents and blood. But the beach was so beautiful here and she needed to clear her head. She sat on the wall, looking out over the water.
She saw a figure walking towards her along the road, followed his progress. It was the dark-haired man who’d talked to her about her painting the night before. He’d spoken with such passion about her work that she’d been flattered and hoped that he would buy a piece. She’d thought he was a dealer because he’d talked with knowledge and authority and was surprised to see him still in Biddista. She struggled to remember his name. He’d introduced himself the night before. Peter Wilding. It had seemed familiar to her then and again she thought it should have some meaning to her.
‘Ms Hunter. I hope you don’t mind…’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’
He sat beside her. ‘I wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed your work.’ There was an element of self- mockery in his voice.
‘You’re very kind, Mr Wilding.’
‘Peter, please.’
Then she remembered how she knew the name. She’d read an article about him in the
‘Yes.’ He was clearly delighted that she’d recognized him at last.
‘Are you staying in Biddista?’
‘Yes, I’m renting a house here. Just temporary. But I love Shetland. I’m hoping to make a more permanent arrangement. I’ve vague ideas of writing a fantasy series based around Viking mythology. It might work, don’t you think? And it would be wonderful to have the landscape to set it in.’
She was pleased that he seemed to value her opinion. He waited for her to answer, as if it really mattered to him.
‘It would be fascinating,’ she said. There were times when she missed the old London life. The talk of books and theatre and film. She thought he would be an interesting person to have around, entertaining, full of new ideas.
‘I wonder if you’d agree to have a meal with me sometime,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much scope for cooking where I am, but perhaps we could go out.’
The invitation shocked her. After Perez’s diffidence, there was something daring about the way Wilding simply asked for what he wanted. And she couldn’t help being flattered. It sounded like an invitation to a date, but she could hardly say she was unavailable for romance. Perhaps he just wanted to discuss her art, to commission a work from her.
‘Yes,’ she found herself saying. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He gave a quick nod. ‘Good. Are you in the phone book? Then I’ll give you a ring.’ He turned and walked quickly the way he’d come. Later it seemed strange to her that neither of them had mentioned the dead man who was still hanging in the hut on the jetty, the police officers and the cars. Because she was sure Wilding would have known what had happened there. He was the sort of man who would know.
Chapter Eight
Perez took Roddy outside. ‘Shall we just take a bit of a walk? I could do with the fresh air.’ He didn’t want a conversation in front of the two women. Roddy revelled in an audience. He would make things up to provide a decent story, feel an obligation to entertain them. Roddy pulled a face, as if fresh air was the last thing he needed, but followed Perez out anyway. It was in his nature to please, even if there was no immediate payback. He made a good living because he was charming.
As they left the house, Perez heard Fran tell Bella that she would leave too. He supposed she had to pick Cassie up from school, imagined her waiting at the school gate and swinging Cassie into her arms as the girl ran to her out of the yard. He loved watching the two of them together.
Roddy walked ahead of him out of the garden between the big stone gateposts. He had a long, bouncing stride and Perez had to step out to keep up. ‘What were you doing in the Herring House last night?’ he said. ‘I thought you only played fancy gigs these days.’
‘Bella asked. I was in Orkney anyway for the St Magnus Festival. It didn’t seem such a big deal to come on up.’ He paused. ‘My aunt doesn’t really take no for an answer.’
‘How long are you planning to stay?’
‘A few days. Then there’s a tour of Australia. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never done Oz before.’
‘Do you always stay with Bella while you’re in Shetland?’
‘Usually. She’s the only family I have here now.’ He didn’t need to explain. This was another myth and he would assume that Perez would know. How his dad had died when he was a boy and his mother had fallen for an American oilman, gone back to Houston with him. How Roddy had refused to leave. Aged thirteen he’d stood up to them all, said he couldn’t leave the islands. He was a Shetlander. It was the story that had appeared on CD covers and had been told to chat-show hosts. ‘I’m a Shetlander.’ And didn’t the islands love him for it! Bella had provided a home for him. Spoiled him rotten, according to Kenny Thomson. Turned him into a performer. Encouraged his ambition. Funded the first CD. Designed the cover and sent it off to all her arty friends in the south. That story didn’t appear so much in the papers. The official version had it that he was discovered by a producer who happened to be in Lerwick on holiday and heard Roddy play at the Lounge, the bar in town. In that version Roddy was an overnight success.
‘You don’t mind her wheeling you out to support her openings?’
‘Why should I? I owe her. Besides, her events are always a bit of a laugh.’ He was walking beside Perez along
