‘Just his first name. And that wasn’t anything I’d heard before. I thought maybe it was something popular in the south. Or a nickname.’
‘So what was that?’ Perez thought that soon even his patience would run out.
‘Jem. Not Jim. Jem.’
Before he left the ferry terminal for Victoria Pier, Perez phoned Sandy and asked about the bag. There’d been a search around the jetty at Biddista, but he wasn’t sure how far it had extended along the beach. He couldn’t believe they’d have missed it, but he needed to check.
He drove too fast into the town. He had a sudden panic that he would arrive at the pier and find the theatre ship had gone, but it was still there, moored near the end of the jetty. A big new banner strapped to the wooden hull read LAST PERFORMANCE SATURDAY.
A young woman was sitting on the deck, sunning herself like a cat. She wore cropped jeans and a long red jumper and there was something feline about the flat face and the green eyes narrowed and lengthened by black eyeliner. She was leaning against the cabin and had a script on her knee but seemed not to be reading it.
‘Excuse me.’
She looked up and smiled. ‘Do you want tickets for tonight? I think there are a couple left. It’s well worth seeing.’
‘Are you one of the actors?’
‘Actor, set designer, front-of-house manager, general dogsbody. Hang on a minute and I’ll fetch the tickets.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the show’s great, but that’s not why I’m here.’ He stepped aboard, thinking this was a lovely old vessel, the timbers weathered, honey-coloured. ‘My name’s Jimmy Perez and I work for Shetland Police.’
‘Lucy Wells.’ She remained where she was sitting.
‘Did you hear about the guy who was killed in Biddista earlier in the week?’
‘No. Shit.’
‘It’s been all over the news. He was found hanging in the boathouse there. He’d been strangled.’
‘It’s crazy,’ she said. ‘Life on the boat. Like living in a bubble. You’re rehearsing for the next show during the day and performing at night. The country could have gone to war and I’d not have known about it.’
‘Are you missing one of your actors?’
‘No.’
He had been so certain that the dead man had been part of the theatre group that the answer threw him.
‘A middle-aged man. Shaved head.’
‘Sounds like Jem,’ she said, ‘but he wasn’t part of the group. Not really. He was more of a hanger-on. A friend of the management. And he didn’t go missing. We knew he was leaving.’
‘We think he might be the dead man,’ Perez said. ‘Would you be able to identify him from a photo?’
She nodded. He saw she had started to cry.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry, it’s just a shock. I didn’t even like him particularly. He was a bit of a nuisance. Not his fault, he was pleasant enough, but the accommodation here is cramped as it is and he was foisted on to us. It’s horrible to think he’s dead. I couldn’t wait to see the back of him, so it’s almost as if it’s my fault. Wish fulfilment.’
‘What was Jem’s full name?’
‘Booth. Jeremy Booth.’
‘How did he land up with you?’
‘Like I said, he’s a friend of the management. He was one of the original team.
‘What was he doing in Shetland?’
‘Who knows? None of us took a lot of notice of him. He was full of himself and his own importance. He made out that he was here on some mysterious mission. The deal of a lifetime. We thought it was all crap and we were just pleased he was leaving.’
‘If you could remember exactly what Mr Booth said about the deal, it would be very useful. Even a small detail might help.’ Perez paused.
There was a moment of silence. She set the script carefully face-down on the deck. Then she closed her eyes.
‘He talked about a weird coincidence. “A blast from the past. A rave from the grave.” That was the way he spoke. You know, kind of knowing, self-mocking, but still thinking he was hip. He was a joker, one of those people who are full of gags that never quite make you laugh. He said there was a nice little deal which would set him up for a few years if he could play it right.’
‘Did he mention any names?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. Like I said, he enjoyed being mysterious.’
‘When did he arrive with you?’
‘The twenty-second. Two days after
‘Did he come on the plane or the ferry?’
‘The ferry. It was a tiny bit bumpy when he came across and he was ill. You wouldn’t believe the fuss he made. The next day he went off somewhere. He was back that night, then we didn’t see him again.’
If he’d arrived on the ferry, Stuart Leask would have access to all the man’s contact details, Perez thought. In an hour they’d have a full name and address, a phone number and access to a credit-card account. Their victim was no longer anonymous. The investigation was suddenly more manageable. More ordinary.
‘Did he tell you where he came from?’ Perez was interested in what the victim had said about himself, to find out how close it was to the truth.
‘He ran a drama-in-education company in West Yorkshire. “I’ve always believed in community-based theatre, darling. Really, it’s the most worthwhile work you can do.” Which probably means regular theatre wouldn’t employ him and he’d conned funding out of the Arts Council to set up on his own.’
‘You’re very cynical,’ Perez said.
‘It’s the business. We all start off imagining work with the RSC and end up spouting crap lines to three deaf old ladies for the Equity minimum.’
‘You could give up. You’re young.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But I still have the dream. I can still see my name in lights in the West End.’
He couldn’t quite tell whether or not she was joking. He pushed himself away from the rail, so he was standing upright.
‘Just a minute.’ She sprang to her feet and disappeared below deck. When she returned she was holding some tickets. ‘Comps for Saturday. See if you can make it. I’m really rather good.’
There was something desperate in the way she spoke. He thought if he rejected the tickets she would see it as a rejection of her. He took them awkwardly, then mumbled that he was very busy, but he’d make it if he could.
When he got into his car she was still watching him.
He phoned the station and spoke first to Sandy.
‘Any news on the victim’s bag?’
‘Well it’s definitely not on the beach.’
Perez asked to be put through to Taylor. ‘I’ve got an identity for our victim.’
‘So have I,’ Taylor said. Perez could hear the smirk, the self-satisfaction. ‘Jeremy Booth. Lives in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire. Runs some sort of theatre group. We’ve just had a phone call from a young woman who works with him. She saw the photo in one of the nationals.’
Perez had nothing to say. Let Taylor have his moment of glory. It was good to have the identity of the victim confirmed.
‘I was thinking someone should go down there,’ Taylor went on, ‘to check out his house and talk to his
