colleagues. Do you want to do it?’
Perez was tempted. England was still a foreign country. There would be the thrill of exploration. But, he thought, this was a Shetland murder. The victim might have been an incomer, but the answer to his death lay here.
Taylor was obviously becoming impatient. He hated waiting for the answer. ‘Well? Or would you rather I go?’
Then Perez realized Taylor was itching to take on the job. This was what he liked best about policing. The chase. He would adore the last-minute flights and hurried arrangements. The overnight drive. Gallons of coffee in empty service stations. And once he arrived he’d get answers immediately, firing away questions, blasting through the uncertainty with his energy.
‘You go,’ Perez said. ‘You’d do it much better than me.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Taylor picked up the last flight out of Shetland that day, then blustered his way on to a packed BA plane from Aberdeen to Manchester. There was a group of oilmen on the flight; they’d just finished a stint on the rigs and were rowdy, determined to celebrate. A couple of them came from Liverpool and, trying to catch an hour’s sleep, Taylor felt the old resentment against his home city coming back. Resentment mixed with a strange kind of kindred spirit.
At Manchester Airport he picked up a hire car and as he hit the M62 he realized he was only half an hour from home. Turn west and he could be there before his brothers were back from the pub. How would they receive him if he knocked on the door, a bottle of whisky under his arm and a dopey grin on his face?
Becoming a cop had been seen as a betrayal. He’d joined up on the wrong side in the class war. Even now that the boundaries were blurred he didn’t think that would ever be forgiven.
He took the road to the east. It was dark and he could tell he was climbing the Pennines because of the absence of lights, not because of the view. The motorway was unusually empty and he found himself running over a fantasy in his head. About how he’d track down some fact or relationship that explained Booth’s death so far away from home. How his Liverpool relations would see him on the national TV news talking about the arrest. He’d come across as calm and modest, but everyone would know that the conviction was down to him.
On the way into Huddersfield he checked into a Travel Inn, picking up the last room on a cancellation. The adjoining pub had stopped serving food, so he ate all the biscuits in his room and went to bed. Surprisingly for him, he fell straight asleep. It was a relief to have a dark night. Shetland was unnatural, he thought. The spooky half-light which never disappeared really freaked him out. That’s why he’d slept so poorly the night before. Perhaps it was the extreme of the dark winters and sleepless summers that made the people so odd. He could never live there.
He woke very early and was on the road before six, picking up a bacon sandwich from a truckers’ cafe and eating in the car as he continued to drive. He’d been given the mobile number of a local DC, a woman called Jebson, but waited until seven before he called.
‘I wasn’t expecting you till later.’ She was brusque and graceless, though he could tell he hadn’t woken her.
‘Well, I’m here now. Can we meet at Booth’s house?’
‘If you like.’ She sounded less than thrilled. ‘But I can’t be there till eight-thirty.’ He heard a child’s voice in the background and thought that was the problem with women in the service. Work never came first with them. It was either their men or their kids. He was about to comment but thought better of it. It would only take one complaint from a lass with a chip on her shoulder for his whole career to go down the pan. He’d seen it happen. And just when he seemed to be getting a bit of recognition that was the last thing he needed. ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Eight- thirty.’
In Denby Dale he found the house from her directions. ‘Director of a theatre company’ had sounded quite grand and he’d been expecting something more impressive than a mid-terrace cottage leading straight off the street. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and get a feel for the place.
A neighbour opened her door a crack to bring in a bottle of milk. Through the narrow slit he saw she was wearing a dressing gown which slipped to reveal one bare leg. He couldn’t make out her face, just an arm reaching out to the doorstep.
‘Excuse me. Police. Have you got a minute?’
He’d startled her. The milk remained where it was. She opened the door a little wider, pulled her dressing gown around her. She was middle-aged but wearing well.
‘Could we have a chat?’ he said. ‘It’ll not take long.’
An animal-feed lorry rolled past, bringing with it a strange yeasty smell. ‘You’d best come in,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly decent for talking in the street.’
Her name was Mandy and she was a library assistant in Huddersfield, divorced, the kids all grown up. Today she wasn’t starting work till midday.
‘What was he like then, the bloke next door?’
Taylor was sitting at the table in the small kitchen. She’d made him tea, very strong, and there was bread in the toaster.
‘Why? What’s happened to him?’ She’d lit a cigarette. ‘The first of the day,’ she said, relishing it. There were times when Taylor wished he still smoked.
‘Didn’t you see his picture in the paper?’
‘I don’t bother with a paper these days.’
‘He’s dead,’ Taylor said. ‘He was found strangled in Shetland.’
‘Where?’ She was curious but she didn’t seem terribly upset that her neighbour had died.
‘The Shetland Islands. Right off the north of Scotland.’
‘Oh.’ She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in her saucer. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen him lately, but he keeps strange hours. I suppose the house’ll be up for sale. I hope we don’t get a noisy bugger moving in.’
‘Was Mr Booth noisy?’
‘Not really. Occasionally he’d have friends in late. I’d hear them talking, maybe a bit of music, but they weren’t rowdy. Nothing you could complain about.’
‘How long had he lived there?’
‘About five years. He moved in after me.’
‘Was he on his own for the whole of that time? No girlfriends? Boyfriends?’
‘He wasn’t gay,’ she said seriously. ‘At least I don’t think he was. He’d been married once. And he’d had a child. But he left them. Quite suddenly.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘He told me,’ she said.
‘Close, were you?’
‘No. We lived our own lives. I don’t want the whole village knowing my business and nor did he. But one night he’d locked himself out of his house. He’d left all his keys in the Mill. There was a lass who works for him, lives in Huddersfield, and she had a set, but it took a while to get hold of her so he waited in mine. I’d just opened a bottle of wine and we ended up sharing it. It was the only time we really talked. That was the time he told me about his wife. He regretted just walking out on her, but she didn’t understand his dreams.’ She paused, looked at Taylor. ‘Dreams! You’re all the same, you men. Selfish bastards.’
Taylor wanted to reply that in his experience it was the women who were the dreamy ones, but he made no comment. ‘He didn’t tell you he was going away this time, then?’
‘No. Like I said, we weren’t that sort of neighbours. I just noticed that I’d not seen him around for a few days.’
The toaster popped. She nodded towards it. ‘Do you fancy a piece?’
But Taylor didn’t have anything else to say and couldn’t imagine sitting at her table making polite conversation.
