He circled round the back of the sheep, moving slowly so he shouldn’t scare her. He didn’t think he’d have any chance of bringing her up if she went any deeper. Then he was there, right behind her, standing on the same ledge, arms outstretched so she wouldn’t get past him.
‘Go on, girl. Up you go.’
All of a sudden she scrambled up, not following the tracks but taking the direct route to the top, floundering, her feet somehow getting purchase. All he could see was the mucky behind, the loose curls of fleece. Then she was over the edge and invisible to him.
He stood where he was and looked down. Here everything was in shadow, the sun too low to reach this depth. Very few people in the world had seen this view. The only child in Biddista now was Alice Williamson, and her family didn’t let her run loose on the hill. Martin and Dawn would have a fit if she climbed down here, though Bella hadn’t been much older when she’d first made it to the bottom. She’d been as reckless as any of the boys. Kenny could see the round boulders which had been carried in on full tides, the puddle of brackish water left behind when the sea retreated.
Then he saw a splash of colour against the grey of the rocks. Because he’d been thinking about Alice Williamson, there was a heart-stopping moment when he thought it could be her. That she’d finally broken free from the protective parents, run up on to the hill and lost her footing. He imagined her tumbling over and over down the slope, her head smacking on a boulder, her skull smashing like an eggshell.
But it couldn’t be the child lying down there. The figure was too big. His eyes must be playing tricks. Edith was always telling him he needed glasses and he’d been aware of it himself. He shouldn’t be so proud. He should get himself into Lerwick for an eye test. It was probably one of those blue plastic sacks the fertilizer came in. He was tempted to turn his back on it and return up the slope to where the dog was lying on the grass waiting.
As he was thinking that he was slithering further down. The light faded the further he went. There was the smell of rotting seaweed.
Roddy Sinclair was dead. Kenny didn’t need new glasses to tell him that. The body was twisted and his head was smashed on a rock, just as he’d imagined Alice Williamson’s to be. He knew he should get to the surface again as soon as he could. He should run back to the house and get on the phone to Jimmy Perez. But he wasn’t sure how he’d do it. His legs had turned to water and he was exhausted. Only the horror of being here, next to the broken body of the boy, set him on his way.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Perez had spent the day in Lerwick, a frustrating round of phone calls and emails trying to track Booth’s movements since his arrival in Shetland. The incident room was airless and overheated and despite the impetus given to the investigation by the identification of the victim, by late afternoon he felt little had been achieved. After work he set off to Ravenswick, to Fran’s house. He hadn’t phoned in advance to say he was coming and felt ridiculously nervous. He’d been looking forward to seeing her all day and worried, as he always did, that he wouldn’t live up to her expectations.
Cassie was sitting at the kitchen table reading a schoolbook. She was frowning in concentration. There was a smudge of paint on her cheek and he thought how she was growing to look very like her mother. He stood awkwardly on the doorstep, afraid of intruding, of doing the wrong thing.
‘Is this not a good time?’
‘Of course it is.’ Fran stood aside to let him in. ‘Tea? Beer?’
He sat next to Cassie and asked her how things were going at school, but all the time he was thinking that Fran seemed a little uncomfortable too. He always thought of her as the confident one and wondered what she could be nervous about. She put the kettle on, then told Cassie that was enough homework for one night, and what about a DVD for a treat?
When Cassie was settled they took their drinks outside.
‘We’ve found out who the murder victim is,’ Perez said. ‘It’ll be all over the news tomorrow. I wanted to tell you. He was an actor. A man called Jeremy Booth.’
She shook her head. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘He comes from Yorkshire.’
‘Sorry. I still can’t help.’
They sat in silence. On the hill behind them a curlew was calling.
‘I met Peter Wilding for lunch yesterday,’ she said at last. She was twisting the mug of tea in her hands. He could tell this was the cause of her tension. He wasn’t sure how he should react and ended up saying nothing.
‘He plans to stay in Shetland. He’s put in an offer on a house in Buness. Do you know it? The big place right by the beach.’
‘Very nice.’ Then, sensing more was required, ‘It’ll take some work to get it fit for living in.’ His head was bursting with questions about what had happened and why she’d gone with Wilding in the first place, but maybe none of that was his business.
‘I’m not sure why he asked me to meet him,’ she said. ‘I think he hoped I might have some information about the investigation. That’s how it seemed.’
‘And he fancies the pants off you,’ he said. ‘That might have had something to do with it.’
She gave him a big grin. ‘Maybe he does,’ she said. ‘But there was more to it than that. He has this intense way of asking questions.’
‘You believe he might be involved in some way with Booth’s death?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not saying that. He’s a writer. Naturally curious. I’m sure that’s all it is.’
The thought came into Perez’s head that it would suit him very nicely if Wilding turned out to be a murderer. He hated the idea of the man living in Buness, which wasn’t so far from Fran. But he knew that was a dangerous way to think. If you hoped for a certain outcome in an investigation, you lost perspective, saw shadows that didn’t exist, ignored other possible scenarios.
‘Have you eaten yet?’ she asked. ‘If you can wait until I’ve got Cassie to bed, I can pull together a meal for us.’
‘I’d like that.’
They were at the table when the phone call came. It was on the landline and Perez had no thought that it might be for him. He sliced bread and helped himself to salad while she answered it. She frowned, handed him the receiver. ‘It’s Sandy for you.’
It was Sandy at his worst. Childish. Full of himself. ‘I tried you at home, boss. And I couldn’t get a signal on your mobile. Thought I might find you at Mrs Hunter’s…’
‘What can I do for you?’ Across the table Fran was pulling silly faces at him.
‘There’s been another death.’ Sandy paused. He’d developed a sense of the dramatic.
‘Who?’
‘Roddy Sinclair. Kenny Thomson found him at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista. I sent Robert, the new PC who’s based in Whiteness, to confirm it. It’s definitely Sinclair. Could have been an accident.’
‘A bit of a coincidence.’ Perez thought of his sense that Roddy had something to confide and knew that this was no accident. He remembered the walk he’d taken with the boy, the morning they’d found Booth’s body. Roddy had grown up there. He wasn’t the sort to fall. He pictured Roddy playing the fiddle at the Herring House party, caught in the spotlight of the evening sunshine, dancing. He was as lithe and nimble as one of the feral cats that lived on the cliffs. He’d liked the boy and was overcome by a sense of waste.
‘Does Bella know?’
‘Not yet,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought I’d best get hold of you first.’
‘Good, I want to tell her.’ Roddy had been Bella’s golden boy. His death would devastate her. Perez felt a stab of pity, then the thought of work took over. Bella had been playing games with him throughout the investigation. The shock of her nephew’s death might persuade her to talk.
‘You’d best be quick then. You know how news gets out.’
‘I don’t think Kenny will be on the phone to her. He and Bella aren’t that close and he’s not the sort to blab. But
