‘Cedric!’ A man’s voice. Not angry, but almost pleading. ‘Cedric! Are you there? What do you want from me?’
Ronald Clouston was suddenly visible caught in the beam of a powerful spotlight. It looked like a searchlight swinging over no man’s land, and he was trapped in its beam, frozen and horrified. He was standing next to the trench of the dig and in the background there was the spoil heap, still shrouded in mist. Perez thought it would only take a high wall topped with barbed wire to turn this into a scene from a Cold War spy movie. Over his arm Ronald carried a shotgun.
‘Cedric.’ This time the man’s voice was firmer. ‘Stop playing games, man, we can talk about this.’
‘Cedric won’t be here.’ It was Sandy, armed with nothing more than the powerful torch. Ronald squinted his eyes against the light. Perez ran behind the men, keeping in the shadows. He crouched and waited. Even from those first four words Perez could tell Sandy was furious, angrier than he’d ever been in his life.
‘What will you do now, Ronald?’ Sandy yelled. ‘Will you shoot me too? It’s a misty night. You could say you were out after rabbits. Or will you hit me over the head with a rock and slit my wrists? Like you did to the young lass from the south.’ There was a pause and it sounded to Perez as if Sandy was sobbing. ‘How could you do that, Ronald? To a young girl?’
Clouston stood quite still in the fog and said nothing.
‘What was this all about?’ Sandy went on. ‘Family pride? Did two people have to die for the Clouston family pride?’
‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ At last Ronald was provoked to speech. The words came out as a roar. ‘Pride had nothing to do with it. This was all about money.’
He raised the shotgun. Sandy stood, his arms out wide, still holding the torch in one hand. Perez ran out into the light.
‘Give me the gun,’ he said. He spoke very slowly and quietly. ‘You can’t shoot the both of us at once.’
Ronald turned, hesitated for a moment. The inspector reached out and lifted the gun from his hands. There was a moment of resistance then he gave it up without a struggle, grateful, Perez thought, not to have to make the decision to use it. Perez dropped the gun on to the ground, then pulled Ronald’s arms behind his back so he could cuff his wrists. For a moment they stood very close as if they were performing a strange dance. Sandy lowered his hands. The inspector realized then that Sandy hadn’t known Perez was there. He’d expected to die at the hands of his friend. History repeating itself.
Chapter Forty-four
In the police station on the hill Perez sat in the interview room and waited for Ronald Clouston to come in with his lawyer. It was still dark. Perez stood at the narrow window and looked down at the lights of the town. At the end of January, during Up Helly Aa, the guizers would march right past here and there’d be the sound of pipes and chanting men, the pavements packed with watching people, their faces lit by the burning torches. Now everything was quiet.
In the corridor outside he heard murmured voices. The door opened and Ronald Clouston came in with a middle-aged lawyer and Perez’s colleague Morag. The conversation had been between the professionals; Ronald seemed to be sleepwalking. He was quite calm but his eyes were glazed. He stood by the table and would have remained standing if his lawyer hadn’t touched his shoulder and gestured for him to sit down.
Perez switched on the tape recorder, gave the date and the time, listed the people present. Then he sat for a moment. It should be his moment of triumph, but he was only aware of a terrible sadness. The story of Ronald Clouston and the Whalsay murders would be passed on like the tale of the dead medieval merchant, the Shetland Bus and Mima’s infidelity. The real and personal tragedies would be lost in the telling.
‘Why did you kill Mima Wilson?’
No answer.
‘I think it was because your father told you to.’ Perez could have been talking to himself. ‘You always did what your father told you to, didn’t you? Even after he had his stroke, he was really in charge in the big house. You could never stand up to him. He told you to leave university and work on the
Ronald looked up, his eyes focused on Perez for the first time. ‘Anna has nothing to do with this. Leave her out of it.’
‘She will have to deal with it though. With having a husband who’s a murderer. Your son will have to deal with it.’ Then, hardly missing a beat. ‘When did you first find out your grandfather was a murderer? Were you still a peerie boy?’
They stared at each other.
Even now and knowing what the man had done, Perez suddenly felt a trickle of pity for him.
Ronald began to talk: ‘Father told me when I was taking my Highers. I was planning to go to university. Mother was fine with that but my father was furious. My place was with the family and the boat. “You don’t know what we’ve been through to achieve all this. And now you want to throw it all away.” That was when he told me.’
‘But you still went off to take your degree?’
‘Yes, I still went off. After what he told me I wanted nothing to do with the boat. I thought I’d never go back to Whalsay.’
‘You changed your mind when your father was ill?’
There was another moment of silence.
‘I suppose it was a matter of loyalty,’ Ronald said.
‘And money!’ Perez was surprised by how hard and bitter he sounded. He hardly recognized his own voice. ‘You told me yourself the money was addictive. Did you miss the good life while you were away in the south?’
Ronald said nothing.
Your father welcomed you back,’ Perez went on. ‘The prodigal son!’
Now Ronald spoke. ‘I’ll not discuss my father’s part in all this. He’s an old man and he’s ill. I confess to the murders. He should be left to live his life in peace.’
Perez felt a sudden jolt of fury. No pity now. ‘Really, I think that’s the last thing he deserves.’
Ronald looked away.
Perez took a breath. ‘So, you refuse a discussion. Let me tell you a story then. Let me explain what’s been going on here.’ In his head Perez still had the image of Hattie’s body lying in the trench in the blood, and he wondered how he could sit here having a reasoned conversation with her killer, how he could have felt that moment of pity.
He started to speak, directing his words at Ronald as if they were the only people in the room, talking only just loudly enough for the tape machine to pick up his voice. ‘It’s the war. We have three brave Whalsay men working with the Shetland Bus: Jerry Wilson, Cedric Irvine, whose son now runs the Pier House, and your grandfather Andy Clouston. Saving lives. Then along comes a young Norwegian man. Per. He was brave too and deserves the dignity of a name. He’d come to Britain for a special purpose, more an accountant than a soldier, to collect money to finance the work of the resistance.’
Ronald’s eyes widened.
‘How do I know that?’ Perez went on. ‘Because a detective digs into the past. I’m an archaeologist too. I’ve spoken to the Norwegian Embassy and to historians here in Shetland. When Per disappeared he was carrying a fortune in Norwegian currency, sealed up in half a dozen tobacco tins.’ He looked up. ‘It sounds like a child’s tale, doesn’t it? An adventure story or one of the trowie myths. Buried treasure. Unreal. But it was real enough at the time. Until the fortune disappeared and everyone assumed that Per had turned traitor and taken the money with
