White Nights - Ann Cleeves [115]
The wrought-iron gates had been pushed open so Perez could pull on to the drive. The gravel was so pierced by weeds and flowers that it looked like an alpine garden. He parked in front of the house and saw Wilding standing at the front step. Like an English laird, Perez thought. And he was wearing corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket to complete the picture. The man was beaming. If he had any anxiety about the interview he was hiding it well.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’m so excited that this place is mine. I fell in love with it the minute I saw it. I know it’s dreadful to feel like this when other people are grieving, but I’ve dreamed of having my own place on Shetland since I first saw Bella’s paintings. I never thought I’d get somewhere so delicious.’ He opened the double doors and let Perez into a wide hall. Specks of dust twisted in the sunlight. ‘I’ve brought the essentials,’ he said. ‘Coffee and biscuits, and I’ve arranged for the electricity to be switched on.’
He led Perez into a room, which was empty except for an unidentifiable item of furniture shrouded by a dust-sheet. It wasn’t such a big house, Perez saw now. Two living rooms facing the sea, with a kitchen and bathroom at the back. Probably three bedrooms upstairs. Smaller certainly than the Manse. Wilding was bent over a kettle, which he’d plugged into an ancient socket close to the floor. He spooned coffee into a jug, added the water carefully. ‘You do have it black, don’t you, inspector? You see, I remembered.’ He polished a mug on his shirt and poured the coffee through a fine strainer. ‘The best I can do in the circumstances, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Shall we take it outside, make the most of the weather?’
They sat on a drystone wall looking down over the beach and the flat island at the mouth of the bay.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been to Biddista before?’ Perez looked at the horizon.
‘I’m not sure that you asked.’
‘You didn’t tell Bella that you’d met before, that you’d been a guest in her house?’
‘Well, I thought that might be a little ungallant.’ Wilding turned to Perez and smiled. ‘It might imply that her memory was failing her. Or that I should mean more to her than I obviously do. I thought too that she might prefer to forget that summer.’
‘Why would she want to do that?’
‘It was a rather wild time. Frantic. We all have a little more dignity these days.’
‘How did you come to be there?’
‘She invited me. We met on a train. The sleeper which went then from London to Aberdeen. Perhaps it still does. I was on my way to Dundee to talk at a literary lunch and she was going home. Neither of us had berths booked and we sat up all night drinking and talking. One of those memorable, strange encounters that can change your life. “Come and stay. I love creative people.” She was, still is, so charismatic, don’t you think? I was bewitched. So after the gig in Dundee I went on to Aberdeen and got the ferry north, took her at her word. The old St Clare: oilmen boozing in the bar and kids dossing on deck in sleeping bags. When I turned up at the Manse I’m not entirely sure she knew who I was even then. She’d had a lot to drink in the train. I’d imagined a love affair, that she’d invited me because we were in some way kindred spirits, but the house was full of people.’
He turned to Perez and smiled. ‘It was a little humiliating. I turned up on the doorstep with champagne and chocolates and there was a blank stare before she welcomed me in. You can see why I didn’t want to repeat that experience a second time. If she wasn’t going to know me after two days, she was hardly likely to remember after nearly fifteen years.’
‘Who else was staying that summer?’
‘I’m not sure. A couple of young men, art students from Glasgow.’
‘Jeremy Booth,’ Perez said. ‘He was there.’
‘The man who died at the Biddista jetty?’ Wilding seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Was he?’
‘You don’t remember