White Nights - Ann Cleeves [125]
She stared at him. ‘I can’t believe you asked me that.’ He saw he’d pushed her too far, but couldn’t help continuing.
‘You might have heard something. People talking. I know you weren’t involved. You weren’t living in Shetland when all this started. But someone in Biddista knows.’
‘I can’t talk about this now. I want to get home, spend some time with my daughter. If you have more questions come to Biddista later when she’s asleep. I’d rather have Martin there anyway. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t do this on my own.’
Perez thought how Dawn had been when he’d first met her. A strong and confident woman. This is what violence does, he thought. It makes victims of us all.
Chapter Forty-two
Perhaps it would be better talking to Dawn and Martin together, Perez thought. He drove out of Middleton a little way on the Lerwick road. He didn’t still want to be parked in the playground when Dawn came out of the school. She was jumpy enough and he didn’t want to scare her, didn’t want her thinking he was watching her. He pulled in to the side of the road, next to a few scrubby trees someone must have planted years ago as a windbreak, and made plans for the rest of the evening.
He thought he should call in on Kenny while he was waiting for Dawn to get Alice to bed. He could take the swab for the DNA. But didn’t think he could face talking to the crofter just yet. It came to him again that he needed hot food and a bath. And that would give him time on his own to order his thoughts. He was groping towards a solution but had no evidence. He still couldn’t see any way of obtaining sufficient proof to allow an arrest.
He drove back to Lerwick and parked in the lane outside his house. Inside he opened the windows, so the breeze blew the curtains and rattled the doors. A neighbour had the radio on and the sound blew in too. Perez recognized a track from the latest Roddy Sinclair album. He scrambled eggs and made toast and coffee and ate the food with the plate on his lap, perched in the window seat, watching the Bressay ferry make its way across to the island. Then he ran a deep hot bath and lay in the water, almost dozing, letting various scenarios around the case play in his head. He wasn’t usually one for conspiracy theories, but this time he allowed himself to consider the most preposterous ideas. Investigation was all about ‘What if . . .’ He thought Wilding must play the same games while he was writing his stories.
Before leaving the house he phoned Taylor, using his mobile number because he thought surely by now the man would have left the police station. The Englishman was staying in exactly the same room in the same hotel as in the previous investigation. Perez had picked him up from there once and it had been as tidy as a cubicle in a military barracks. It was hard to believe the bed had been slept in; his clothes were neatly folded. On the dressing table a pen, a brush and a notepad had stood in a precise line. Perez wondered whether Taylor ever relaxed.
Certainly he wasn’t relaxing now, because it was clear from the background sounds that he was still at work.
‘Yes?’
‘Did your friends in West Yorkshire mention finding any photographs in Booth’s house?’ Perez had returned to his seat at the window. ‘Someone was obviously taking pictures that summer because we have the group photo with Bella and the men. I wondered if there were any others.’
There was a silence. Taylor was trying to follow his reasoning. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Jimmy?’
Now Perez hesitated. ‘I need to talk to the Williamsons again,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going in to get that swab from Kenny. Do you want to meet me in Biddista later? Or maybe you’d rather get to your bed?’
‘No point,’ Taylor said. ‘I thought winter was bad enough here, but I’d survive that better than these crazy light nights. I know I’ve not been the easiest person to work with on this case.