White Nights - Ann Cleeves [34]
Wilding was sitting in the upstairs window, looking out, just as Martin had described. The fog had made the day so gloomy that he’d switched on a light in the room. Perez could only see him when he reached the end of the terrace and even then the view wasn’t so good. He thought the man had been watching him all along, from the moment he’d pulled up in his car. He’d have watched Perez go to Skoles and to the Manse, seen him in the shop and in Aggie’s house. It seemed odd to him that a man should take so much interest in the trivia of everyday life. In Perez’s experience, women were the nosy ones. Why would this Englishman care what the people of Biddista got up to? But Wilding’s curiosity might be useful. There was a real possibility that he’d seen the stranger.
The writer must just have seen Perez as a silhouette coming out of the mist. Why is he still sitting there, Perez thought, when there’s nothing to see? As soon as he knocked on the door, Wilding left his place at the window. Perez heard footsteps on wooden floorboards, a key turning in the lock. The door must have warped because it stuck against the frame. Did the locked door mean the man hadn’t been out yet that day? Or that security was a habit brought up from the south?
He recognized Wilding as soon as he came to the door as the dark man who’d been talking to Fran at the gallery. He was tall, rather good-looking, Perez saw now. He was wearing a striped collarless cotton shirt and jeans, canvas shoes. The writer smiled. He didn’t speak but waited for his visitor to explain himself. Perez found the silence disconcerting.
Perez supposed he should show his warrant card, but couldn’t quite remember what he’d done with it and introduced himself instead. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.’
‘Oh, please do. Any excuse to stop staring at a blank laptop screen.’ It was a rich voice, as if he was constantly amused by a private joke. Perez had imagined a writer with a deadline to meet as brooding, self-absorbed, but now there was no hint of that. The man stood aside. ‘I noticed that there’s been some activity on the jetty. Is it about that, I wonder?’ Perez remained silent. ‘Oh well,’ Wilding went on. ‘No doubt you’ll tell me when you’re ready.’ His eyes were so blue that Perez wondered if he was wearing coloured contact lenses. It pleased him to think of Wilding as vain.
Willy Jamieson had been born in this house and lived in it until he’d moved into sheltered housing. He’d scratched a living from fishing and, when he was younger, from odd bits of work for the council. Perez could remember seeing him by the side of the road sometimes, helping the contractors lay new tarmac. He’d never married, and when he’d moved out the house was in much the same state as the day his parents had moved in. Perez supposed that he’d bought it from the council. Wilding must be the owner now, or be renting it privately. He was hardly a normal council tenant.
Inside the house, Perez could see across a passageway into a small kitchen which held a deep sink with one tap and a Calor gas stove. The table, folded against one wall, looked as if it had been left behind by Willy. There were no fitted cupboards, no washing machine. The only additions were a small fridge, balanced on the workbench, and a coffee grinder. The place had an air of impermanence. A squat. It was as if Wilding were camping out here.
Wilding seemed untroubled that Perez could see the primitive nature of his domestic arrangements and gave another of his smiles. ‘Let’s go upstairs. It’s more civilized there. Can I make you tea? I’m sure Aggie will