White Nights - Ann Cleeves [35]
Perez was tempted by the coffee. It would be a long day and he would need something to keep awake and alert.
‘Coffee would be fine.’ He paused. ‘One of my luxuries too.’
‘Ah! Another addict! I can recognize the signs. Splendid. Go in and make yourself at home. The room at the front. I’ll not keep you waiting long.’
He had followed Perez halfway up the stairs, but now he turned and went back to the kitchen, moving very lightly for such a tall man. All his movements were easy and unhurried. It was as if he’d expected a visitor and had planned in advance the words he would use and the way he would move.
As Wilding had said, the workroom was more civilized. The bare, unvarnished floorboards were hidden by a woven rug in the middle of the room. The desk was old, leather-topped and obviously his own. He’d made some makeshift shelves from bricks and planks and they were crammed with books. There was a CD player and a rack of discs. A large unframed canvas hung on one wall. It was of a field of hay, which had been cut and piled into untidy heaps, under a fierce yellow light. Perez thought it might be by Bella Sinclair and felt ridiculously pleased with himself when he approached and saw the signature. He would tell Fran later. He was still staring at it when Wilding came in, pushing the door open with his foot. He was carrying a cafetiere and two mugs on a tray, a box of shop-bought cakes. He had learned the convention of island entertaining. It was considered impossibly rude not to offer a guest something sweet to eat.
‘I don’t have any milk,’ he said, in no way apologetic. ‘But I could run to the shop if you’re desperate.’
‘I drink it black.’
‘Splendid.’ A favourite word. ‘You have the chair, inspector. I’m quite happy on the floor.’ And he lounged, legs outstretched, still managing to dominate the room.
Perez would have liked a cake, but it seemed they were just there for show. He couldn’t ask for one without seeming greedy. ‘Martin says you’re a writer.’ Perez was interested in the man, his profession. Every witness statement and confession was part fiction, but he couldn’t imagine conjuring a whole story from thin air, couldn’t see where you would start. ‘Do you write under your own name?’
Wilding laughed. ‘Oh yes, inspector, but don’t worry if you’ve never heard of me. Few people have. I write fantasy, an acquired taste.’ He seemed rather pleased that he was unknown. ‘Fortunately I do quite well in the States and Japan.’
Perez thought some comment of congratulation was expected, but wasn’t sure what to say. Instead he sipped his coffee, took a moment to enjoy it.
‘Have you had any visitors recently, Mr Wilding? Friends from the south, perhaps?’
‘No, inspector. I moved here to escape distractions. The last thing I need is people under my feet.’
‘There was an Englishman in Biddista yesterday. You might have seen him.’
‘Nobody came to the house and I was in all day.’
‘But not in the evening. Then you were at the exhibition at the Herring House. As was the Englishman.’
‘And so were you! Of course, I recognize you now. You were there with the attractive young artist. Ms Hunter. A great new talent. Art, I must confess, is another of my luxuries. I love Bella’s work. It was she who inspired my first visit to Shetland. And so I was delighted to receive an invitation to the opening. There were fewer people than I was expecting. I suppose I’d thought it was going to be more of a local event.’
‘People are very busy in the summer.’ Perez wondered why he felt so defensive. It wasn’t the time to explain that the event had been the subject of a practical joke, but he didn’t want the man thinking there was no interest in Shetland in Fran’s work. ‘Do you remember