White Nights - Ann Cleeves [43]
He went up to her and stroked her neck with fingers which he knew were rough. She turned round and smiled at him, knowing just what he was thinking.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
And of course he would have to wait, because in these things women always got their way. They held all the cards. You couldn’t force them. He supposed that was how it should be but sometimes he thought it a little unfair.
At the table he watched her eat toast. Wholemeal now, always. She bought the bread from a bakery in Scalloway. She put lots of butter on and it had melted. Some had dripped on to her fingers and she licked them. At first she had been quite unselfconscious, then she saw him watching her. She smiled again and licked the fingers on her other hand very slowly. A game. Now he was quite content to wait until later before he took her to bed. She would play the game for him all day and the anticipation would be better than getting what he wanted straight away. The thought of that made him feel a little faint and he didn’t catch immediately what she was saying.
‘It seems wrong keeping that dead man in the hut for a whole day.’
‘The fog kept the police from Inverness from getting in.’ The evening before, he’d gone to the bar in Middleton and everyone was talking about it. He’d only stayed for one pint. The pleasure the people took in having a dead body close by seemed unnatural to him. If it was someone they knew they’d have behaved differently, but some people were even telling jokes.
‘I thought it was suicide. It seems a lot of fuss about a suicide.’
Kenny didn’t know what to say. He thought of the body swinging from the rafter. When he’d told Edith about the dead man she’d been so kind to him and had understood immediately what a shock it had been.
‘Oh my dear, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’
People died occasionally at the care centre. She said she’d never got used to it, but it seemed to him she took everything in her stride.
‘Aggie Watt came here yesterday,’ he said now. ‘She asked if the body could be Lawrence.’
‘It couldn’t be,’ Edith said. Then, ‘Or could it? Surely you’d have recognized your own brother.’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s not Lawrence, but I’d like to see the man again without the mask. I’ve been thinking about it.’ He’d lain awake a long time in the night, worrying about how Lawrence might have changed over the years, whether he might have made a terrible mistake. He’d thought Edith was awake, but he hadn’t told her about his fears, hadn’t felt able to tell her before about Aggie’s visit. He’d needed to sort out in his own mind what he thought before discussing it with her. ‘I wondered if I should ask that Fair Isle man, Jimmy Perez. Would they let me look at him again?’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think you should ask him. I don’t think for a moment it is Lawrence, but it might set your mind at rest.’
Kenny thought he would phone Perez. He wouldn’t wait until the policeman was back at the jetty. He didn’t want to see the dead man again there. Lying out in a mortuary somewhere, the mask taken from his face, that would be different. More dignified.
All morning while he was working in the field he caught glimpses of Edith. She’d done a pile of washing and once the fog lifted she came to hang it out on the line behind the house. He stopped for a moment and watched her, so deft, lifting the sheets from the basket, folding and stretching them and pinning them on the line. He waited for her to turn and wave to him, but she didn’t seem to notice he was there. When he went down for his coffee, she had just finished washing the kitchen floor. She was on her hands and knees on a folded towel, wiping the last corner with a cloth. He stood in the porch in his stockinged feet. Again she must have heard him come in, but she didn’t acknowledge his presence until she’d finished. Then she turned and smiled at him.
‘Just wait for a minute until it dries.’ She was still kneeling at his feet and had to tilt her head to look up at him.
‘Why don’t we walk down to the Herring House?