White Nights - Ann Cleeves [47]
In the car he was aware of the sea to the right of him, but all his concentration was on Perez. ‘You say you were one of the last people to see the victim alive. What was he doing?’
There was one of those pauses. Perez pulled into a passing place to let a woman in a clapped-out van squeeze by.
‘He was weeping.’
Taylor wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Not that.
‘What do you mean, weeping? What had upset him?’
Another beat of silence. ‘He didn’t know. Or so he claimed.’ And then Perez told his story. About the stranger who caused a scene at some arty-farty do by bursting into tears and then claiming not to know who he was or how he’d got there. Taylor knew better than to interrupt. He was full of questions, but he had to let Perez tell it in his own way.
‘You see why I believed it could be suicide,’ Perez said. ‘Yet I was never quite convinced.’
‘Were you convinced that the guy had really lost his memory?’
Perez considered. Taylor waited. He wanted to shout, It’s a simple question, man. How long does it take to come up with an answer? He could feel the tension of waiting constricting his breathing.
‘No,’ Perez said at last. ‘I never really was.’ And that was good enough for Taylor. Perez might irritate the shit out of him, but he was the best judge of character Taylor knew. He watched men like David Attenborough watched animals.
‘Why pretend?’
This time the answer came more quickly. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it since I found the body. Maybe he wanted to spoil the opening of the exhibition. But why would a stranger from England want to do that? What could he have against Bella Sinclair or Fran Hunter?’
Taylor recognized the name. ‘Isn’t that the same woman who found Catherine Ross?’
‘Aye.’ There was a small flutter of the eyelids. ‘That’s why I was there. She’s become a sort of friend.’
Anyone else and Taylor would have taken the piss. What sort of friend would that be, then? The sort you sleep with? But he didn’t want to offend Perez. No way could he work here without the man on his side.
Perez changed the subject. ‘It’s possible that the victim tried to stop the opening from happening at all. Someone went round Lerwick giving out flyers which said it had been cancelled. He was wearing a mask like a clown.’
‘But neither of the artists recognized him?’
A silence. ‘So they say.’ Another pause. ‘The flyer said the opening had been cancelled because of a death in the family. Almost as if he’d been predicting his own murder.’
Lerwick wasn’t as grey as Taylor had remembered, but the last time he’d been here had been midwinter. Today the sun was shining and the people weren’t huddled into heavy coats. The light was reflected from the water. Moored in the harbour was a boat kitted out like a theatre. It had a red tarpaulin banner slung over the side advertising the most recent production.
He nodded towards it. ‘That’s new.’
‘No,’ Perez said. ‘It’s been coming for as long as I can remember, but it’s only here in the summer. It travels around the islands. The visitors like it.’
‘God,’ Taylor said. ‘I’m starving.’ He’d had a horrible bun on the plane and it seemed ages ago.
They bought fish and chips and ate from greasy paper looking over the water. Taylor recalled it wasn’t far from here to where Perez lived.
‘You still in the same place?’
Perez nodded.
‘You haven’t moved in with the gorgeous Ms Hunter yet then?’ He knew it was none of his business but he couldn’t help himself. Curiosity, a vital character trait for a cop. He knew he was a tiny bit jealous too.
Perez finished the last of his chips. ‘It’s not like that.’
Taylor was going to ask what it was like, but the business of the dead stranger was more important.
‘Who do you think killed the victim? Someone local?’
‘There are people in Biddista who have things to hide,’ Perez said at last. ‘But it doesn’t have to be murder.’
Taylor nodded. He understood that. The police turn up at the door and there’s always something to feel guilty about. Speeding.