White Nights - Ann Cleeves [6]
Perez was starting to wonder if this was some sort of practical joke. It was the kind of prank Sandy would think was funny. Sandy, who came from Whalsay and worked with Perez, had a juvenile sense of humour. The whole team would know the boss was here tonight with the English lady artist and he wouldn’t put it past them to try to wreck his evening. They would think it a great joke.
The man had no sign of a head injury. He looked so sleek, so well-groomed it was hard to think he might have had an accident. But if it was an act, he was convincing. The tears, the shaking. Surely that would be hard to fake. And how would Sandy know him? How would he persuade this man to set up the stunt?
‘Why don’t you empty out your pockets?’ Perez said. ‘There’ll be a driving licence, credit cards. We can give you a name at least, track down some relatives, some explanation of what might have happened.’
The Englishman stood up, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘That’s where I always keep my wallet.’
‘You remember that, then?’
The man faltered. ‘I thought I did. How can I be sure of anything?’ He began in a slow, meticulous way to search the other pockets. There was nothing. He took his jacket off and handed it to Perez. ‘You check.’
Perez did, knowing as he did that there would be nothing to find. ‘What about your trousers?’
The man pulled out the pocket linings, stood there looking terrified and faintly ridiculous, the white cloth hanging against the black trousers.
‘You had nothing with you?’ Perez asked. ‘A bag? A briefcase?’ He realized he was sounding desperate. His fantasy of a night spent with Fran was fast disappearing.
‘How would I know?’ It came out almost as a scream.
‘I’ll go and look.’
‘No,’ the man said. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Has someone hurt you? What are you frightened of?’
He thought for a moment. Had some trace of memory returned? ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Come with me if you like.’
‘No. I can’t face those people.’
‘You remember seeing them?’
‘I told you. I remember everything after the painting.’
‘Was there something specific about the picture to disturb you?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’
Perez stood up. Now they faced each other across the table. The chef had left the kitchen and Roddy Sinclair had stopped playing. From the gallery came the quiet murmur of voices. ‘I’m going to find out if you had a bag with you,’ Perez said. ‘And if anyone knows you, saw you arrive. You’ll be safe here.’
‘Yes,’ he said. But his voice was uncertain. He sounded like a child trying to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid of the dark.
In the gallery Fran was deep in conversation with a large woman wearing a flowered tent. Fran was a little flushed. As he walked past he gathered from the conversation that the woman had bought one of the paintings and they were discussing how to ship it south. A tourist, he thought. It was that time of year. Obviously a wealthy tourist. She was saying how much she admired Fran’s work and asking if perhaps they could discuss a commission. He felt suddenly very proud of Fran.
Bella came up to him, having walked straight past an elderly man who was trying to catch her attention. With her grey hair cropped very short, long silver earrings and a grey silk shirt, Perez thought she looked like a large silvery fish. Something about her mouth, too, the wide pale eyes. But she was attractive still. She’d been known as a beauty when she was younger, a legend, and something about her still demanded attention. ‘Thank you for dealing with that poor man, Jimmy. What was wrong with him?’ She fixed him with her grey, unblinking eyes.
‘I’m not sure.’ Perez never gave away any information unless it was necessary. It was a habit learned from childhood. There was so little privacy in the small community where he’d grown up that he’d cherished every scrap. And now, at work, information was valuable currency, which could be leaked out too easily. In other, more anonymous places, it didn