White Nights - Ann Cleeves [60]
He looked at Perez, wanting some sort of response. Maybe his approval. That’s what he expected from his own team. Great idea, boss. But again, he thought, you could never really tell what Perez was thinking. In the end the Shetlander looked at his watch and smiled. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘She should just about be out of her bed by now. Another hour or so and you might be able to speak to the boy too.’
If he’d been on his own Taylor would have taken the car, just to get there faster, but Perez started walking up the road and he followed. Perez gave a slow running commentary as they moved.
‘This is the post office and shop. Run by Aggie Williamson. She was a Watt before she was married, grew up in Biddista. Her son Martin was working at the Herring House the night of the party. It was his wife Dawn who thinks she might have seen the victim climb out of a car.’
Taylor listened intently, tried to fix the details in his head. This was the stuff he had to digest if he was to have any chance of getting on top of what was going on here. He’d make notes later, but the concentration needed to memorize them made the players in this game seem more real to him. He needed to know these people better than he knew his own friends and family. They had to become a part of his life. Perez had the advantage of understanding them already.
The commentary continued. ‘The end house has been rented by an English writer called Wilding. Peter Wilding. He was at the party too. I spoke to him. He claims not to have seen or heard anything, though he seems to spend most of his life staring out of the window.’
Perez paused.
‘You don’t believe him?’ Taylor asked.
‘I don’t know. There was something weird about him. Maybe I just didn’t take to the man. He’s sort of intense.’
‘What sort of stuff does he write?’
‘Fantasy, he says.’
‘Stories, then. Made-up stuff.’ Taylor had never seen the point of stories. When he read, it was history or biography. He liked to feel he was learning. It wasn’t just time wasted. As he walked past he turned his head up to the window and saw the upper body and face of a man. The man, dark and good-looking if you were into thin and moody, was sitting at the desk which faced the view, but he wasn’t looking out. He seemed lost in concentration. Taylor realized that he hadn’t noticed them. Hardly an ideal witness, then. He wondered if the same point had occurred to Perez and turned his head surreptitiously to check. But Perez was looking the other way, out to the sea.
‘That’s Kenny Thomson’s boat,’ he said. ‘You’ll not be able to talk to him until later.’
Taylor was impressed by Bella Sinclair’s house. He tried not to let himself be affected by shows of wealth and comfort, told himself he despised them, but deep down he was jealous. He would have loved this space, this view. Sometimes he even caught himself watching those shows about houses on the television. Not the embarrassing ones, the makeovers, all tacky décor and quick fixes, the home-made furniture you could tell would fall apart within days. He liked the programmes about grand building projects, the chateaux in France brought lovingly back to life, the mills and warehouses turned into breathtaking apartments. If ever he went back to Liverpool, he’d like one of those terraced houses near the cathedrals. One time the streets had been the scene of the Toxteth riots, but even then he’d been impressed by their elegance.
Perez rang the bell and they stood for a moment to be let in. Perez had his hands in his pockets, a bit of a slouch. Taylor consciously straightened his back. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be greeted by some kind of servant, but he saw as soon as the door was opened that this must be the house’s owner. She had the style to carry it off.
‘Jimmy,’ she said. ‘What do you want now?