White Nights - Ann Cleeves [81]
‘He plans to stay in Shetland. He’s put in an offer on a house in Buness. Do you know it? The big place right by the beach.’
‘Very nice.’ Then, sensing more was required, ‘It’ll take some work to get it fit for living in.’ His head was bursting with questions about what had happened and why she’d gone with Wilding in the first place, but maybe none of that was his business.
‘I’m not sure why he asked me to meet him,’ she said. ‘I think he hoped I might have some information about the investigation. That’s how it seemed.’
‘And he fancies the pants off you,’ he said. ‘That might have had something to do with it.’
She gave him a big grin. ‘Maybe he does,’ she said. ‘But there was more to it than that. He has this intense way of asking questions.’
‘You believe he might be involved in some way with Booth’s death?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not saying that. He’s a writer. Naturally curious. I’m sure that’s all it is.’
The thought came into Perez’s head that it would suit him very nicely if Wilding turned out to be a murderer. He hated the idea of the man living in Buness, which wasn’t so far from Fran. But he knew that was a dangerous way to think. If you hoped for a certain outcome in an investigation, you lost perspective, saw shadows that didn’t exist, ignored other possible scenarios.
‘Have you eaten yet?’ she asked. ‘If you can wait until I’ve got Cassie to bed, I can pull together a meal for us.’
‘I’d like that.’
They were at the table when the phone call came. It was on the landline and Perez had no thought that it might be for him. He sliced bread and helped himself to salad while she answered it. She frowned, handed him the receiver. ‘It’s Sandy for you.’
It was Sandy at his worst. Childish. Full of himself. ‘I tried you at home, boss. And I couldn’t get a signal on your mobile. Thought I might find you at Mrs Hunter’s . . .’
‘What can I do for you?’ Across the table Fran was pulling silly faces at him.
‘There’s been another death.’ Sandy paused. He’d developed a sense of the dramatic.
‘Who?’
‘Roddy Sinclair. Kenny Thomson found him at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista. I sent Robert, the new PC who’s based in Whiteness, to confirm it. It’s definitely Sinclair. Could have been an accident.’
‘A bit of a coincidence.’ Perez thought of his sense that Roddy had something to confide and knew that this was no accident. He remembered the walk he’d taken with the boy, the morning they’d found Booth’s body. Roddy had grown up there. He wasn’t the sort to fall. He pictured Roddy playing the fiddle at the Herring House party, caught in the spotlight of the evening sunshine, dancing. He was as lithe and nimble as one of the feral cats that lived on the cliffs. He’d liked the boy and was overcome by a sense of waste.
‘Does Bella know?’
‘Not yet,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought I’d best get hold of you first.’
‘Good, I want to tell her.’ Roddy had been Bella’s golden boy. His death would devastate her. Perez felt a stab of pity, then the thought of work took over. Bella had been playing games with him throughout the investigation. The shock of her nephew’s death might persuade her to talk.
‘You’d best be quick then. You know how news gets out.’
‘I don’t think Kenny will be on the phone to her. He and Bella aren’t that close and he’s not the sort to blab. But don’t send anyone on to the hill until I’ve talked to her. Tell them to stand by.’
‘I told Kenny to keep the news to himself.’ Sandy seemed extraordinarily proud that he’d thought of such a thing.
Perez smiled. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’
‘I wondered if I should phone Mr Taylor now. He’s going to be pig sick, being stuck down in England while everything’s happening here.’
‘Aye,’ Perez said. ‘I think maybe you should.’
Fran had been eating, but she stopped now, her fork poised. ‘You’ve got to go, haven’t you? And you won’t be able to tell me what it’s all about.’
‘Roddy Sinclair’s dead. Kenny Thomson found him at the bottom of the Pit o’ Biddista.’
‘Poor Bella!’ He could tell that Fran