White Nights - Ann Cleeves [88]
‘Are we sure the mother hadn’t found out the girl had tracked him down?’ Perez was hesitant. ‘It would be a dramatic way to stop the father having contact with the girl, but I suppose we should consider it.’
Taylor paused for a moment. Thoughts chased each other across his face like the cloud shadows outside.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I hadn’t seen that as a possibility. If the mother was involved she’s a better actor than Booth ever was. She couldn’t have done it personally. She was at home looking after her family.’
‘What else did you learn from the daughter?’
‘That Booth definitely had friends in Shetland. That was what he told the girl. He was mixing business with pleasure, taking the chance to catch up on old friends.’
‘Someone he met when he was here working on the theatre boat, maybe,’ Perez said. ‘I’ve contacted the management of the boat, The Motley Crew. He did a couple of tours of the northern isles in the early nineties. Must have been soon after he ran away from his wife. The company have no record of him working here after that. But he kept in touch with them.’
‘Could he have had a fling with Bella Sinclair?’ Taylor said. It had been on his mind. Perez imagined him in the plane working over the scenario. Now his voice was eager. ‘You could see it. They’re around the same age. Two arty types together. The relationship obviously didn’t work out for some reason, but that could be our link.’
‘And that’s why he tried to sabotage her exhibition?’ Perez kept his voice even. Taylor took offence easily and didn’t like to be contradicted. ‘He’d kept a grudge after all this time?’
‘People do,’ Taylor said. ‘But you’re right, of course. Something must have happened to bring him back. But what?’
‘Had he had any contact from Shetland? Phone calls? Email?’
‘No phone calls to his landline, we know that. I haven’t heard about the emails. We need to get that sorted.’ Taylor leaned back in his chair and punched a number into his phone. Perez watched from the other side of the table, felt mildly embarrassed as he harangued some poor DC in West Yorkshire to fast-track the information. Which would probably mean, Perez thought, that it would go right to the bottom of the pile. Just out of spite. People wouldn’t take to being spoken to like that.
‘So where does Roddy Sinclair fit in?’ Perez asked. Taylor had subsided in his seat, suddenly quiet after the ranting. ‘He’d only have been a child when Booth was last here.’
‘We are sure he was murdered?’
‘I’m sure,’ Perez said, realizing as he spoke how arrogant that might sound. ‘Impossible forensically to tell the difference between murder, suicide and accident. He fell and he smashed his skull. But he knew the cliffs very well. He grew up there. And he was all set to get the plane south. You were with me when he talked about it. His car was loaded up. Something must have taken him out on to the hill.’
‘The murderer arranged to meet him there?’
‘That’s how I read it.’
‘Nobody saw him that afternoon?’
‘They say not. Sandy’s been in Biddista this morning talking to people.’
‘I’d like to give it another go. I still don’t feel I’ve got a handle on the place.’ Taylor leaned forward, his old intense self. ‘Come with me, Jimmy. You’ll get more out of them than I will on my own.’
So Perez found himself back in Biddista, parked again by the Herring House, all his attention focused on three ordinary families and Peter Wilding, to whom he’d taken an irrational dislike.
Saturday was the Herring House’s busiest day. There was a coach outside and a party of elderly Americans was climbing out and trooping into the gallery. Perez supposed there was another cruise ship in Lerwick. Upstairs the café was full. They took one look in and decided it would be impossible to get Martin Williamson’s attention now. Perez had expected the place to be closed as a mark of respect, but he suspected Bella hadn’t given the gallery a thought and Martin had decided there were