White Nights

‘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’t matter if a policeman was a little indiscreet. A word to a spouse over di

‘No. I thought perhaps Fran had invited him.’

‘He seemed very taken with your self-portrait.’

She shrugged, implying that interest in her work was only natural.

‘Did you see him come in?’

‘He walked in just before Roddy started playing. I’ve seen him perform dozens of times so my attention wasn’t as fixed as everyone else’s.’

‘Was the chap on his own?’

‘I’m sure he was.’

‘You didn’t notice if he had a bag with him when he came in?’

She shut her eyes briefly, trying to visualize the scene. Her memory would be reliable. She was a painter.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No bag. His hands were in his pockets. He seemed quite relaxed at that point. He stood at the back of the crowd, just watching until Roddy stopped playing. Then he walked over to my painting, before moving on to the drawing of Cassie. He seemed very moved by it, didn’t you think?’ She stood waiting for a response.

‘He seems a bit confused,’ Perez said at last. ‘I don’t know. A breakdown perhaps. I might try to get him to a doctor.’

But by then Bella seemed to have stopped listening. She was looking around her, trying to gauge the interest in the art.

‘That’s Peter Wilding talking to Fran,’ she said. ‘I hope she’s being nice to him. He’s a buyer.’

The woman in the flowery dress had left Fran and her place had been taken by an intense middle-aged man in a white shirt, with very dark hair. Fran was talking and he was bending towards her, head slightly on one side, as if he couldn’t bear to miss a word.

Bella gave a little laugh and walked away. Deliberately Perez walked past the couple on his way into the kitchen. Wilding was talking now. His voice was low and Perez could tell he was gushing about the work, even though the individual words merged into the background noise. Fran didn’t even notice Perez.

At the kitchen door he stopped. Martin Williamson had his back to him; he was rinsing out pans at the sink. The mystery man had gone.

Chapter Four

Ke

He was aware of the party going on at the Herring House. He hadn’t been invited, but he knew just the same. At one time Bella had always invited him. She’d drive up the track in that smart four-wheel-drive – although why she needed a car like that when she only went these days to Lerwick or to Sumburgh to get the plane south, he couldn’t say – and come into his house, not waiting to be asked.

‘You will come, Ke

And that was true too. Once she’d taken it into her head to buy the place and do it up, they’d been there most nights after he’d finished with the sheep or in the fields, working on the building. Most of the labouring work had been theirs. A labour of love, Lawrence had called it. And it was true they’d been paid very little. But it had been hard to make any sort of living from crofting then and with the children growing up the extra money had been useful. Bella had probably thought she was doing them a favour. Those days all the men could turn their hands to anything.

After they’d finished working Ke

Now Bella didn’t ask any more. She knew Ke

He looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty, later than he’d thought. At this time of year it was easy to lose track. He came up on to the hill every night unless the weather was so bad that there was no point to it. To check the sheep, he said, though that was an excuse. It was an escape from Edith tapping away on the computer, a time for himself. When Edith was working, he felt that the house was just an extension of her office and he never felt comfortable there. In the winter he’d sometimes drive over the hill with a shotgun and a torch, after rabbits. The rabbits got caught in the glare of the spotlight and then they were easy enough to take. He had a silencer on the gun so he didn’t make a noise getting the first one; he wouldn’t want to frighten the others away. He didn’t much like the taste of rabbit, the flesh was too sweet and slimy, but hidden in a pie with plenty of onion and chunks of bacon he’d eat it occasionally. Usually though he ended up throwing most of the carcases away.