Chapter Twenty-five.

Perez had thought he might go back to Biddista when he left the care centre, call in to the Manse and see if he could find Roddy on his own. He felt he understood the young man a bit better now, still believed Roddy might have information that could help with the inquiry. But the news that Sandy had tracked down the victim's lift made that impossible. How could he justify any delay to Taylor?

He found Stuart Leask at work behind the check-in desk in the ferry terminal at Holmsgarth. He was young and gap-toothed with untamed red hair. The terminal was quiet and echoing. It would be three hours before people would be allowed on to the boat.

'Do you mind chatting here?' Stuart said. 'Only I'm on my own till Chrissie gets back from lunch.'

Perez leaned against the desk. 'Sandy Wilson said you gave a chap a lift to Biddista the night of the Herring House party. Can you tell me what happened there?'

'I was just coming off duty and this guy came into the terminal. I mean the Hrossey had long gone and I was about to leave, but I asked if I could help. He wanted to know about car hire. I said he'd left it a bit late, there'd be no one in the office until eight the next morning.'

'What did he look like?'

'Skinny. Pleasant enough. English. He was wearing black trousers and a black jacket. A bit crumpled, but as if it was supposed to look like that. And bald, but as if that was intentional too.'

'And did he seem OK in himself? I mean, not distressed or confused.'

'Not at all. As if it was all a bit of a joke, having missed his lift to Biddista.'

'He said he'd arranged for someone else to take him?'

'Aye, he'd booked a taxi but the guy hadn't turned up.'

'I still don't see how you ended up taking him.'

Stuart looked embarra.s.sed. 'I offered. I know, it was just stupid. Marie, my la.s.s, says I'm just a sucker and people are always taking advantage. But he was a nice guy and I wasn't doing anything else that night and he paid me what the taxi would have charged.'

'Did you go straight from here?'

'Aye, but we had to go and pick up his bag first.'

'He had a bag with him?'

'Like a black leather holdall.'

'Where did you pick him up from? Hotel? B&B?'

Stuart grinned. 'No. From the Victoria Pier. He was staying on that boat that turns into a theatre, The Motley Crew. You know the one?'

'It's quite a drive out to Biddista. What did you chat about?'

'He was an interesting man, an actor. He was talking about some of the parts he'd played. Theatre, film. I mean maybe some of it was bulls.h.i.t, all the people he said he'd met, but you sort of didn't mind, because he was still entertaining.'

'Did he say what he was doing in Shetland?'

'I asked him that. I'd have gone to see him if he was in a play here. But he said he was looking up some old friends.'

'And all the time he seemed quite rational? He didn't claim he was feeling unwell?'

'Nothing like that. He was brilliant company. It was a really easy way to make a few quid.'

'He definitely took the bag with him? You're sure he didn't leave it in your boot?'

'Absolutely. I thought it was kind of odd.'

'What was?' Perez was glad that he'd decided to interview Stuart himself. By now, Taylor would be beside himself with impatience.

'Well when we got to Biddista I went right up to the jetty to turn round. And I saw the man stick the bag just below the sea wall on the beach. It would have been quite safe there. It was well above the tideline and folks wouldn't have been able to see it from the road. But it just seemed strange. I mean, if he was going to stay with friends, wouldn't he have taken the bag with him?'

'He was going to the exhibition opening at the Herring House,' Perez said.

'Still, you'd have thought he'd keep it with him. I'm sure there'd have been somewhere to leave it.' This detail seemed to fascinate Stuart more than the reason for the man's death.

'Did he say where he planned to sleep that night?'

'I imagined he'd be staying with his friends. He didn't seem worried at all about getting a lift back to town.'

'Did he tell you who his friends were?'

'No, and I asked him. Aggie who runs the post office is a sort of relative. A cousin of my grandmother, something like that. But he just launched into another story, so I never found out.'

'He must have told you his name,' Perez said.

'Just his first name. And that wasn't anything I'd heard before. I thought maybe it was something popular in the south. Or a nickname.'

'So what was that?' Perez thought that soon even his patience would run out.

'Jem. Not Jim. Jem.'

Before he left the ferry terminal for Victoria Pier, Perez phoned Sandy and asked about the bag. There'd been a search around the jetty at Biddista, but he wasn't sure how far it had extended along the beach. He couldn't believe they'd have missed it, but he needed to check.

He drove too fast into the town. He had a sudden panic that he would arrive at the pier and find the theatre ship had gone, but it was still there, moored near the end of the jetty. A big new banner strapped to the wooden hull read LAST PERFORMANCE SAt.u.r.dAY.

A young woman was sitting on the deck, sunning herself like a cat. She wore cropped jeans and a long red jumper and there was something feline about the flat face and the green eyes narrowed and lengthened by black eyeliner. She was leaning against the cabin and had a script on her knee but seemed not to be reading it.

'Excuse me.'

She looked up and smiled. 'Do you want tickets for tonight? I think there are a couple left. It's well worth seeing.'

'Are you one of the actors?'

'Actor, set designer, front-of-house manager, general dogsbody. Hang on a minute and I'll fetch the tickets.'

'No,' he said. 'I'm sure the show's great, but that's not why I'm here.' He stepped aboard, thinking this was a lovely old vessel, the timbers weathered, honey-coloured. 'My name's Jimmy Perez and I work for Shetland Police.'

'Lucy Wells.' She remained where she was sitting.

'Did you hear about the guy who was killed in Biddista earlier in the week?'

'No. s.h.i.t.'

'It's been all over the news. He was found hanging in the boathouse there. He'd been strangled.'

'It's crazy,' she said. 'Life on the boat. Like living in a bubble. You're rehearsing for the next show during the day and performing at night. The country could have gone to war and I'd not have known about it.'

'Are you missing one of your actors?'

'No.'

He had been so certain that the dead man had been part of the theatre group that the answer threw him.

'A middle-aged man. Shaved head.'

'Sounds like Jem,' she said, 'but he wasn't part of the group. Not really. He was more of a hanger-on. A friend of the management. And he didn't go missing. We knew he was leaving.'

'We think he might be the dead man,' Perez said. 'Would you be able to identify him from a photo?'

She nodded. He saw she had started to cry.

'Are you OK?'

'Sorry, it's just a shock. I didn't even like him particularly. He was a bit of a nuisance. Not his fault, he was pleasant enough, but the accommodation here is cramped as it is and he was foisted on to us. It's horrible to think he's dead. I couldn't wait to see the back of him, so it's almost as if it's my fault. Wish fulfilment.'

'What was Jem's full name?'

'Booth. Jeremy Booth.'

'How did he land up with you?'

'Like I said, he's a friend of the management. He was one of the original team. The Motley Crew's been touring the Scottish coast for donkey's years. Jem needed somewhere to crash and we were told to put him up.'

'What was he doing in Shetland?'

'Who knows? None of us took a lot of notice of him. He was full of himself and his own importance. He made out that he was here on some mysterious mission. The deal of a lifetime. We thought it was all c.r.a.p and we were just pleased he was leaving.'

'If you could remember exactly what Mr Booth said about the deal, it would be very useful. Even a small detail might help.' Perez paused.

There was a moment of silence. She set the script carefully face-down on the deck. Then she closed her eyes.

'He talked about a weird coincidence. "A blast from the past. A rave from the grave." That was the way he spoke. You know, kind of knowing, self-mocking, but still thinking he was hip. He was a joker, one of those people who are full of gags that never quite make you laugh. He said there was a nice little deal which would set him up for a few years if he could play it right.'

'Did he mention any names?'

She shook her head. 'I'm sure he didn't. Like I said, he enjoyed being mysterious.'

'When did he arrive with you?'

'The twenty-second. Two days after The Motley arrived in Lerwick.' And two days before Booth was seen handing out the notices which cancelled the Herring House exhibition to the cruise pa.s.sengers.

'Did he come on the plane or the ferry?'

'The ferry. It was a tiny bit b.u.mpy when he came across and he was ill. You wouldn't believe the fuss he made. The next day he went off somewhere. He was back that night, then we didn't see him again.'

If he'd arrived on the ferry, Stuart Leask would have access to all the man's contact details, Perez thought. In an hour they'd have a full name and address, a phone number and access to a credit-card account. Their victim was no longer anonymous. The investigation was suddenly more manageable. More ordinary.

'Did he tell you where he came from?' Perez was interested in what the victim had said about himself, to find out how close it was to the truth.

'He ran a drama-in-education company in West Yorkshire. "I've always believed in community-based theatre, darling. Really, it's the most worthwhile work you can do." Which probably means regular theatre wouldn't employ him and he'd conned funding out of the Arts Council to set up on his own.'

'You're very cynical,' Perez said.

'It's the business. We all start off imagining work with the RSC and end up spouting c.r.a.p lines to three deaf old ladies for the Equity minimum.'

'You could give up. You're young.'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'But I still have the dream. I can still see my name in lights in the West End.'

He couldn't quite tell whether or not she was joking. He pushed himself away from the rail, so he was standing upright.

'Just a minute.' She sprang to her feet and disappeared below deck. When she returned she was holding some tickets. 'Comps for Sat.u.r.day. See if you can make it. I'm really rather good.'

There was something desperate in the way she spoke. He thought if he rejected the tickets she would see it as a rejection of her. He took them awkwardly, then mumbled that he was very busy, but he'd make it if he could.

When he got into his car she was still watching him.

He phoned the station and spoke first to Sandy.

'Any news on the victim's bag?'

'Well it's definitely not on the beach.'

Perez asked to be put through to Taylor. 'I've got an ident.i.ty for our victim.'

'So have I,' Taylor said. Perez could hear the smirk, the self-satisfaction. 'Jeremy Booth. Lives in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire. Runs some sort of theatre group. We've just had a phone call from a young woman who works with him. She saw the photo in one of the nationals.'

Perez had nothing to say. Let Taylor have his moment of glory. It was good to have the ident.i.ty of the victim confirmed.

'I was thinking someone should go down there,' Taylor went on, 'to check out his house and talk to his colleagues. Do you want to do it?'

Perez was tempted. England was still a foreign country. There would be the thrill of exploration. But, he thought, this was a Shetland murder. The victim might have been an incomer, but the answer to his death lay here.

Taylor was obviously becoming impatient. He hated waiting for the answer. 'Well? Or would you rather I go?'

Then Perez realized Taylor was itching to take on the job. This was what he liked best about policing. The chase. He would adore the last-minute flights and hurried arrangements. The overnight drive. Gallons of coffee in empty service stations. And once he arrived he'd get answers immediately, firing away questions, blasting through the uncertainty with his energy.