'Peter Wilding came in to visit w.i.l.l.y late this afternoon,' Edith said suddenly. Kenny thought maybe the visit from the writer had been on her mind all the time, was what had been troubling her all evening.

'That was kind.'

'I'm not so sure,' she said. 'I don't know what he could want with the old man. He's full of questions and demands and w.i.l.l.y gets upset so easily.'

'Perhaps he wants to put w.i.l.l.y into a book.'

'Perhaps he does, but he's like some sort of parasite, sucking the life from him.' She paused and Kenny was surprised to see she was shaking. 'Wilding told me he's put in an offer on a house in Buness,' she went on. 'He wants to stay in Shetland, but w.i.l.l.y's old house in Biddista isn't good enough for him. "Shetland is my inspiration." That's what he told me.'

Kenny wasn't sure what to say. He'd taken Wilding fishing once with Martin Williamson and thought he was a weak, easily scared sort of man. He'd sat white-faced, holding the side of the boat. He wouldn't be sorry if the writer moved to the south of the island. It would be better if a young Shetland family could move into w.i.l.l.y's old house. It would be nice if there was another child around the place, a friend for Alice Williamson, who must get awful lonely.

Edith went into the garden to dig some early tatties to go with the fish and came back, carrying them in a colander with a cut lettuce on the top. She rinsed the light soil from her hands under the tap.

'Would you like me to come in and talk to w.i.l.l.y?' he asked when they sat ready to eat. 'It's been a while since I've seen him. We could talk about the old days, and he always wants to know what the fishing's like now and how I'm managing with the boat. I won't suck the life out of him. I promise that'

She looked up at him and smiled. 'He'd love that. You're a kind man, Kenny Thomson.'

She squeezed a quarter of a lemon over the piltock and ate the fish very seriously, almost with respect. He reflected that that was how she did everything.

After the meal he asked if she'd like to take a walk with him over the hill. Some evenings she came with him and he always enjoyed her company. He thought it might help her forget her worries at work. She hesitated a moment before answering, so he could tell she was tempted, but in the end she shook her head.

'I'd like to finish the knitting for Ingirid. Just in case.'

Their daughter was expecting a baby, their first grandchild, and was due in ten days' time. Edith had holiday saved up so she could fly down to Aberdeen as soon as labour started. She was making a shawl for the child. The knitting was so intricate that it looked like one of the wedding veils worn in his grandparents' day. Then, the women had said the yarn should be so fine that you should be able to pull the veil through a wedding ring.

'I might speak to her on the phone,' Edith went on. 'Just see how she is.'

Kenny understood. As the birth got closer Ingirid had become homesick for the islands. It had seemed to them that she'd never missed Shetland before. She had her new life in the south, her friends and her man. Now some nights there were tearful phone calls. Hormones, Edith said, but Kenny thought it was just that she wanted her baby to be born a Shetlander.

He put his boots on at the door, and called to Vaila. Walking up the track his mind wandered and suddenly he found himself near the top of the hill looking down to the sea. A bonxie dived at him, just missing the crown of his cap. They were always aggressive this time of year when they had young. But he was used to the skuas on the hill and he didn't miss a step. He never had to worry about where he was putting his feet. The hill was so familiar and the way he took was the same every evening. If I had paint on my boots, he thought, there'd be one set of footprints on the gra.s.s even after a week, because I never vary my path.

It was a clear evening, so still that he fancied he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks at the foot of the hill. There were cars outside the Herring House. Martin opened the cafe there for dinner on Friday night. It seemed having a murder so close by hadn't put people off coming.

Tonight he thought he would walk on a little further, break the usual routine, check how many sheep there were up near the Pit o' Biddista. And because he knew the hill so well, his thoughts ranged again.

I was nearly unfaithful with Jimmy Perez's mother. I sat on a white beach at the North Haven on Fair Isle in midsummer and held her hand. Her lips were warm and tasted of salt. We told each other we were in love.

He caught his breath, thinking how close he had come to leaving Edith. He had almost thrown away what was now most dear to him.

I could have been Jimmy Perez's stepfather.

He'd completely forgotten that summer, hadn't thought about it for years, but now, because of the death of a stranger, Jimmy Perez had come into his life again and the memories had returned. He'd never told Edith about it. He wondered briefly if he should, but after all this time it had no importance. Why hurt her?

Now he was on the highest part of the hill, close to the cliff-edge. There was still no wind so the walking had been easy. But he felt a strain in his knee, a dull pain which came occasionally, and he was a little bit breathless. Five years ago he could have done the walk faster. He stopped to look back at his land and despite the familiarity he felt a pride in it.

The gra.s.s here was cropped very short by sheep and rabbits. In places there were rough piles of rock; he'd never known whether they were natural or the remains of some ancient people who'd had the land before him. He stood on the rocky bridge between the sea and the Pit o' Biddista. The Pit was a great gouge out of the land all the way down to sea level. When they were children, w.i.l.l.y had told them a story about how it had been made. He said it had been formed by a giant who lost his heart to a Shetland la.s.s. She'd been frightened of him, not realizing he only meant her well, and running way from him, she'd fallen over the cliff. In his grief and rage, the giant had scooped out a hole in the rock and flung the debris into the sea, where it formed the stacks that ran away from the coast. Kenny thought it looked more like the core had been taken out from a huge apple, but a lovesick giant made a better story for children. w.i.l.l.y had entertained generations of them with his stories.

It wasn't a sheer drop into the Pit on all sides. The side nearest to the sea was all rock, an almost flat cliff, cut with ledges where the kittiwakes nested. But the landward side was gra.s.s all the way down, pink with thrift and crossed by rabbit tracks. At the bottom of the seaward side a tunnel ran out to the beach and with a very high tide the water was funnelled through it, churning and boiling with the pressure, spitting spray almost to the top. They'd played there when they were children, sliding down the gra.s.s slope to the bottom, so their pants were stained green and their knees covered with mud. But never at high water. Then they lay on their stomachs and peered into the hole below.

Looking down, he saw that a ewe had somehow managed to get almost to sea level. She was trapped on a ledge, too stupid to turn round and make her way back. Sometimes he thought sheep were the dumbest creatures in the world. Her fleece was thick and ragged, so heavy that it almost seemed to be falling off her back. She should be clipped with the others the next day.

He began to edge down the slope towards her. He'd try to get behind her and persuade her to scramble up. Although the gra.s.s was dry enough it was still greasy underfoot; he was glad of the texture of the thrift to give him grip. He felt suddenly, startlingly, very happy. The pain in his knee was forgotten, it was a fine summer evening and Edith would be home all weekend. And he could still climb down the Pit o' Biddista as he had when he was a boy.

He circled round the back of the sheep, moving slowly so he shouldn't scare her. He didn't think he'd have any chance of bringing her up if she went any deeper. Then he was there, right behind her, standing on the same ledge, arms outstretched so she wouldn't get past him.

'Go on, girl. Up you go.'

All of a sudden she scrambled up, not following the tracks but taking the direct route to the top, floundering, her feet somehow getting purchase. All he could see was the mucky behind, the loose curls of fleece. Then she was over the edge and invisible to him.

He stood where he was and looked down. Here everything was in shadow, the sun too low to reach this depth. Very few people in the world had seen this view. The only child in Biddista now was Alice Williamson, and her family didn't let her run loose on the hill. Martin and Dawn would have a fit if she climbed down here, though Bella hadn't been much older when she'd first made it to the bottom. She'd been as reckless as any of the boys. Kenny could see the round boulders which had been carried in on full tides, the puddle of brackish water left behind when the sea retreated.

Then he saw a splash of colour against the grey of the rocks. Because he'd been thinking about Alice Williamson, there was a heart-stopping moment when he thought it could be her. That she'd finally broken free from the protective parents, run up on to the hill and lost her footing. He imagined her tumbling over and over down the slope, her head smacking on a boulder, her skull smashing like an eggsh.e.l.l.

But it couldn't be the child lying down there. The figure was too big. His eyes must be playing tricks. Edith was always telling him he needed gla.s.ses and he'd been aware of it himself. He shouldn't be so proud. He should get himself into Lerwick for an eye test. It was probably one of those blue plastic sacks the fertilizer came in. He was tempted to turn his back on it and return up the slope to where the dog was lying on the gra.s.s waiting.

As he was thinking that he was slithering further down. The light faded the further he went. There was the smell of rotting seaweed.

Roddy Sinclair was dead. Kenny didn't need new gla.s.ses to tell him that. The body was twisted and his head was smashed on a rock, just as he'd imagined Alice Williamson's to be. He knew he should get to the surface again as soon as he could. He should run back to the house and get on the phone to Jimmy Perez. But he wasn't sure how he'd do it. His legs had turned to water and he was exhausted. Only the horror of being here, next to the broken body of the boy, set him on his way.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

Perez had spent the day in Lerwick, a frustrating round of phone calls and emails trying to track Booth's movements since his arrival in Shetland. The incident room was airless and overheated and despite the impetus given to the investigation by the identification of the victim, by late afternoon he felt little had been achieved. After work he set off to Ravenswick, to Fran's house. He hadn't phoned in advance to say he was coming and felt ridiculously nervous. He'd been looking forward to seeing her all day and worried, as he always did, that he wouldn't live up to her expectations.

Ca.s.sie was sitting at the kitchen table reading a schoolbook. She was frowning in concentration. There was a smudge of paint on her cheek and he thought how she was growing to look very like her mother. He stood awkwardly on the doorstep, afraid of intruding, of doing the wrong thing.

'Is this not a good time?'

'Of course it is.' Fran stood aside to let him in. 'Tea? Beer?'

He sat next to Ca.s.sie and asked her how things were going at school, but all the time he was thinking that Fran seemed a little uncomfortable too. He always thought of her as the confident one and wondered what she could be nervous about. She put the kettle on, then told Ca.s.sie that was enough homework for one night, and what about a DVD for a treat?

When Ca.s.sie was settled they took their drinks outside.

'We've found out who the murder victim is,' Perez said. 'It'll be all over the news tomorrow. I wanted to tell you. He was an actor. A man called Jeremy Booth.'

She shook her head. 'The name doesn't mean anything to me.'

'He comes from Yorkshire.'

'Sorry. I still can't help.'

They sat in silence. On the hill behind them a curlew was calling.

'I met Peter Wilding for lunch yesterday,' she said at last. She was twisting the mug of tea in her hands. He could tell this was the cause of her tension. He wasn't sure how he should react and ended up saying nothing.

'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 Ca.s.sie 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 was nearly in tears. 'She cared for Roddy as if he was her son.'

'I'm just off to tell her. Can I say you're here if she needs company? I know she was born and reared in Shetland, but it seems to me she doesn't have many friends.'

'Of course.'

He could tell she was pleased he'd told her so much. It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her not to tell Wilding, but he stopped himself just in time.

'Roddy always had so much energy,' she said. 'It was as if he was lit up inside. It's hard to imagine he's dead.' She paused. 'Another death. What is going on here? You do realize the press will go wild over this? He was a celebrity, even in the south. As soon as word gets out there'll be hundreds of journos here.'

'No pressure then.' Perez was thinking there'd be more pressure from the community too. Roddy was a Shetlander. He represented Shetland in the rest of the world. People would want his killer found now. It wasn't the same as some strange Englishman found hanging from the roof.

'Jimmy?'

He was already at the door and he turned back to her.

'It wasn't an accident, was it?'

'No,' he said. 'I don't think it can have been.'

'Suicide? Because he'd killed the Englishman and couldn't face the consequences?'

'Maybe.' He remembered Roddy standing at the top of the cliff, arms stretched wide like a gannet's. It would be the sort of grand gesture he'd go for, killing himself by launching himself into the air. As close to flying as it was possible to get. But he'd want an audience. Without an audience it wouldn't be any sort of performance.

'Come back here when you've finished,' she said. 'It doesn't matter how late it is. If you want to.'

Bella was sitting in her garden when he got to the Manse. A wrought-iron table and chair stood on a terrace by the side of the house and he found her there. The light was diffuse, milky, and he realized it was already ten o'clock. There was a book on the table but she hadn't been reading. Perhaps she'd dozed off. Next to the book was a large gla.s.s of wine and a half-empty bottle.

'Jimmy,' she said when she opened her eyes, 'isn't it a lovely evening? So still. There are so few days when we can do this. Have a drink with me!'

He sat on the wall beside her.

'When did you last hear from Roddy?'

'I saw him at lunchtime. He was booked on the last plane south. He'd planned to go yesterday, but you know what the young are like. Time has no meaning for them. It's as if they have for ever. I was expecting him to phone, but he'll have met up with some friends.'

He thought there was no easy way to do this. If he lost someone close to him, he'd want to hear it straight. No plat.i.tudes and no prevarication. 'Roddy's dead, Bella. His body was found this evening at the bottom of the Pit o' Biddista.'

Her eyes widened. 'No. No,' she said. 'There's been some mistake. He was on the plane.'