'Really, Jimmy, you have to come down. You can manage down the gra.s.s, can't you? You don't need a rope if you come that way.'

Perez had avoided the climb when Roddy Sinclair was found. Sandy had taken care of the crime scene then. Now he saw he had no choice. Sophie was still looking at him.

He took off his jacket, folded it carefully and placed it on the gra.s.s, feeling a little like a man who decides to commit suicide by drowning. Then he slid over the lip of the Pit on to the first of a series of rabbit tracks that crossed the slope. He kept his centre of gravity low and tilted his body into the slope, so one hand was always on the gra.s.s. There was no danger of his falling Sophie would bound down it. He could imagine her confident and upright, jumping from one path to the next, facing forwards all the way down, only needing her heels to grip. He knew he was being painfully slow. Occasionally he stopped and glanced up so he could see how far he'd climbed. He didn't think it was sensible to look down.

He knew he was approaching the bottom because he could hear Sophie, shouting through into the tunnel to Roger. Her words were blurred by echo, but he could tell she was standing quite close to him. Then he did turn and saw he was only six feet from the ground. He slid it on his backside and landed beside her, one foot slipping on a slimy rock into a pool. There was no direct sunlight there; a strong smell of rotting seaweed, organic and salty. It was somehow prehistoric. He tried not to think about the return to the real world.

'What have you found?'

'We didn't like to touch it. This way.' She led him into the mouth of the tunnel.

The floor was uneven shingle, solid rock which formed creva.s.ses and pools, and small smooth boulders which must have been washed in from the beach. Too late he remembered a directive he'd received a couple of months ago about risk a.s.sessment. He wondered what Health and Safety would make of this. Roger and Sophie weren't even employees.

At this point the tunnel looked like a cave. It must curve further in and the gap leading to the open water must be very narrow, because no natural light showed from the other end. Roger had put on his torch and was waiting for them, haloed in a yellow glow. He was sitting on an outcrop of rock which jutted from the channel wall, eating a bar of chocolate.

'Sorry,' Sophie said. 'Jimmy was a tad slow.'

'Have you found Booth's phone then?' Perez thought they were playing a sort of practical joke on him. They knew he was uncomfortable with heights and had dragged him down here under false pretences. They'd pull out some ridiculous object that had been washed in a pair of false teeth, an old boot and expect him to find it amusing.

'No,' Roger said. 'But we found this.'

He shone his torch into a pile of debris which had been lifted on to a shelf in the rock. There were sc.r.a.ps of fishing net, sh.e.l.l and seaweed, two of the plastic rings which hold four-packs of beer and, creamy and smooth, a piece of bone.

'Very funny,' Perez said. A sheep had become trapped down here, starved to death. It wouldn't take long for the flesh to rot and be eaten away by fish and other creatures. When it was exposed to the air the bonxies and the rats would have it. The tide would have lifted the small piece of bone on to the ledge.

'What do you think it is?'

'Sheep? Dog maybe?'

'Look closer,' Roger said. 'I think you're wrong. If I'm not mistaken it's a human thigh bone.'

'Roger works as a physio,' Sophie said. 'He knows about human anatomy.'

Perez could tell she was enjoying herself. It was that excitement around unexplained death again.

'It must have been pushed up to the ledge on a really big tide.' Roger played the torch along the tunnel wall, half a metre below the ledge. 'You can see this is the normal high-water mark.'

'So it could have been flushed in from the open sea?' Perez said. He wondered how many men had been lost in the seas around here over the years. The currents were so fierce that it wasn't unusual for the bodies from wrecks never to be recovered. The bone was worn shiny and smooth. It had been here for ages.

'It wouldn't take very long for it to get like that,' Roger said, seeming to read his thoughts. 'I mean not decades. Not necessarily. Not down here. Think of the action of the sand and the shingle.'

'When was the last really high tide? I mean, when do you think it was lifted on to the ledge?' Perez found his thoughts moving very fast. It was as if he'd had a shot of caffeine.

'This year,' Sophie said quickly. 'Spring equinox. Don't you remember, those wonderful photos in the Shetland Times of the waves at Scalloway? It could have been here in the tunnel before that but washed on to the ledge then.'

'I need to get right to the end of the tunnel.' Perez had forgotten any question of risk a.s.sessment. 'I need to know how big the entrance is on the seaward side.'

They walked in single file with Roger in the front, Perez in the middle and Sophie at the rear. The way into the tunnel from the Pit was wide enough for them to stretch out their arms, but it narrowed as they approached the sh.o.r.e. A slit of natural light appeared ahead of them, and there was a gust of salt fresh air from the sea. Now they were clambering over solid rock. Before they could reach the gap the tunnel had become so tight that they couldn't move further forward. Sunshine shone through the strange vertical crack, picked out the colour in the rock at their feet in a sparkling strip.

'A body couldn't have been washed in there,' Perez said. 'Even with the force of the tide behind it. There's no room.' Sandy needn't have worried about leaving Booth's holdall down here. There was no way it would have been washed through the tiny gap.

'Couldn't the body have broken up at sea? A bone the size we found could just about have been sucked in.'

Still Perez's thoughts were racing. 'That's possible. But if we find any more than that, it would be more than chance. Think of all the places along the coast where they could be washed up. And if we discover part of a corpse which is bigger than the piece we found, it couldn't have come in this way.' He looked at them. 'Could it? The gap's too narrow. If we come across more bones, or a bigger fragment of bone, it means the body was tipped down from the top of the Pit. Like Roddy Sinclair. It means another, older murder.'

Chapter Thirty-five.

On Monday afternoon Fran went to visit Bella. She'd been thinking all weekend that she should go. She wasn't sure what she could do to help, but the death of someone so young and beautiful needed marking. It demanded a certain ritual. She knew Bella would see things that way too. Fran thought she would be waiting in the Manse, queenly, expecting visits. That didn't mean Bella would be feeling the loss any less Roddy was as much a child to her as Ca.s.sie was to Fran but she would want his going dramatized, turned into art, made splendid.

There was a small group of reporters at the entrance to the Manse. None of them looked local. They seemed content to sit in the sun and take photos of the Manse with their long lenses. A uniformed policeman stood there too, and he seemed to be enjoying the banter with the journalists. He let Fran through with a wave when she said she was there to see Bella. She thought she'd seen him before at one of Duncan's parties. Those days seemed a long time ago.

Bella opened the door to her and as Fran had expected she was dressed to meet guests. Her clothes always tended towards the theatrical. Today she was wearing a long skirt, gathered and full, in a plum-coloured muslin, and a white embroidered cotton top. The effect was exotic flamenco or gypsy. Fran despised herself for considering such trivial matters as dress, but Bella would want it to be noticed. Fran wondered if it would be tasteless to say how nice the artist looked and decided that it would be. Besides, she would know she looked good.

'I wanted to come,' she said. 'I probably can't do anything, and if you'd rather be alone, do say.'

'No.' Bella stood back, so she was framed by the light through the old kirk-style window. 'Company helps. It stops me brooding quite so much. Have you had lunch? Aggie Williamson keeps bringing me food. Either things she made or wonderful little goodies Martin's cooked, but I can't face eating.'

And Fran saw that she did seem to have lost weight. Her eyes were hollow and her cheekbones angular beneath the fine skin. She had put on make-up though, a very subtle foundation, a smudge of shadow on her eyes. I would do the same, Fran thought. It would keep me from falling apart altogether.

Bella was continuing. 'Shall we have tea then? And perhaps a slice of cake. Do you mind sitting in the kitchen?'

Fran was reminded of the last time they'd sat here, discussing the fake notices which had been circulated to cancel the exhibition. How fierce and angry Bella had been then. How important the launch had seemed.

'Do the police know yet why Jeremy Booth put out all those flyers?' she asked.

'Surely you'd know that better than me.' For a moment it was the old Bella, amused, sharp. 'Haven't you taken up with Jimmy Perez?'

'He doesn't discuss the case with me.'

'I've been trying to think where I might have met Booth,' Bella said. 'I've been thinking a lot about the past in the last few days. It's suddenly become sharper, somehow more vivid. It's more pleasant than the present, and with Roddy gone there's really not much future left. Nothing worth caring about, at least. It is possible that I knew him.'

'There's your work.' That would hold me together, Fran thought. That and the pride of keeping up appearances.

'Oh yes, there's always that.'

'Any idea where you might have met Booth?'

'There were occasional visitors,' Bella said vaguely. 'People who drifted into my life for a few weeks and then disappeared. Students and other artists. I liked the energy of the people who came and sometimes I asked them to stay. I'd bought this big house. And I loved parties. Just like your ex-husband, my dear. So why not?'

'You think Booth might have been one of your stray guests?'

'Perhaps.' She nibbled at a piece of fruit cake. 'I think Peter Wilding might have been one of them too. I hadn't realized before. It's only since Roddy died, this strange escape into the past, living the old days in my head. If it's the man I'm remembering, he doesn't even look very different. But the summer I believe he was here wasn't a very happy time for me. I've been trying since then to put it out of my mind. Besides, I can't be sure.' She seemed to realize she was rambling, looked up and gave a quick, wicked smile. 'Will you pa.s.s all this information on to Jimmy Perez?'

'Would you rather I didn't?'

She gave a shrug. 'Just tell Jimmy I can't be certain. And Wilding never mentioned having been here. That does seem odd, doesn't it? When he first started writing to me, telling me how much he enjoyed the paintings, he didn't bring that up. His letter was very flattering, of course. We all enjoy being flattered. But you'd think he'd say something, wouldn't you, if he'd been a guest in my house? Something self-deprecating and hopeful. I don't suppose you remember but you were kind enough to put me up one summer. I'm not sure how accurate my memories are. It could all be make-believe. I think grief makes everyone a little bit mad. That and the simmer dim.'

'Do you think Jeremy Booth and Peter Wilding were here at the same time?'

There was a long silence before Bella answered.

'You know, I rather think they were. It was this time of the year. An unusually warm summer. The house was full. Roddy's parents were still living in Lerwick then, but he came over to see me most weekends and there were a couple of weeks when Alec was away in hospital. I remember swimming with him from the beach here. I taught him to swim. There aren't many days when it's warm enough to do that. And at night we had parties on the beach. Bonfires and music. There was usually someone who could play. Too much drink and too much dope. It was long after the sixties, of course, but perhaps we were trying to recreate that sort of sense. The creativity and the freedom. We wanted to believe that we were young.' She paused. 'And I was in love, with Lawrence Thomson. I'd been in love with him since I was thirteen. Probably before that. I remember playing kiss-chase with him in the little school in Middleton. All these people who stayed, none of them could match up to him.'

Fran had dozens of questions, but kept them all to herself. Bella shook her head, as if to force herself back to the present.

'Everyone went, of course,' she said. 'As soon as the weather changed and the rain started. They didn't want to make a life in the real Shetland. They talked about authentic culture, but there was nothing authentic about their experience.' There was another moment of silence. 'Even Lawrence went.'

'I don't suppose you have any photographs of that time?'

Bella didn't seem to hear. 'But I had Roddy,' she said. 'He more than made up for losing all the summer hangers-on. And after Alec died and his mother ran away with her oilman, I had him all to myself. Did he make up for losing Lawrence? I'm not sure about that.'

'Do you have any photographs?'

Again Bella gave the little shake of her head to disperse the images of previous times.

'I'm sure there are some,' she said. 'Roddy was looking at them not very long ago.'

'Would you mind showing me? If it wouldn't be too upsetting.'

'I'm not sure where they are. And I really don't think I have the energy to look.'

'I'll go,' Fran said, 'if you tell me where they might be.' She found herself fascinated by the idea of the summer house party. The long white nights. The artists and actors and writers attracted to Shetland, but more especially to Bella like moths to a very bright candle, and the woman who had no interest in any of them. She wanted Lawrence, her childhood sweetheart, her golden boy. What a brilliant film it would make! she thought. All those beautiful people in this stunning setting.

'They're in an old s...o...b..x,' Bella said. The answer came so quickly that Fran thought she'd wanted the photographs found all the time. She was too lethargic or too sensible of her own importance to look for them. 'I think they might be in the cupboard in the studio. Do you know where that is?' She leaned back in her chair and waved her arms to give directions.

Fran enjoyed walking through the house on her own, the glimpse into other rooms through half-open doors. She had, at times like these, a sense of images stolen and saved for future use in her painting.

The photographs were exactly where Bella had said they would be in a battered s...o...b..x on a shelf in a tall dark-wood cupboard. Fran wondered if she'd been looking at them herself. All the photos were loose and seemed to be in no chronological order. Many were in poor condition, the edges tattered, the corners bent, the print faded and discoloured. She was tempted to sit there, on the floor, and to spread them out until she found a pattern, or people she recognized. But they belonged to Bella and that would have been an intrusion too far.

In the kitchen Bella cleared the table of the teapot and mugs and Aggie Williamson's fruit cake. 'Now,' she said. 'Let's see what we have here.'

Fran would have tipped out the photographs in a heap, fanned them out like playing cards, but Bella kept them in the box and took out one at a time. The first was of Roddy as a child, wrapped in a towel, his face brown from the sun and freckled with sand. Many were of Roddy, and Fran had to hear the story behind each one. At one point Bella started to cry. Fran went up behind her and put her arm around her.

Going back to her place at the table, she stole a look at her watch. Of course she was sympathetic, but she'd have to leave very soon. Ca.s.sie was going to play with a friend after school, but still she'd need collecting before teatime. She'd phone Perez about the photographs. This wasn't really any of her business. She'd have to learn not to meddle in his work, not to ask questions, if they were going to make their relationship work.

Then at the top of the heap in the box there was a picture of a group of adults. They were wearing party clothes. It had been taken in the garden with the house in the background. Everyone looked stiff and formal. Beyond the house a cloudless sky. And all of them held in their hands masks, glorious, elaborate affairs, fastened to a cane. Fran felt suddenly very cold.

The implication of the masks seemed lost on Bella. She left the photo where it was and stared at it.

'I remember that night,' she said. 'It was the evening before most of them went. We held a real dinner party to mark their leaving. I made everyone dress up, set the big table in the dining room. I wanted something special and came up with the idea of the masque. How pretentious I must have seemed! I thought we were so sophisticated. We're none of us very young there, are we? I remember it as a time when I was young, but that's not true at all.'

'Where did you get the masks from?'

'I hired them from a theatre company. The one which still turns up in Lerwick every year on the boat. I made friends with one of the actors.'

'How long ago was it?'

Bella stared into s.p.a.ce. 'Fifteen years? Roddy had his sixth birthday the next day. He came here to collect his present and those of us who were left had such hangovers.'

'Do you know who everyone is?'

Bella lifted out the picture. It was larger than most of the others, which were just snaps, and almost covered the area of the s...o...b..x.

'This is me. Right in the front. Of course.' She was wearing a red silk halterneck dress. Her hair was cut very short, almost exactly the same style as she wore today. Fran was reminded of the self-portrait that had caught the attention of Jeremy Booth at the Herring House party.

'You look lovely.'

'I made an effort,' she said. 'Oh how I made an effort! I'd got it into my head that Lawrence would propose that night.'

'Is he in the photograph?'

'No,' Bella said briefly. 'I'd invited him to the dinner, but he never appeared.'

'Isn't this Peter Wilding?' Fran turned the photograph round so she was looking directly at it. 'This man standing beside you.' He was very dark, handsome in a sulky sort of way.

'Do you think it is? He's put on a little weight, if it's him. I suppose it could be. The shape of the nose is the same.'

'Are you sure you didn't recognize him when he turned up to rent the house from you? He hasn't changed that much.'

'Don't you think so? I certainly didn't know him. I've already explained, I had no reason to want to remember that summer. Besides, there was no need to go back to the past. I had a future through Roddy.'

Fran thought that Bella had put too much on to the boy the responsibility for all her happiness. 'Is Jeremy Booth there?'

Bella swung the picture back. 'It's difficult to tell, isn't it? I only saw him briefly at the Herring House the other night. Where is it? I wondered if this could be him.'

'Where?'

'Here. I thought the long face, rather narrow nose. He has more hair here, of course. It's unfashionably long, even for the time. And he has a beard. Very much the bohemian.'

'And you really don't remember anything about him? Not even the name?'

'I don't think he can have been here for very long. Perhaps not more than a few days. That happened. People came for a while and then moved on. I spent quite a lot of my time in Glasgow, visiting lecturer at the art school. I'd get p.i.s.sed at parties and invite people to stay.'

She leaned back in her chair with her eyes half closed. Fran thought she was reliving that summer in her mind.

'I think perhaps he was the magician,' she said. 'He put on a magic show for Roddy, who was completely entranced. It seemed such a kind thing to do. I rather fancy he was my actor. He told me he was in love with me.' As if this was of no consequence at all, a common occurrence. She paused. 'He was given to practical jokes, I remember, and not always in good taste. The flyers cancelling the party would have been just his style. A way of getting his own back. But why wait all this time? Surely he didn't come to Shetland just to upset me.' There was a note of satisfaction in her voice. She liked the idea that she had haunted him for years.

'Did anything happen that time they were all here at the Manse?' Fran asked. 'Something that could have triggered this violence so many years later?'

'No,' Bella said. 'The night that photograph was taken was an anticlimax. We dressed up and ate dinner. The next morning I was left with a hangover and a pile of dirty dishes. No drama. Nothing.'