'Look, I need to talk to you. Can you come here? What time is it now? Eleven-thirty. Come for lunch then, as soon as you can.'

What does she want? Fran knew it was ridiculous but she was starting to panic. Bella had the ability to intimidate. Perhaps she wants money from me, she thought. Compensation for the expenses involved with setting up the party and the lack of sales. And she had no money. But of course she would obey Bella's summons.

'Shall we meet in the Herring House cafe at twelve-thirty?' she suggested tentatively. It would take her at least that long to dress and drive north.

'No, no.' Bella was impatient. 'Not the Herring House. Here, at the Manse. As quick as you can.'

Driving to Biddista, Fran thought she should have put up more of a fight, arranged to come another day. Just because she admired Bella's work didn't mean she didn't have a mind of her own. Once she'd been known as strong-willed, a.s.sertive. But that had been in the old days when she had a proper job and a bunch of friends and she lived in London. Now she was struggling as an artist and to find her place in the community. As she drove past the Herring House she was wondering what the girls from the magazine would have made of Perez, so she didn't register the cars parked at the jetty or the small group of men standing outside the corrugated-iron hut. They were part of the landscape. Men planning to get out fishing. My friends would say he wasn't my type, she thought. Not strong enough to take me on. They'd say the relationship would never last.

The Manse was a square, stone building, imposing, on a slight rise, looking down to the sea. Fran had seen it from outside but never been in. All her previous meetings with Bella had been in the Herring House cafe, with Martin Williamson dancing attendance with coffee or tall gla.s.ses of wine. Bella must have heard the car on the gravel because she had the door open before Fran had climbed out. She was wearing jeans and a loose linen shirt. Even at home she had style.

'Come in.'

Once there had been a kirk standing between the house and the beach, and the architecture of the Manse reflected the religious connection. Inside, the staircase was lit by a tall thin window, two storeys high, a church window but with clear gla.s.s which let the sunlight in. Fran stood just inside the door and took it all in. 'What a wonderful house!' She saw at once that was the right thing to say. Bella knew it was a wonderful house, but she liked to be told. She relaxed a little, became less imperious.

'Come into the kitchen. It's last night's leftovers, I'm afraid, but there are plenty of those.'

'I'm so sorry so few of the people I invited came. I had asked them.'

'Don't blame yourself,' Bella said. 'Oh no, you mustn't blame yourself.'

Fran expected some explanation then, but Bella was moving on and talking about Biddista and the house, not about the party.

'I grew up in Biddista, you know. Not here in the Manse, but in one of the council houses down on the sh.o.r.e. They were council houses then. They've all sold now. None of the people I grew up with could afford them. w.i.l.l.y was the last of them to live there and even he wasn't a council tenant in the end.'

Fran was a little flattered that Bella a.s.sumed she knew who she was talking about, was treating her as a Shetlander. She hadn't a clue of course, but she let Bella continue.

'There was still a minister living in the Manse in those days. An Englishman who'd been a missionary in the Far East and treated us as natives who needed educating. The kirk had already gone by then and he held services in the dining room. Sometimes in the middle of a dinner party, I think I can hear the hymns.'

The kitchen, at the back of the house, seemed a little dark after the sunlight in the hall. It too still had something of the church about it. A dark wood bench under the window which could have been a pew, a high ceiling. All the ceilings seemed very high to Fran. She was used to being able to reach up and touch hers. Bella lifted plates covered with clingfilm from the fridge and Fran recognized the buffet food from the night before.

'I need wine,' Bella said. 'Let's see if Roddy has left any. He was still up when I went to bed last night, but I doubt if even he could have drunk his way through everything that was left. There are cases still in the Herring House.' She returned to the fridge and came back with a bottle. 'Would you like a gla.s.s? This one's rather good.'

Fran shook her head. 'Will Roddy be joining us?' Despite herself she was attracted by the celebrity of Roddy Sinclair. Being a Shetlander was his trademark and his unique selling point, but for her he represented life away from the islands, her old life of wine bars and serious shopping and tabloid gossip. She told herself that world was shabby and vulgar, but she missed it. She found it alluring, caught herself reading h.e.l.lo! magazine when no one was looking.

Bella looked at the clock. 'I don't think Roddy's been out of his bed before mid-afternoon since he left school. Unless he had a plane to catch.' She set plates and cutlery on the table, lifted cling wrap from the trays of food.

Fran still didn't understand the reason for the urgent summons. Was it just Bella reminding herself that she had the power to make things happen? 'You said you wanted to talk to me. It sounded important.'

'Perhaps I overreacted.'

'I'm a busy woman, Bella. Will you tell me what this is about?' Something of her old confidence rea.s.serting itself.

Her tone seemed to shock Bella because there was a moment of silence. She is such a drama queen, Fran thought. She doesn't move a muscle without calculating the impression she'll make. Bella got to her feet, reached into her bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

'This is what it's about. Andy from Visit Shetland dropped it in this morning. He couldn't understand it, of course. He had a day off yesterday and came straight to the party from his home.' She put the paper on the table, unfolded it and slid it towards Fran. 'I don't suppose you know anything about it?'

It was a computer-generated flyer, printed in red and black on white. Not professionally printed, but not badly designed. Fran noticed that before reading the words.

EXHIBITION OPENING CANCELLED.

Because of a death in the family.

Sh.o.r.eLINES.

An exhibition of original art by Bella Sinclair and Fran Hunter in The Herring House, Biddista has been cancelled.

The family requests privacy at this time.

Fran looked at it, confused. She could see that Bella expected a reaction, but felt foolish because she couldn't understand what lay behind the sc.r.a.p of paper. 'What is this? Why would I know anything about it?'

'They were all over Lerwick yesterday. Posted in the window of the tourist office, on the noticeboard in the library and handed out to visitors coming off the cruise ships. Scalloway too. It's hardly surprising there wasn't much of a turnout at the party.'

'Of course I don't know anything about it,' Fran said. 'I mean, n.o.body in my family's died.'

'Nor mine. So what is this about?' Bella was in dramatic mode again. 'A mistake? A tasteless prank? An act of sabotage?'

'Why would anyone want to sabotage an art exhibition?'

Bella shrugged. 'Jealousy. Spite. I don't think I've upset anyone enough for them to bother with something like this. Not recently at least. What about you? A first exhibition's a big deal. Anyone out there who'd want to spoil it for you?'

'That's a horrible idea. No. Absolutely not.'

'It couldn't be your ex playing games?'

'Duncan and I are being civilized at the moment, for Ca.s.sie's sake. Besides, it's not his style. He has a temper but this is petty and unpleasant. Anonymous too. Duncan would want everyone to know it was him.' She nodded towards the flyer. 'He'd think that beneath his dignity.'

'A prank then.' Bella's voice was quiet. 'A joke that got out of hand.'

The doorbell rang. There was an old-fashioned pull which rang a bell in the hall. Perhaps the bell was cracked because the sound was tinny, grating. Bella seemed relieved by the interruption, jumped to her feet and hurried away. She returned followed by Perez. He nodded to Fran, gave an embarra.s.sed little smile.

'I saw your car in the drive.'

'Were you looking for me?' Fran felt confused, as if the day was spinning out of control. It's the lack of sleep, she thought. She longed suddenly for dark nights, thunderclouds, rain.

'No. I need to talk to Bella. It's work.'

'I should go then.' She was relieved to have an excuse to leave. She didn't want an inquest into the fiasco of the launch. The flyers were obviously part of some stupid game played by Roddy and his friends. It was the sort of imbecility he was famous for. Bella had been the target and she, Fran, had been caught in the crossfire. Later she'd be angry. Now she just felt embarra.s.sed. It was like being caught eavesdropping on a very personal row between a married couple.

'No,' Perez said. 'I need to talk to you too.'

She had a sudden panic. 'What's the matter?'

'Not Ca.s.sie,' he said. 'Nothing like that.'

Bella went to the fridge and absent-mindedly poured more wine. 'If it's about the flyers cancelling the party last night,' she said, 'we know about them. Hardly a police matter, I'd have thought, even here. We don't want to press charges.'

I might, Fran thought. Don't speak for me.

'This is why you're here, Jimmy?' Bella picked up the paper between her thumb and index finger as if she could hardly bear to touch it, then dropped it on the table in front of him.

Perez frowned as he read it. Fran decided the information was new to him. 'That's why so few people turned up last night,' she said. 'These were all over Lerwick, apparently, and because of the final line, n.o.body liked to phone.' She wanted him to know she did have friends, and that they would all have been there to support her if it hadn't been for this.

'I'll have to take the flyer with me.'

'I've told you,' Bella said sharply, 'I don't want to press charges.'

'Do you think that little scene last night could be related to this?' he asked. 'The hysterical Englishman who claimed to have no memory?'

'Another attempt to disrupt the party? I suppose it could. Certainly after that drama people started to leave. He made them uncomfortable.' Bella looked at him over her winegla.s.s.

'There's a body in the hut on the jetty,' Perez said. 'We're pretty sure it was the man who caused the scene last night.'

'Really!' For a moment Bella seemed to take an unsophisticated pleasure in the news. It was a story, gossip to pa.s.s on. 'How did he die?'

'We're not sure yet. The circ.u.mstances seem a little unclear.'

What are you hiding? Fran thought.

'My G.o.d,' Bella said. 'Don't you think that's a bit spooky? The flyer, I mean. "A death in the family". Do you think he was predicting his own death?'

'But he wasn't family, was he?'

'Don't be silly, Jimmy. Of course not. I don't have any immediate family left. Only Roddy and he's still alive, thank G.o.d.'

'We want to inform the man's relatives and he has no ID. Are you sure you didn't recognize him, either of you?'

'Quite sure,' Fran said.

'I didn't know him last night.' Bella was twisting the stem of her gla.s.s. 'But that doesn't mean he wasn't an acquaintance. Someone from my past. I've met so many people and my memory isn't what it was. I'm an old woman now, Jimmy.'

She smiled, waiting to be contradicted.

It seemed to take him a moment to understand the rules of the game. Fran found that she was holding her breath. This was such a blatant cue for a compliment. Would he really have the nerve to ignore it?

At last he smiled. 'I'm sure you'll never seem old, Bella.'

In the silence that followed, Fran saw the scene as a painting. A gloomy Dutch interior, all dark wood and shadow. Bella's face in profile had an anxious, almost haunted look, and the lines of stress round her eyes made Perez's words seem cruel, mocking.

'I wonder if I might talk to Roddy.' He leaned forward. Fran could smell the soap, her soap, on his skin.

Bella seemed about to refuse, but there were footsteps on the wooden floor outside and the kitchen door opened. Roddy Sinclair stood, backlit by the sunshine flooding through the long window in the hall. He yawned and stretched, aware that they were all looking at him.

'A party,' he said. 'Oh good. I do love a party.'

Fran pulled up by the side of the road opposite the Herring House. She didn't want to park too close to the jetty, to be thought the sort of rubberneck who's excited by road accidents and blood. But the beach was so beautiful here and she needed to clear her head. She sat on the wall, looking out over the water.

She saw a figure walking towards her along the road, followed his progress. It was the dark-haired man who'd talked to her about her painting the night before. He'd spoken with such pa.s.sion about her work that she'd been flattered and hoped that he would buy a piece. She'd thought he was a dealer because he'd talked with knowledge and authority and was surprised to see him still in Biddista. She struggled to remember his name. He'd introduced himself the night before. Peter Wilding. It had seemed familiar to her then and again she thought it should have some meaning to her.

'Ms Hunter. I hope you don't mind . . .'

'No,' she said. 'Of course not.'

He sat beside her. 'I wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed your work.' There was an element of self-mockery in his voice. I know this is unsophisticated. To be so obvious in one's admiration.

'You're very kind, Mr Wilding.'

'Peter, please.'

Then she remembered how she knew the name. She'd read an article about him in the Observer. Something about contemporary genre fiction. 'A writer of fantasy for intellectuals', hadn't that been how Wilding had been described? 'You're a writer.'

'Yes.' He was clearly delighted that she'd recognized him at last.

'Are you staying in Biddista?'

'Yes, I'm renting a house here. Just temporary. But I love Shetland. I'm hoping to make a more permanent arrangement. I've vague ideas of writing a fantasy series based around Viking mythology. It might work, don't you think? And it would be wonderful to have the landscape to set it in.'

She was pleased that he seemed to value her opinion. He waited for her to answer, as if it really mattered to him.

'It would be fascinating,' she said. There were times when she missed the old London life. The talk of books and theatre and film. She thought he would be an interesting person to have around, entertaining, full of new ideas.

'I wonder if you'd agree to have a meal with me sometime,' he said. 'I don't have much scope for cooking where I am, but perhaps we could go out.'

The invitation shocked her. After Perez's diffidence, there was something daring about the way Wilding simply asked for what he wanted. And she couldn't help being flattered. It sounded like an invitation to a date, but she could hardly say she was unavailable for romance. Perhaps he just wanted to discuss her art, to commission a work from her.

'Yes,' she found herself saying. 'Yes, I'd like that.'

He gave a quick nod. 'Good. Are you in the phone book? Then I'll give you a ring.' He turned and walked quickly the way he'd come. Later it seemed strange to her that neither of them had mentioned the dead man who was still hanging in the hut on the jetty, the police officers and the cars. Because she was sure Wilding would have known what had happened there. He was the sort of man who would know.

Chapter Eight.

Perez took Roddy outside. 'Shall we just take a bit of a walk? I could do with the fresh air.' He didn't want a conversation in front of the two women. Roddy revelled in an audience. He would make things up to provide a decent story, feel an obligation to entertain them. Roddy pulled a face, as if fresh air was the last thing he needed, but followed Perez out anyway. It was in his nature to please, even if there was no immediate payback. He made a good living because he was charming.

As they left the house, Perez heard Fran tell Bella that she would leave too. He supposed she had to pick Ca.s.sie up from school, imagined her waiting at the school gate and swinging Ca.s.sie into her arms as the girl ran to her out of the yard. He loved watching the two of them together.

Roddy walked ahead of him out of the garden between the big stone gateposts. He had a long, bouncing stride and Perez had to step out to keep up. 'What were you doing in the Herring House last night?' he said. 'I thought you only played fancy gigs these days.'

'Bella asked. I was in Orkney anyway for the St Magnus Festival. It didn't seem such a big deal to come on up.' He paused. 'My aunt doesn't really take no for an answer.'

'How long are you planning to stay?'