'All the same, someone must have missed him by now. A guesthouse. Hotel.'

Perez didn't answer. He had this knack of keeping quiet if he had nothing to say. Taylor had never been able to master it.

The cars slowed down and they pulled up next to a small jetty. It looked to Taylor that they were in the middle of nowhere. You couldn't call it a village. A couple of houses built along the road and that was it. On the way they'd pa.s.sed the gallery, which was built almost on the beach. It seemed an odd set-up to Taylor. Who would come all this way to look at a few pictures? Perez had roused himself from his silence to explain that that was the last place the victim had been seen alive.

'I was there,' he said. 'At a party to celebrate the opening of the exhibition.' Taylor thought he had more to say but was waiting for another time, when there was n.o.body else listening. He reminded himself to ask him about it when they were alone.

He got out of the car to the shrieking seabirds and the smell of seaweed and bird s.h.i.t. Behind the row of low houses the hill rose steeply. He thought, Why would anyone want to live here? He recognized it from a doc.u.mentary there'd been about the folk musician Roddy Sinclair. Quite a long sequence had been taken in Biddista; the camera followed him round the place, showed him talking to the crofters, visiting the shop, drinking with his mates. Then it had been back to London and Glasgow, the music and the groupies.

Taylor didn't go into the hut. From what Perez had said there'd been enough contamination of the scene already. Now they could let the CSI get on with her work. He'd just wanted to get a feel of the place before they started. And he was glad he'd come. He had this sense that everyone in Biddista was staring at him. He could feel the eyes. He didn't look at the houses to check if there were people staring from the windows; he didn't have to. He wouldn't have understood what that was like just from chatting to Perez. This was a place where it was impossible to keep secrets. He couldn't believe that n.o.body knew who had killed the man. Perhaps they all knew. Perhaps it was all one huge conspiracy.

He turned back to Perez. 'Why don't we leave them to it? Let's get into Lerwick, just the two of us, and you can fill me in on the details.' He phrased it as a suggestion, but he knew Perez would have no choice but to agree.

In the car he was aware of the sea to the right of him, but all his concentration was on Perez. 'You say you were one of the last people to see the victim alive. What was he doing?'

There was one of those pauses. Perez pulled into a pa.s.sing place to let a woman in a clapped-out van squeeze by.

'He was weeping.'

Taylor wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Not that.

'What do you mean, weeping? What had upset him?'

Another beat of silence. 'He didn't know. Or so he claimed.' And then Perez told his story. About the stranger who caused a scene at some arty-farty do by bursting into tears and then claiming not to know who he was or how he'd got there. Taylor knew better than to interrupt. He was full of questions, but he had to let Perez tell it in his own way.

'You see why I believed it could be suicide,' Perez said. 'Yet I was never quite convinced.'

'Were you convinced that the guy had really lost his memory?'

Perez considered. Taylor waited. He wanted to shout, It's a simple question, man. How long does it take to come up with an answer? He could feel the tension of waiting constricting his breathing.

'No,' Perez said at last. 'I never really was.' And that was good enough for Taylor. Perez might irritate the s.h.i.t out of him, but he was the best judge of character Taylor knew. He watched men like David Attenborough watched animals.

'Why pretend?'

This time the answer came more quickly. 'I don't know. I've been thinking about it since I found the body. Maybe he wanted to spoil the opening of the exhibition. But why would a stranger from England want to do that? What could he have against Bella Sinclair or Fran Hunter?'

Taylor recognized the name. 'Isn't that the same woman who found Catherine Ross?'

'Aye.' There was a small flutter of the eyelids. 'That's why I was there. She's become a sort of friend.'

Anyone else and Taylor would have taken the p.i.s.s. What sort of friend would that be, then? The sort you sleep with? But he didn't want to offend Perez. No way could he work here without the man on his side.

Perez changed the subject. 'It's possible that the victim tried to stop the opening from happening at all. Someone went round Lerwick giving out flyers which said it had been cancelled. He was wearing a mask like a clown.'

'But neither of the artists recognized him?'

A silence. 'So they say.' Another pause. 'The flyer said the opening had been cancelled because of a death in the family. Almost as if he'd been predicting his own murder.'

Lerwick wasn't as grey as Taylor had remembered, but the last time he'd been here had been midwinter. Today the sun was shining and the people weren't huddled into heavy coats. The light was reflected from the water. Moored in the harbour was a boat kitted out like a theatre. It had a red tarpaulin banner slung over the side advertising the most recent production.

He nodded towards it. 'That's new.'

'No,' Perez said. 'It's been coming for as long as I can remember, but it's only here in the summer. It travels around the islands. The visitors like it.'

'G.o.d,' Taylor said. 'I'm starving.' He'd had a horrible bun on the plane and it seemed ages ago.

They bought fish and chips and ate from greasy paper looking over the water. Taylor recalled it wasn't far from here to where Perez lived.

'You still in the same place?'

Perez nodded.

'You haven't moved in with the gorgeous Ms Hunter yet then?' He knew it was none of his business but he couldn't help himself. Curiosity, a vital character trait for a cop. He knew he was a tiny bit jealous too.

Perez finished the last of his chips. 'It's not like that.'

Taylor was going to ask what it was like, but the business of the dead stranger was more important.

'Who do you think killed the victim? Someone local?'

'There are people in Biddista who have things to hide,' Perez said at last. 'But it doesn't have to be murder.'

Taylor nodded. He understood that. The police turn up at the door and there's always something to feel guilty about. Speeding. Defrauding the taxman. Having it off with the wife's best friend. The detective picks up the guilt. It's easy to believe that it's to do with the current case.

Perez shook out the chip paper and a couple of herring gulls came squawking at his feet. 'I need to make a call,' he said. 'Meant to do it earlier. Kenny Thomson, the guy who found the body, left a message for me.'

He walked a few feet away from Taylor and stood to his back to him, so he couldn't hear the conversation. He wasn't sure he'd have understood it anyway. When Perez lapsed into dialect he could have been talking another b.l.o.o.d.y language. He remembered how he'd felt when his mother had left them and moved to north Wales. There'd been an access order which his father had kicked off about. The arrangement hadn't lasted long but for nearly a year Taylor had been sent to spend a weekend with her every month. Walking into a shop, everyone staring, everyone speaking a language he couldn't understand. He knew they'd been talking about him. And about his mother setting up home with the respectable chapel man. Leading him astray. Hussey. A word stolen from the English.

Perez had switched off the phone and was waiting for Taylor to ask about the call.

'Well?' Taylor asked.

'He wants another look at the body. Imagination going into overdrive if you ask me. He thinks it could be his brother.' Perez paused, corrected himself. He always liked to get things right. 'No, he doesn't think it could be him. Wants to check that it isn't.'

'Wouldn't he know his own brother?'

'He left to go travelling. Hasn't been back in years. And Kenny didn't get a brilliant view. Only side on, and then there was the mask covering the face. Like I said, it's just a matter of ruling him out. It's obviously been bothering him.'

'I thought you said the victim was English.'

Perez shrugged. 'People's voices change. They put on an act.'

'What did you tell him?'

'That he can come and have a look this afternoon, before the body goes south on the ferry for the postmortem.'

Taylor felt a thrill of excitement. This was his first chance to engage with the case. He'd never been a hands-off manager.

'I'll be there too,' he said. 'You don't mind?'

Perez didn't answer. He knew it wasn't really a question.

Chapter Seventeen.

Kenny Thomson arrived at the undertakers' before they were ready to let him see the body. There were two men to greet him: Jimmy Perez, who always reminded him of that summer he'd spent on Fair Isle, and the big Englishman he'd seen get out of the car at the jetty.

They sat in a dark little waiting room. In one corner there was a bowl of silk flowers. There was a heavy, kind of floral smell in the air. It couldn't come from the silk, of course, and he wondered what was making it.

He was thinking about that when Perez introduced the English detective, so he still wasn't sure of his name and what his rank was.

'What's all this about then, Kenny?' Perez said. He had a quiet, hesitant way of talking, thoughtful, as if he was weighing every word before he spoke.

'It's probably nothing,' Kenny said. 'But I thought, Better to check. Better than lying awake at night wondering.'

'Tell us a bit about Lawrence,' Perez said. 'Just while we're waiting.'

And Kenny found himself talking about Lawrence, the older brother who was bigger and stronger than him, who left Kenny in his shadow. 'He was the sort of man who'd walk into a room and everyone would start smiling,' he said. 'When he went I missed him. Everyone in Biddista missed him.'

'Why did he go? Was it for work?'

Then Kenny saw that they didn't want to know that Lawrence lit up the room when he walked in. What they wanted was facts and dates. But he had more than that to tell them.

'He had work here,' he said. 'Plenty of work. He wasn't so interested in the croft. He didn't really have the patience for it. He was more one for quick results. He was a fine builder. He started off working for Jerry Stout and learned the trade from him, then when Jerry died he took over the business. He and Jerry put a new roof on the Manse when Bella moved in. Then Lawrence converted the Herring House. Eve Eunson drew up the plans, but he did all the work on it. More of a labour of love. That's what he called it. He was down there more than twelve hours a day, getting it ready for the opening. I did some labouring for him when I could. Bella didn't pay him what he was due. Once the gallery was finished he had offers of work from all over Scotland. He didn't need to live away. He could have stayed in Shetland and just travelled for the work.'

'Why did he go?'

Kenny wasn't sure how much to say. 'I don't know. I wasn't there when it happened. He was besotted with Bella. Whatever she asked he did. He always had plans to marry her. That's what I think. It was always a dream at the back of his head. No one else would live up to her. He saw other women from time to time, but you could tell he wasn't serious about them. Bella kept him hanging on a string all the time the Herring House was being built, then once it was finished, I think she made it clear he had no chance with her. She was too selfish to settle down. She'd got what she wanted from him.' Kenny knew he sounded bitter but he didn't care. Whenever he thought about it, he was angry.

'When was this, Kenny?'

'It was that summer I was in Fair Isle working on the harbour. They'd asked Lawrence to do it, but he was tied up with the last finish on the Herring House and he put the work my way. He knew I was looking to expand the croft and the money would be useful. I never had the chance to say goodbye to him.'

'He didn't ask your advice about leaving?'

Kenny smiled to himself. When had Lawrence ever asked anyone's advice? 'That wasn't his style,' he said. 'He was kind of impulsive. It wasn't the first time he'd gone off without telling anyone. When he was nineteen he disappeared; he just left a note for my parents. That time it was backpacking round Australia.'

'What did he intend to do this time?'

'I think maybe the Merchant Navy. He was always talking about that. The way to travel and get paid for it. He was always easy in a boat. You know the kids in Biddista, they're out in a dinghy almost as soon as they can walk. It was natural for him.' Kenny stopped speaking for a moment. He was thinking of one of those still summer evenings. Him and Lawrence out after mackerel. The boat at anchor, moving with the swell. Lawrence on his feet, balanced, and laughing at some joke Kenny had made.

Perez looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

'Besides,' Kenny went on. 'It was a great romantic gesture, wasn't it, running away to sea? Lawrence would be one for the big romantic gesture.'

'When did you last hear from him?'

'I never have. He left a message with Bella to say he was leaving and he was never in touch with us again.' He turned to Perez. 'He could have phoned me at the hostel, couldn't he? To say goodbye. We didn't have mobiles then, but he could have tracked me down somewhere. Maybe he was frightened I'd persuade him to stay.'

'Will you recognize him, do you think?' Perez asked.

'I've been thinking about that. I got out some photos.' There'd been one of him, Lawrence, Edith and Bella standing on the jetty grinning into the camera. He couldn't remember who'd taken it. Aggie maybe. Though surely she'd have been married by then. She wouldn't still be living at home. But she'd come back to Biddista whenever she could. She'd never been able to stay away.

'All the same, it's been a long time. And people look different when they're dead.'

'He had a birthmark on his right shoulder,' Kenny said. 'However he's changed, I'll know him by that.'

'We could check that for you. If you don't want to look at the body again.'

But Kenny shook his head. If this did happen to be Lawrence, he wanted to identify him for himself. This was his brother.

Then, it seemed, it was time to look at the body. Kenny couldn't tell why suddenly they decided the time was right. n.o.body came in to tell them. He thought the delay had probably just been an excuse to get him talking.

The body was lying on a steel table. There was no one else in the room. Perez stood by the table and prepared to lift back a sheet so Kenny could see the face. The English policeman still hadn't said anything, except for a few words of greeting when Perez had introduced him, but he'd followed them in and now stood at Kenny's shoulder. Kenny wished he'd move back a bit to give him some s.p.a.ce. Perez turned and Kenny nodded to show he was ready.

As soon as he saw the face he knew it wasn't Lawrence. There was no likeness. He wondered how he could ever have doubted his first impression. He should never have listened to Aggie Williamson. He should never have got caught up in her panic. Lawrence had a full, deep forehead and a mouth which was wide, even when he wasn't laughing. This man had delicate features, thin lips. It could have been a woman's face, if it hadn't been for the slight stubble on the chin, the hairy eyebrows. Kenny had a terrible desire to giggle. He pictured the corpse suddenly as one of those drag queens who appeared sometimes on the television, with a false bosom and a blond wig. He supposed it was the release of tension, the relief.

He realized he should say something.

'No,' he said. 'That's not Lawrence. Definitely not.'

'We'll just look for the birthmark, shall we? Just to make sure. You know how the mind plays tricks.' And Perez folded the sheet back again, very neatly, like a nurse or a soldier preparing a bed for inspection. Now the shoulders and the top of the body were exposed. They must have taken off his clothes. The man's chest was covered in fine grey hair. Kenny thought he'd been a self-conscious man. He'd shaved his head when his hair turned grey. Lawrence could be vain, right enough, but there was no birthmark on the shoulder. This wasn't him.

'No,' he said. 'I've not seen this man before in my life.'

'Are you sure?' Perez was poised, holding the sheet in both his hands. He was leaning across the body. 'This couldn't have been the man you saw running away from the Herring House the night of the party?'

Kenny thought about that. 'Aye,' he said. 'It could have been. If he was dressed in black. He seems the right sort of height and build. But I couldn't swear to it. He was a long way off.'

Then Perez replaced the sheet and they returned to the small room with the dusty silk flowers. Kenny had thought the meeting would be over now. It would be all right to go. He imagined Edith waiting for him at home. He'd wasted most of the afternoon, driving here and then sitting in this room, waiting.

But it seemed the Englishman had other ideas. 'You don't mind if I just follow up a couple of points?' Kenny wasn't sure if he was asking Jimmy Perez or him.

'Will it take long?'

'Not long at all.'

'Could we go out then?' He wanted to escape that strange, sweet smell. He needed some fresh air.

'Of course we can go out. Let's get you a drink somewhere. I expect you could do with one. I could use one myself. You'd think you'd get used to dead bodies in this business, but I never have.'