White Nights Part 14

'I remember that Lawrence always liked a drink,' she said.

w.i.l.l.y grinned again.

'What were the Englishmen's names?' Perez asked.

'It was a fine time,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'A fine time.' He returned to his meal, suddenly eating with great gusto, and Perez thought he was tasting the fresh fish caught just that day and cooked over the driftwood beach fire.

Perez turned to Edith. He didn't want to pull w.i.l.l.y back to the present, to the indignity of slopped food and endless games of cards. 'Do you know who he's talking about? Were there any regular English visitors to Biddista?'

She shook her head. 'w.i.l.l.y used to hire out his boat for fis.h.i.+ng to the tourists, but I don't remember anyone regular. Perhaps it was before my time.'

w.i.l.l.y jerked out of his reverie. 'The Englishman came asking me questions, just the other day,' he said. 'But I told him nothing.'

'Which Englishman would that be?' Perez asked Edith.

'There's a writer called Wilding who comes after the traditional stories,' she said. 'Something to do with a book he's writing. That must be who he means.'

Perez would have liked to spend the afternoon there, sitting in the sun flooding in through the windows, listening to w.i.l.l.y talking about fis.h.i.+ng and the Biddista children, but he knew he couldn't justify it. How would he account for his time to Taylor? Edith got up from the table and walked with him to the door.

'Come back,' she said. 'Any time.'

In the car, his mobile phone suddenly got a signal again. It bleeped and showed a couple of missed calls, both from Sandy. Perez rang him, could hear the buzz of the incident room in the background. Sandy seemed to have his mouth full of food and it was a moment before Perez could make out what he was saying.

'I've tracked down the lad who gave the Englishman a lift. Stuart Leask. He works on the desk at the NorthLink terminal and he'll be there all afternoon.'

Chapter Twenty-four.

Fran was working on a still-life, some pieces of driftwood and a sc.r.a.p of fis.h.i.+ng net she'd found on the beach. It was more as practice than for a picture to sell. She'd become obsessed by the need to improve her drawing. Even at art school, she thought, she hadn't paid it enough attention.

The phone call came just as she'd taken a break from work and put on the kettle for tea. She thought it would be Perez. He was her lover, the man who had been there at the back of her thoughts for months. But when she heard the English voice at the end of the line, there was a thrill of guilty excitement. She'd looked Wilding up on the internet. He had his own website, which listed the reviews. Perhaps he wasn't bestseller popular, but he was recognized as an interesting and original author. One of his short stories was in production for a feature film. There was in his celebrity the same glamour that surrounded Roddy and Bella.

'What are you doing?' His voice was easy, slightly amused.

'I'm working.'

'So I won't be able to persuade you to meet me for lunch then?'

The invitation reminded her of the spontaneous arrangements that had been part of her city life. A call from a friend. A meeting in a wine bar or over coffee. There'd be gossip and laughter then she'd run back to the office to finish the day's work. Things weren't quite so easy here. Perhaps in Lerwick it might be possible, though the choices of venue were limited. Here in Ravenswick, miles from anywhere, it was all much more complicated. Socializing took place in friends' houses. There was nothing new.

'I've got a hire car,' he said. 'I can pick you up. Half an hour.'

'I'll have to be back at three to collect my little girl from school.' As soon as the words were spoken she realized they'd be taken as acceptance of the invitation.

'No problem. See you soon.' And the line was dead. It was as easy as that. She felt a pleasurable guilt, as if she'd already been unfaithful.

She went back to work, but couldn't concentrate. Where would he take her? Of course they would b.u.mp into someone she knew. A friend of Perez's. Or a friend of Duncan's. She started forming the excuses and explanations in her mind. He wants to commission a piece of art. Of course I had to talk to him. It was just a business lunch. Should she phone Perez now and tell him what was happening? But then that would give the meeting more importance than it warranted. And how should she dress?

He arrived before she was quite ready and she felt fl.u.s.tered. She had to invite him into the house to wait and was aware how small it was, saw the dead houseplant on the windowsill, Ca.s.sie's toys all over the floor, through his eyes. He remained standing while she ran into the bedroom to get her bag. She'd compromised on clothes jeans with a silk top she'd bought on her last trip south. She'd meant to put on make-up but he'd arrived before it was done and she couldn't cope with the thought of him watching her.

Down in the valley it was lunchtime in Ravenswick School. She could just make out the figures of the children running in the yard.

She wanted to mention Ca.s.sie. My daughter will be one of those. Maybe you can pick her out. She's wearing a red cardigan. But before she could form the words he'd handed her into the car and they were on their way. She was glad she had no near neighbours to watch.

Away from Ravenswick she began to let go of the guilt. Why shouldn't she have some time just for herself? In the run-up to the exhibition she'd done nothing but work.

He'd taken the road south after leaving Ravenswick, away from Lerwick and any of the restaurants he might have chosen.

'Where are we going?'

'Wait and see.' He turned towards her. 'You're looking lovely,' he said. 'Really.'

In her old life she'd have been able to bat away a compliment like that with a flippant, witty one-liner. Now she felt herself blus.h.i.+ng.

He signalled west off the Sumburgh road and they were driving on a narrow track which she didn't think she'd ever been down. There was a cattle grid, then a damp patch with flag irises and a long, narrow loch with a square stone house perched at the end. A grand house for Shetland. Two storeys. Then the land seemed to drop away, so the house almost formed a bridge between the loch and the sea. Fran felt a moment of apprehension. Where was he taking her? What had she been thinking of, getting into a stranger's car?

'Where are we going?' she asked again, keeping her voice even. 'I didn't know there was anywhere to eat down here.'

'Just be patient,' he said. 'You'll see soon enough.'

Perhaps this was a new hotel, she thought, though she surely would have heard about its opening and there'd been no sign on the main road. Besides, when they got closer she could see it was empty, almost derelict. There were slates missing on the roof and the windowframes were rotten, the paint entirely peeled away. Frayed threadbare curtains hung at the windows.

She thought he was waiting for more questions. He wanted her to ask about the house, what they were doing there. She said nothing.

The track came to an end by the entrance to the small garden. Tall double gates, rusting, stood slightly open. Beyond, the vegetation was surprisingly lush and overgrown, an oasis which had somehow survived the battering of the westerlies. There were more irises, a patch of rhododendron.

Fran wondered if he'd taken the road by mistake. She sat, expecting him to turn the car round, but he was opening his door.

'Come on,' he said. 'We've arrived.' Now his excitement was unsophisticated. He was like a child desperate to show off a new achievement.

She followed him. What else could she do? He put his weight behind the gate to make the gap wide enough for her to squeeze through. The long gra.s.s behind it stopped it opening further. A path led to another smaller gate at the top of a shallow cliff and steps cut into the rock. The beach below was tiny, a perfect half-moon of sand. Beyond was a flat gra.s.sy island.

'Well?' he demanded. 'What do you think?'

She was wondering where they were going to eat. Why had he brought her here? Had she mistaken the nature of his invitation?

Perhaps he could guess what was going through her mind.

'I've brought a picnic,' he said. 'I'll fetch it from the car. I thought we could have it on the beach. That is all right?'

'Of course,' she said. 'It's a lovely idea.'

'I only found this place a couple of days ago and I wanted someone else to see it. It's so perfect.'

'A secret garden,' she said, rea.s.sured by his excitement. He wasn't a stranger. He was a famous writer. His photo was on his website along with the jackets of his books.

'Yes! Yes!' He was beaming. 'But you probably know it already. You're a local after all.'

Oh no, she thought. I'll never be a local.

'I've not been here before,' she said. 'Thank you for bringing me.' She could tell he wanted her to be as excited as he was and realized she sounded like a polite child who'd been taken out for an unwanted treat. But the lunch date was turning out to be so different from what she'd been expecting that she wasn't quite sure how to respond. She'd imagined a lunch in a crowded restaurant, conversation about art and books. Not a picnic on the beach.

The food was in a cold-bag. Wilding carried it from the car with a woven rug, which he draped over his shoulder. It made him look as if he was in fancy dress and only added to Fran's sense of unreality.

'I cheated,' he said. 'I asked Martin Williamson from the Herring House to put something together for me. I hope that's OK.'

He set off down the steps in the cliff without waiting for an answer.

On the beach, sheltered from the breeze, it felt very warm. Warmer than Fran could ever remember feeling in Shetland. The sand was white and fine. Seals were hauled up on rocks at the end of the island. Wilding spread out the rug. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him unpack the picnic. He took out a bottle of wine, still chilled so the gla.s.s was misty, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket with a flourish, and opened it. There were real gla.s.ses. But Fran thought the heat and the light had made her feel slightly drunk already.

'How did you find this place?'

'I was house-hunting.'

'The house is for sale?'

'Not exactly.' He gave a sudden wide grin. 'Not any more.'

'You've bought it?' It seemed to her an astonis.h.i.+ng thing to do on the spur of the moment. He hadn't even been in Shetland that long. She thought of Perez, the agonizing there'd been over his future, where he would live. She admired Wilding's ability to take a life-changing decision so lightly.

'Once I saw it I had to have it. I tracked down the owner and put in an offer. A very good offer. I don't think she'll turn it down. It was left to an elderly woman who lives in Perth and she hardly ever visits. I can't show you round the house. I haven't got a key yet. I'll hear for certain at the beginning of next week. I would like to see what you make of it. It's to be a project. I was hoping you might advise on the design.'

So, she thought, we'll have more excuses to meet. Still she wasn't sure what she felt about that. Of course he hadn't bought the house just to provide an opportunity to spend time with her, but still she felt she was being manipulated, that she, like the house, was one of his projects.

Now the food was spread out on the rug. There were squares of pate and little bowls of salad, chicken and ham and home-made bread.

'I do hope you're not a vegetarian,' he said. 'I should have asked.' He smiled and she could tell he knew already the food would be to her taste. He must have asked around Bella or Martin. She supposed she should be flattered that he'd put so much preparation into the lunch, but found the careful planning disturbing. And he had made the a.s.sumption that she would accept the invitation to eat with him, since the food must have been ordered before the call was made. But she drank more wine and turned her face to the sun. She wasn't in the mood to pick a fight.

'What a terrible business that murder was,' he said. 'Do the police know yet who he was?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'I haven't heard the news today.'

'But wouldn't you hear before the rest of us?' He reached across her to fill her gla.s.s again. 'I understand that you're a close friend of the inspector.'

She sipped the wine. She wished she wasn't lying down. It was hard to challenge him, spread out at his feet. She pushed herself upright, sat cross-legged so she was facing him.

'Who told you that?'

'Hey.' He held up his hands in mock surrender. 'I asked Bella if you were seeing anyone. She mentioned the cop. That was all.'

'It didn't stop you asking me out to lunch.'

'It's lunch. I wanted someone to share this place with me. You didn't have to accept.'

She felt suddenly that she was being ridiculous. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I should never drink at lunchtime. It's always a mistake. This is all lovely.'

'Is it true then? You and Perez . . .'

He was looking at her, squinting into the sunlight.

'I don't think,' she said sharply, 'that's it's any of your business.'

'Does that mean I still have a chance then? Of winning a place in your affections?'

She looked at him. She couldn't make him out. Was he teasing her? Was this innocent flirting? Or something more sinister?

'No,' she said firmly. 'My affections are definitely taken.'

'What a terrible pity. You need some fun in your life and Inspector Perez doesn't seem a lot of fun. I'd help you to play.'

She didn't answer that. He piled mackerel pate on to an oatcake and handed it to her.

'Does Perez ever talk to you about his work?'

'There's not usually very much to talk about,' she said. 'Nothing interesting.'

'But this is murder. We're all interested in that.'

'I don't think I am. I want the murderer caught, of course. But I didn't know the victim and I'm not involved in the case to any extent. It's Jimmy's job and nothing to do with me.' She wondered now if he'd just brought her here because he was curious about the investigation.

'I'm fascinated. I'd have thought you would be too. You used to be a journalist! And art's about the experience of extremes, don't you think?'

'I'm too chilled to think anything,' she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

He seemed to realize that it would do no good to push it. 'Somewhere in here there's a very good chocolate cake.' And he went on to entertain her with stories of publishers' parties and the s.e.xual activities of famous novelists, so she almost forgot that there'd been any awkwardness between them.

He was the one to say they should make a start back or she'd be late to pick up Ca.s.sie. She was surprised at how quickly the time had pa.s.sed. She stood up and brushed the crumbs and sand from her clothes and followed him up the steps to the house.

'You will take it on, won't you?' he said. 'The house, I mean.'

'I've never done interior design,' she said.

'That doesn't matter. You have an artist's eye. I know you'll make a good job of it.'

She stood looking at the house, imagining how she would do it, saw it completed, the windows open to the sound of the waves and the seabirds, full of people for a house-warming party. Another glimpse of her old life. He couldn't have thought of anything better to tempt her.

She laughed and refused to give him a real answer. 'When it's yours we'll talk about it again.'