‘A tourist was found dead in suspicious circumstances yesterday in Biddista. The police are anxious to identify him.’ Then a brief description and a request that anyone who might recognize the dead man should phone the incident room.
It struck him that the tone would be very different if the dead man were a Shetlander. The fact that he was described immediately as a tourist took any sense of panic from the news. It was as if the reporter was describing an incident that had occurred elsewhere. A visitor’s death was almost a source of entertainment.
While he made coffee and stuck two slices of bread into the toaster he listened for the weather forecast. The fog should clear around midday. Perhaps Taylor and his team from Inverness would get in after all today on the plane. Taylor would be pleased. Thirteen hours on the ferry would be purgatory to him. He would be like a tiger caged for transport. Perez imagined him, lying straight and stiff on the bunk in the dark cabin, trying to relax and to sleep. When they’d worked together previously he’d thought Taylor the most restless man he’d ever met.
As he left home, he saw that the cruise ship was still moored at the dock. Usually the huge liners spent very little time in Lerwick. The passengers disembarked, caught the complimentary bus to the town centre, had a trip round the tourist and information centre, the Shetland Times bookshop and the gift shops, then went back to the luxury of the ship. Sometimes he would bump into a group of them in Commercial Street. Most were from the United States. They stared around them at the tiny shops, the passing people. He felt like an animal in a zoo.
In his office he phoned the harbourmaster. When was the Island Belle due to sail? Could Patrick arrange a visit for him before she left?
‘You’ll have to be quick. She’s scheduled to leave on the midday tide.’
‘I’ll go now,’ Perez said. ‘As soon as you can fix it.’
He drove down to Morrison’s Dock, parked facing the water and was distracted for a moment by a seal lifting its soft face out of the water. When he was a boy he’d used the Fair Isle seals for target practice with his father’s shotgun until his mother had found out.
‘What harm did they ever do to you?’
‘William says they take fish and that’s why the catch is so poor now.’ William was an older lad, at that time the fount of all wisdom and knowledge.
‘Nonsense. The catch is so poor because we’ve been over-fishing the North Sea for years.’ His mother, who had been a member of Greenpeace when she was a student, still had theories about the environment that his father found dangerous and extreme.
To be honest, Jimmy had been glad of an excuse not to shoot the seals any more. He’d hated the slick of blood which floated on the water when he’d hit the target. Sometimes he’d tried to miss, but William’s ridicule had been hard to face too.
Patrick must have warned the cruise ship that he was coming because it seemed they were expecting him. He was shown at once into the purser’s office. After The Good Shepherd, the mail boat which ran from Grutness to Fair Isle, the NorthLink ferries had seemed enormous. But this was monstrous, a towering white skyscraper of a ship, taller than any of the buildings in Lerwick. The purser was a lowland Scot. It seemed Shetland wasn’t his favourite stop on the tour.
‘You’ll have heard that a tourist was killed yesterday in Biddista?’ Perez asked him.
‘No.’ Implying, Why would I care?
‘Have any of your passengers explored the island that far west?’
‘Look, inspector, we don’t usually spend this long in Lerwick. It’s a bit of a dead loss. They come expecting something scenic and it’s not exactly pretty, is it? Grey little houses. We do the seabird tour and the silverworks then everyone heaves a sigh of relief and we’re off to Orkney. St Magnus’ Cathedral – now that is a building worth taking a photo of. And the Highland Park distillery.’ The thought of malt whisky seemed to cheer him immediately.
Perez had an urge to defend Shetland, to say it had a beauty of its own, that there were visitors who loved the low horizons and big skies, the huge bare hills, but he could tell that the purser would never be a convert. ‘Why are you here so long this trip?’
‘A problem with one of the engines. It’s fixed now, thank the Lord, and we can be on our way.’
‘You’re not missing any of your passengers then?’
‘No one’s reported one missing. Have you any evidence to suggest your dead man is one of ours?’
‘There was nothing to identify him at all.’
The purser seemed relieved. He stood up.
‘They could leave the ship if they wanted to?’ Perez said. ‘I mean you don’t lock them in?’
‘Of course not. But most of our passengers are elderly. They prefer to stick to the organized trips.’ He sat down again. ‘Look, if they wanted adventure they wouldn’t choose a cruise with a bunch of geriatrics.’
‘Where did you take your passengers the day before yesterday?’
‘They had a free morning to look round the town and in the afternoon we took them on a bus trip, down to the RSPB reserve at Sumburgh Head for puffins. Tea in Scalloway.’
‘I’m surprised the exhibition at the Herring House wasn’t on the schedule. Bella Sinclair’s a big name. I’d have thought some of your customers would have enjoyed meeting the artist.’
‘A couple of them mentioned it. When we had to stay the extra night I considered fixing up transport for them to go, but in the end it was cancelled, wasn’t it?’ He gave the impression he was pleased he’d avoided the bother.
‘Who told you it was cancelled?’
‘Nobody told me. Not the people organizing the exhibition, at least. But there was a guy handing out flyers at the gangplank when they went down for the trip into town.’
‘Did you see him?’ Perez demanded.
‘No, I wasn’t on duty just then.’
‘Could I get to talk to someone who did?’
The purser looked at his watch and sighed.
Perez sat where he was and said nothing.
The purser stood up and gestured for Perez to follow him. An elderly couple leaned against the rail on the upper deck looking out at the town. The mist was already starting to clear, so at least there was something to look at. They were thin and brown and they were holding hands.
‘Honeymooners,’ the purser said as they approached. ‘You’d think at their age they’d have more sense.’ His tone changed when they were within earshot. ‘Come and meet Dr and Mrs Halliday, inspector. I think they might be able to help you.’ For the first time since Perez had entered his office he smiled.
Perez found the sudden transformation in his attitude and body language disturbing. But this was the man doing his job. It was all about playing a role.
The Hallidays were from Phoenix, Arizona. They were collectors of contemporary art. They even owned a small Bella Sinclair. ‘We were so disappointed that the exhibition opening was cancelled, inspector. George here had fixed up a taxi to take us and bring us back.’
‘Can you describe the man who gave you the flyer?’
The couple looked at each other. ‘It would be helpful,’ Perez said. He wondered why they hesitated.
‘I guess it’s hard to say,’ the man said, ‘because of the fancy dress. That was all I noticed.’
‘Fancy dress?’
‘Well, yes. He was dressed like a clown. Not the sort with a red nose and bright clothes. This one was all in black and white. Classy, you know. Like something from the commedia dell’arte.’