Magnus had thought the police would come back for him. He sat all evening waiting stiff and upright in his chair. Five times cars went past but none of them stopped. The blue and white tape still fluttered across the gap in the wall. The headlights caught it as they dipped down the hill. And Catherine was still there, lying under a tarpaulin. He hated to think of it. What would her body be like now? At least the ground would be frozen, he thought. There would be no decay. No animals or insects to tear into the flesh. Last time it had been summer. He knew how quickly a dead lamb began to rot when the sun was on it. The earth soon warmed.

The next car did stop. He waited for the knock on his door, but the men stood by the side of the road, their hands in their pockets, chatting, waiting for something to happen. Then there was a Transit van. It pulled right on to the grass to let other cars past. They manhandled a small generator out of the back and lifted it on to a trolley to pull it across the field. There were cables and two big lights on stands. They all disappeared over the hill and out of Magnus's line of vision. He could imagine what Catherine would look like, pale and frozen under those powerful white lights.

He looked at his mother's clock. Eight o'clock. The plane from Aberdeen would have landed by now. The team from Inverness would be driving north from Sumburgh. They had sent a special team last time, but they'd achieved no more than the local men.

There flashed into his mind the image of a little girl's face, clear as a photograph. Catriona. He said the word out loud because it came into his head. She had long hair, tangled by the wind, dark eyes narrowed in laughter as she ran up the hill. She'd opened the door without knocking and in one hand held a bunch of flowers picked from the garden. That would have been the last day he'd seen her.

He stood up, suddenly restless, and looked out of the window. The police were out of sight. He presumed they were nearer to the body. A patch of cloud shifted and he saw there was a full moon. His mother always said a full moon made him dafter than usual.

Its light formed a path on the still water. He realized he' hadn't eaten all day and wondered if that was what was making him feel confused. It would be that or the moon. In his mind he saw Catriona dancing on the road outside his house. It was a strange sort of jig with her hands held above her head, her arms curved like a ballet dancer's. He imagined that she tilted her head in his direction and gestured for him to follow her.

He knew that it must be his imagination. Even if she'd lived, Catriona would be a young woman now, older than Catherine. But he couldn't stay in the house. It was the moonlight on the water and waiting all day for the police to come back. It was listening to his mother saying ' Tell them nothing and the memory of the little girl.

He put on his boots, fumbling with the laces in his rush to be out. He had a woollen hat which his mother had knitted, and the big jacket she'd bought for him in Lerwick just before she'd died. It was as if she'd known she'd die soon, and she didn't trust him to buy his own clothes. She'd brought back a pile of underpants and socks from the same trip and he sometimes still wore those too.

Out of the house he climbed away from the track until he reached the Lerwick road. In the house by the chapel there was no light. There was a gap at the bed room window where the drawn curtains didn't quite meet, but he could see nothing through it, only a ghostly reflection of his face in the glass. Reluctantly he turned away and started off again on to the hill.

In the shadow of a dyke he stopped and looked back. The police hadn't seen him leave Hillhead. In the moonlight he saw them surprisingly clearly in the field where Catherine lay. The scene spread out below him and he could recognize individuals by the way they stood and the way they moved. They were blinded by the fierce white lights and their concentration on the small body covered by the tarpaulin shroud.

When they turned away from the crime scene it was to look out for headlights from the south. Soon the team would arrive from Sumburgh.

Magnus continued his climb. He walked slowly. He knew he had to pace himself. He'd had a winter of laziness since he'd last been up here. He felt the strain in his knee and a wheezing in his chest. The sunshine during the day had melted the snow in patches, so he could see the peat and the dead heather through it. He reached the top of the bank and ahead of him there was nothing but bare hillside.

They'd told him at school that once, Shetland had been covered with trees. He couldn't picture it. Now the only trees were in folks' gardens. He thought this must be what the moon must look like, if you were standing on it, not looking at it from the earth. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and looked behind him again.

The figures in the field looked less important from here. Beyond them he saw the silver ice on the voe and the houses of Ravenswick. If he had any sense he'd go back to his bed, but something kept him moving. Was this how Catriona had felt when she couldn't stop dancing?

He hadn't been sure he'd know the place, but now, approaching it even in this strange light, it was familiar.

He'd spent much of his youth up here, working with his uncle, his father's elder brother, who had run the croft.

Magnus had helped count the hill sheep, collect them into the cru for clipping and bring them down the hill ready for slaughter. And in the early summer, this was where they'd come to cast peats.

Hard work that had been, peeling back the turf from the bank and cutting into the dense dark earth. The digging had been back-breaking work and even worse was wheeling the peats down to the road in a barrow. Now, if they dug peat, and not so many did, they used a tractor and trailer. His uncle had been proud of him. He'd said Magnus was stronger and a better worker than his own sons. In those days Magnus had had a father and a mother, an uncle and cousins. Then, he'd had a sister. Now he had nobody.

He came to a small loch, where his cousins had come in the winter to shoot geese. You'd hear the birds flying in from the north, calling, a long line of them following each other so closely you could believe they were attached, like the ribbons on a kite tail, and the cousins would be out then with their guns.

Magnus had never been allowed a gun, but afterwards his mother would cook the goose and they'd all come together to eat it. Out on the freezing hillside, he had a picture of them gathered round the table in the Hillhead kitchen and it was so real he could smell the goose fat and feel the heat from the range on his face. Magnus wondered if he had an illness. All these day dreams reminded him of the scenes which play through your mind in a fever.

At the edge of the loch he stood for a moment to get his bearings. The ice was thick. In some places it was clear so he could see the grey water underneath. In others it was white and lumpy and looked a bit like the sweeties his mother had made with dried coconut, sugar and condensed milk. He wondered why it had happened like that, why the water hadn't frozen evenly. The thought distracted him for a moment and he worried away at the puzzle without coming to any conclusion.

His mouth was open in concentration.

Then the need for movement came on him again and he set off up the hill.

He had a map in his head. Like the treasure map in a story they'd read to him at school, though he'd never drawn it or written down directions.

What would the directions say? Walk west from the loch until you reach the Gillie bum. Follow the bum up the hill to the gully where the land always slips after heavy rain.

And it was just as he pictured it. When the thaw came the burn would be full of peaty water. Now it was deep with soft snow. And he came to the peat bank and the mound of rocks which looked like a small landslide. It wasn't unusual for this to happen on the hill, especially after a dry summer followed by heavy rain.

The water seeped into the cracks in the dry earth and loosened it, sending rocks and soil and peat spilling down the bank. Even in the snow he recognized the place. At last he lost the urge to continue moving. He stood with his face to the sky and let the tears run down his cheeks.

He might have stayed there all night, but a distant explosion - a lifeboat maroon which seemed unusually loud in the still night - brought him to his senses. What would his mother say? Don't du be a baby Magnus. He made his way home because there was nothing else to do, crossing the steep peat banks crabwise, sure-footed despite the icy surface.

The constables were still standing guard over Catherine's body, but the other man was sitting in his car, waiting, his eyes closed. The plane from Aberdeen must have been delayed. The van which had brought the lights and the generator had gone. As Magnus watched, one of the constables unscrewed the top from a vacuum flask, poured out steaming liquid, handed it to his colleague. They'll be pals, Magnus thought. Working together like that, up all night, it would make you close. He felt a vague nostalgic longing which became almost unbearable. He wondered how it would be if he took his bottle of Grouse out to them and offered them a dram. They'd welcome that as it was so cold, and wouldn't they talk to him as they were drinking it, just to be polite?

If it hadn't been for the detective from Fair Isle, he might have gone out to them. But drinking on duty probably wasn't allowed. He thought the constables would turn him down with their boss watching. Then he remembered the police station and the room with the shiny walls. He'd probably be better drinking on his own. He'd find it hard not to tell them everything.

He was in the house, with a small glass of whisky in his hand, when a small convoy of cars turned up.

He didn't want to think what they might be doing to the girl with the hair the colour of a raven's wing. He took his drink with him to bed.

Sitting in the car with his eyes shut, Perez heard the silence. He was listening for the vehicles coming from the south, although he'd already confirmed that the plane from Aberdeen was running late. He didn't mind waiting.

He was glad of the time to think, to consider the events of the day. Usually he had to focus on procedure. Even in Shetland there were targets to meet and forms to complete. Now he had nothing to do but wait and think. He could allow his thoughts to follow a path of their own.

He wondered how it must have been for Catherine Ross, coming to Shetland as an outsider. He understood something of that, with his Spanish name and his Mediterranean features, but his family had lived on Fair Isle for generations, for centuries if you believed the myths. And he did believe the myths. After a few drinks at least.

Really, it hadn't been like Catherine's experience at all.

It had been hard for him to leave home to come to school in Lerwick. The town had seemed so big and full of noise and traffic. The street lights made it seem that it was never dark. For Catherine, living here after the Yorkshire city, it would be the quiet she'd notice the most.

Again his thoughts slid away from the murder investigation back to Fair Isle and the legend of his family name. The story was this. During the Spanish Armada a ship, El Gran Grifon, was blown off course, far off course from the English mainland which had been her destination. She had been wrecked off the island. And this at least was true. Divers had found her. There were records. Archaeologists had recovered artefacts. Some people claimed the wreck was the source of the famous Fair Isle knitting. It had nothing to do with the Scandinavians, they claimed.

The Norwegians knitted too, of course, but their patterns were regular and predictable, small square blocks, restrained and boring. Traditional Fair Isle knitting was brightly coloured and intricate. There were shapes like crosses. It was the sort of design a Catholic priest might wear splashed across his robes.

These patterns, people said, had arrived with El Gran Grifon. More specifically, they had arrived with a Spanish seaman, - a survivor of the wreck. By some miracle, Miguel Perez had managed to swim ashore. He had been found on the shingle of the South Harbour, scarcely alive, the tide still licking at his ankles. He had been taken in by the islanders. And of course there had been no escape. How could he get back to the heat and civilization of his native land? In those days it would have been an adventure to set off for the Shetland mainland. He had been stranded.

What had he missed most? Perez wondered some times. The wine? The food? The smell of oranges, olives and baked dust? The distilled sunlight bouncing off old stone?

Legend had it that he'd fallen in love with an island girl. There was no record of her name. Perez thought the sailor had just made the best of it. He'd been at sea for months. He'd be desperate for sex. He'd pretend to be in love if that was what it took, though surely love would have hardly come into it, even when it came to island couplings.

Women wanted strong men who could manage a boat. Men wanted housekeepers, brewers and bakers. Whatever the attraction between the two of them, they must have had a boy child. At least one. Because since that time there had been a Perez on Fair Isle, working the land, crewing the mail boat, finding the women to provide more male heirs.

Jimmy Perez shifted in his seat. The cold brought him back to the matter in hand. Catherine Ross hadn't been brought up in a small community of less than a hundred people, many of them related. It would be new to her, this sense of living in a goldfish bowl, everyone knowing her business, or thinking they did.'

Her mother had died after a long illness.

Her father, wrapped up in his grief, had been distant to the point of neglect. She must have been lonely, he thought suddenly. Especially here, surrounded by people who knew each other. Even with Sally Henry down the bank and some boyfriend they still had to trace, she must have felt terribly alone.

That led him to think about Magnus Tait, because mustn't the old man be lonely too? Everyone was convinced that Magnus had killed the girl. The only reason he wasn't in custody already was that, once in the station, they'd only have six hours to hold him. It wasn't like in England. And no one knew when the team from Inverness would arrive. What if there'd been a fault with the plane and it didn't turn up until the morning? They'd have to let Magnus go in the middle of the night.

At dusk, Sandy Wilson, one of his constables, had asked if they should have a man posted at Hillhead.

'Whatever for?' Perez had demanded. Sandy always provoked in him an unreasonable impatience.

Sandy had blushed, chastened at the sharpness of the tone, and Perez had pushed home his advantage.

'How's he going to get off Shetland at this time of night? Swim? His house is surrounded by open hillside. Where do you think he's going to hide?'

Perez didn't know if Magnus was a murderer or not. It was too early to say. But the easy assumption of his colleagues that Tait had killed the girl annoyed him. It was a challenge to his professionalism. It was the sloppy thinking, the laziness which irritated him most. So a young girl had disappeared before and Tait had been a prime suspect? As Perez saw it, the cases had very little in common.

If Catriona Bruce had been killed, her body had been hidden. Catherine's had been displayed, exhibited almost. Catriona had been a child. Perez had seen photographs still held on file. She'd looked younger than her age.

Catherine was a young woman, sexy and defiant. Perez hoped that the team from Inverness would come with open minds. He planned to get at them before they were infected by the Shetland gossip and the locals' distrust of an old man who'd become an outsider.

The silence was broken by the buzz of the small generator they'd brought in to power the lights. For some reason Sandy must have started the engine. A couple of minutes later Perez's phone rang. It was the constable who'd been sent to Sumburgh to meet the plane. 'It's landed. We'll be on our way shortly! Perez was amused, but not surprised, that Sandy Wilson had been informed of the news before him. Brian at the airport and Sandy had been brought up on Whalsay together. It was how things worked.

There were six of them in the team from Inverness. One crime scene investigator, two DCs, two DSs and a DI, who would act as senior investigating officer. The same rank as Perez, but with more experience, so he'd take charge. They came in two cars. Perez felt momentarily resentful at the intrusion on his daydreams. He felt soporific.

It was an effort to move. He opened his door and stepped out. In the warmth of the car, he had forgotten how cold it was. He was still feeling half asleep as the DI introduced himself, was aware of a loud, eager voice and a knuckle-squeezing handshake. There wasn't a lot to do until the crime scene investigator went in. Jane Meltham was a cheerful, competent woman with a broad Lancashire accent and a dry, black humour. They watched her open the boot and bring out her case.

'What'll you do with the body when you've finished with it?' she asked.

'It'll go to Annie Goudie's mortuary: Perez said. 'She's the undertaker in Lerwick. We'll keep it there until we can ship it south!

'When'll that be?'

'Well, it's missed the ferry tonight. We can't get it on a plane. It'll be tomorrow evening now!

'No rush then! She was climbing into a paper suit. 'I hope this is big enough to get over my jacket. If I have to take off my coat, I'll freeze and it'll be the pair of us you'll be shipping to Aberdeen! She pulled on the hood, clipping back stray hairs. 'Don't the other passengers mind sharing the boat with a body?'

'They don't know,' Perez said. 'We use an old 'transit van. It's kind of anonymous!

'Who's doing the post mortem?'

'Billy Morton at the university!

'Great: she said. 'He's the best in the business! Perez thought she was a woman of sound judgement. He rated Billy Morton too. Jane looked up at him.

'You realize I probably won't get done tonight. I'll have to come back at first light!

'I was hoping,' Perez said, 'we wouldn't have to leave the body. That's a school down there. The kids have to come past. And it's been out here for a full day already!

'OK' He could tell she was considering the matter carefully. She wasn't one of those officials who make problems just for the sake of seeming important. 'If there's any way we can manage it, we'll shift her tonight!

She went through the gap in the wall. They watched her circle the field to approach the body from a different angle, avoiding all the footprints in the snow. When she was almost at the body, she shouted back at them.

'What's the weather forecast for tomorrow?' 'Not much change. Why?'

'If there was going to be a sudden thaw I'd work on these now. There seems to have been a lot of tramping backwards and forwards. Nothing's very clear. It's possible that we'll get something, but I'll leave it until the morning, concentrate on the body!

She looked very odd in the fierce light. Everything was white. It made Perez think of a horror movie he'd seen once, about the world after nuclear fallout, all mutants and monsters. And he realized they were all staring at her, the locals and the incomers. They were fascinated by her progress over the hard ground. They watched her in silence. She held their attention completely. There was no weighing up of personalities, no discussion of the case.

That would come later.

It came when they were all crammed into a bedroom in a hotel in the town. It had been allocated to the two DCs and the inspector from Inverness had commandeered it for them all to come together to talk about the case.

There were two twin beds, but still it wasn't that big and it was slightly shabby, with dusty curtains and a threadbare carpet. For some reason, Perez felt slightly embarrassed by it. Was this the best they had to offer the incomers?

What would they think? Roy Taylor, the DI, had opened a bottle of Bell's and they were drinking out of whatever came to hand - tea cups, plastic mugs from the bathroom, a polystyrene mug which had held airport coffee.

Perez was sitting on the floor, watching. Taylor held centre stage from one of the beds. Perez hadn't decided yet what he made of him. He was young to be a DI, mid-thirties. His hair was shaved very close to hide premature balding. It made his head look like a skull. This could even be his first case as SIO. He was certainly driven. Perez could tell that. Naked ambition? Perhaps, but Perez thought there was more to it. From the moment he'd pulled the bottle of whisky from his holdall, the man hadn't stopped asking questions. And at first it was hard to make out what he was saying. He might work in Inverness now, but that wasn't where he was born. 'I'm from Liverpool,' he said when Perez asked. 'The greatest city in the world!

Taylor listened to the answers as ferociously as he fired out the questions. He didn't take notes but Perez thought the replies must be branded on his brain. It was as if he felt cheated because he hadn't been on the island early enough to carry out the initial investigation. Perez could imagine him pacing backwards and forwards in the terminal at Dyce, counting the seconds to take-off, swearing under his breath when he learned the plane would be late.

Now Taylor got off the bed and stretched. He was standing on the balls of his feet and reached up towards the ceiling. Perez was reminded of an ape he'd seen in Edinburgh Zoo on a school trip. It had pushed against the bars of the enclosure, needing more space. Taylor was a man who'd always need more space, Perez thought. Stick him in the middle of an African savannah and it still wouldn't seem enough for him. The boundaries must be somewhere inside his head. A stupid thought. He'd drunk the Scotch too quickly.

He realized they were all talking about bringing in Magnus Tait, about how they'd handle it, who'd do the interview. One local and one member of the Inverness team, they decided. And they'd play it gently. Taylor had looked at the Catriona Bruce notes. There'd been an implication that Tait had been roughly handled, he said. No one was going to play silly buggers like that this time. He wasn't having the case thrown out because one of his team lost it. And they were all one team now.

He was including Shetlanders too. He looked around and seemed to embrace them in a sweep of his arm.

Perez could tell that he meant every word of it. Anyone else talked like that and it would make you feel like puking.

Taylor could get away with it. He had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

'I don't think we should jump to the conclusion that Magnus Tait is a killer! Jimmy Perez hadn't meant to speak.

Perhaps he'd been infected by Taylor’s fervour. He sat in his corner, swirling the oily whisky in his glass.

'Why?' Taylor stopped stretching. He crouched, a hand on each side of his body on the floor to steady himself, reminding Perez again of an ape. His face was level with Perez's now.

Perez listed the concerns, the problems he'd been worrying over as he sat in the car. The victims were different. If Tait was a killer, why had he waited this long to do it again? Catherine Ross was a streetwise girl from the city. She was physically strong. She wouldn't stand there waiting for Magnus to murder her.

'If not Tait, who then?' Taylor demanded.

Perez shrugged. All the circumstantial evidence pointed to Magnus, but he didn't want to sleepwalk into an arrest without considering the alternatives.

'I don't have any theories,' he said. 'I just want to keep an open mind!

'Was there a boyfriend?'

'Maybe. She stayed with someone the night before she disappeared!

'And we don't know who that was?'

'Not yet. I've been asking around. He shouldn't be too hard to trace!

'A priority to find out, wouldn't you say?' Nobody answered.

Suddenly Taylor stood up again. 'I'm off to my bed,' he said. "Tomorrow’s going to be busy. I need my beauty sleep and so do you!

Perez thought that Taylor wouldn't be one for sleeping much. He imagined him awake all night, walking backwards and forwards, caged in his room.

Jimmy Perez walked to his house. It was only five minutes from the hotel. He stopped once to look across the harbour to a huge factory ship. The vessel was lit up but there was no sign of anyone working. The narrow streets were empty. In the cold he felt sober and clearheaded.

He lived on the waterfront in a tiny house crammed between two bigger ones. There was a tidemark on the external stone wall and in rough weather the salt spray whipped against even the upstairs window. The house was cramped, damp and impractical. There was no parking. If his parents stayed he had to sleep on the sofa. He'd bought it on a romantic whim after Sarah had left and he'd moved back to Shetland. He couldn't quite regret it. It was like having a home on a boat. Inside it was much like a boat too. Very tidy. Everything in its place.

He didn't care about his appearance but he cared how the house looked. The walls of the living room were lined with horizontal wood panels, neatly fitted carvel-fashion, painted grey. An attempt, he realized now, to hide the effect of the damp. Wallpaper would be impossible. The only window was small and looked out over the water.

He could stand in the middle of the galley kitchen and touch each wall.

It was precisely midnight when he stepped through the door. Taylor had said he wanted everyone in the Incident Room an hour before first light the next day, but Perez wasn't ready for sleep. As he switched on the kettle to make tea, he remembered he hadn't eaten since lunchtime and stuck sliced bread under the grill, fished margarine and marmalade from the fridge. He'd have breakfast now, save time in the morning.

As he ate, he read the previous morning's mail - a thin airmail letter from an old Fair Isle friend who'd decided in her thirties that she needed to see more of the world than the north isles. She was working as a teacher for VSO in Tanzania. With her words she conjured up dusty roads, exotic fruit, smiling children.

Why don't you come to visit? When he was fifteen he'd loved her. He thought he probably still did. But then he'd loved Sarah when he'd married her. Emotionally incontinent. A phrase he'd picked up from somewhere.

It was the sort of thing Sarah might have said. Horrible but probably appropriate. He leaked unsuitable affection.

Already, in this investigation, he felt protective towards Fran Hunter and her child and an almost overwhelming pity for Magnus Tait, whether he was a murderer or not. And police officers were supposed to be detached.

He rinsed the cup and plate and set them on the draining board, filled a glass with water to take with him to bed. But still he didn't go upstairs. He lifted the handset on his phone and heard the signal which meant there were messages. The first was from his friend John and was timed at eight-fifteen. John was in The Lounge, a bar in town, and was calling from his mobile. In the background Perez heard fiddle music and laughter. If you're free come along and I’ll buy you that pint I owe you. But I guess you're probably tied up. Catch up with you soon. That meant news of the murder must be common knowledge.

The second message was from his mother. She didn't bother to identify herself.

I thought you'd be interested to know that Willie and Ellen have finally decided to leave Skerry. They're moving south to be closer to Anne. Phone me sometime.

He recognized a suppressed excitement in her voice. He knew what that was about. Willie and Ellen were an elderly couple who'd been farming on Fair Isle since they were married. Willie had been born on the island, was a sort of relative through Perez's grandmother. Ellen had come in as a young woman to be a nurse. Once they left, a croft would be free. what was his response to the news? Panic? Depression? Delight? He found it impossible to decide. Instead he had a clear visual memory of his last visit to Skerry.

The house had recently been renovated and Ellen was showing it off. There'd been a new roof, they'd made the window in the kitchen bigger and there was a view all the way down to the South Light.

Ellen had made griddle scones. He'd stood by the window munching and thinking that the fields around the croft were sheltered enough for barley. If ever he came back, he'd thought, he'd like to return to the days when the farming was more mixed.

And now the matter was more than speculation. Perez could take over Skerry if he wanted to. The National

'Trust for Scotland which owned the island always gave priority to applicants from Fair Isle families. So he'd be forced to face the decision which he'd hoped to put off for a while longer. If he moved back to the island his future would be settled. 'Tradition was still important. His father was skipper of the mail boat. Perez would automatically join the crew and eventually he would become skipper in his father's place. At one time he'd thought that was what he'd wanted the continuity and security of island life. Now that he was faced with the possibility, he wasn't so certain. Wouldn't it bore him rigid?

Perhaps he would think differently if he wasn't in the middle of the most exciting investigation he'd ever worked on. He knew he'd been influenced by the passion of the Inspector from Inverness. It was probably another romantic whim, but tonight it seemed important to be a policeman. Would he feel the same when his workload consisted of petty theft and traffic violations?

His family longed for him to be home though they would never say so. It was his choice, they said. He should do whatever made him happy. They were proud of the work he did. But the pressure was there, subtle and unspoken. He was the last Perez. His sisters had married and were living on the Isle, but he was the only one to carry the name. When he'd told his mother about his separation from Sarah, there'd been one brief unguarded moment and he'd known she'd been thinking,

So. No grandchildren. At least for a while. Sarah must have felt the pressure too. Throughout the pregnancy and after the child was lost.

He carried his drink upstairs. He was in no state to make any rational decision tonight He looked out of the window and closed the curtains. Usually he fell asleep to the sound of water, almost imperceptible, not consciously noticed.

Tonight the sea closest to the shore was still frozen and there was silence, except for the occasional strange creak. He had thought the image of the dead girl, her face pecked by birds, might keep him awake, but he was haunted by the view down Fair Isle from Skerry, sunlight over the South Harbour and cloud-shaped shadows racing over Malcolm's Head.

When he arrived at the station the following morning Taylor was already waiting for him. He called him into one of the meeting rooms and already seemed to know his way about the place. Perez thought he couldn't have had much sleep.

'Just a quick chat,' Taylor said. 'Before we meet the troops. Talk me through what steps you took yesterday, who you met. We know about the old man. Who else did you speak to?'

Perez told him. It felt strange. It had been a long time since he'd answered to another detective.

'I need to get the timetable clear it my mind. The order of events.' Taylor tore a sheet of paper from a flip chart, laid it on the table and started to scribble in thick black marker pen. Perez hoped nobody else would be expected to read it. It was unintelligible.

'The early hours of New Year's Day she and her best mate fetch up at Magnus Tait's place. A sort of dare.

The night of the 3rd she tells her father she's at a party and not to expect her home. Then there's the text on the 4th saying she might stay out again.' He looked up from the paper. 'Didn't he ask where she was? Who was having the party?'

Perez shook his head. 'His wife died not long ago. He still seems to be suffering some sort of depression. I think the girl was allowed to get on with it'

'OK. A place like this, we shouldn't have any trouble finding out Late morning on the 4th and she's catching the bus back home. Tait is on the same bus and asks her in for a cup of tea. He says she leaves his place before it gets dark, but that's the last time anyone admits to seeing her. The next morning, the 5th, her body is found on the hill not far from Hillhead. Is that right?'

'Yes.' He almost said Sir, stopped it just in time.

This was his patch.

'Let's go and see what the rest of them have got for us then.'

Perez had asked Sandy to manage the Incident Room. The constable had an instinct for computers and was good at routine and Perez preferred him in the office, safely out of the way of the public. Sandy was fit for drunken scraps in town on a Friday night, but not for anything requiring more subtlety or tact. He stood now, scratching his bum, waiting for Taylor’s response to the layout of the room, making Perez think of a cub scout waiting for Akela's inspection. That was Sandy's problem. He still thought like a peerie boy.

'Will it do?' He was freckled and eager. 'Of course we've never run an investigation on this scale before.

Not in my time. The PCs are up and running.'

'Fantastic,' Taylor said. 'Really, fantastic.' It was over the top and Perez could tell that his mind was elsewhere, but Sandy was taken in. Here, with an audience, Taylor had lost none of the energy of the night before, but Perez could see blue smudges like bruises under his eyes. Outside it was still dark. Now, the room was lit by desk lamps. There were pools of light and shadows in the corners. Perez was reminded suddenly of a wartime ops room from an old movie. There was the same tension and expectancy.

Taylor was still talking. 'I take it we've got a specified outside line with a number we can give to the public!

'It's just been connected;

'I want it manned 24/7. Someone has the information which will lead to a conviction. I don't want a witness finding the courage to ring, only to get an answerphone. They get through immediately to a real person.

Understood?'

'There'll be lots of folk pointing the finger at Magnus Tait: Sandy Wilson said.

'Pointing the finger's not enough. We're polite but we make it clear we need evidence! Taylor paused for a minute to check that he had their attention. 'I've decided to use the Inverness team to work the phone. They can take it in shifts.

This is a unique situation and we have to be sensitive to it. Our callers might want to stay anonymous. Fat chance of that if there's someone they know answering the calls! He looked quickly round the room. 'Everyone agree?'

The question was a formality. They all knew the decision had already been made. Taylor perched on a desk at the front of the room.

'I take it the body's been moved?'

'It's at the undertaker's. The CSI was happy enough to release it. It'll go south for the post mortem on this evening's boat. Jane Meltham will go with it to be there for the pm!

'What did the girl have on her? A bag, keys, purse?' 'No bag or keys. A purse in her coat pocket. Morag searched her bedroom yesterday and found a small handbag. No keys there either!

'That's weird isn't it? That she didn't take her keys with her. How would she get back into the house?'

'People don't always lock up here. Not unless they're going to be away for a while. Perhaps she did have them, but they dropped out of her pocket when she was killed.'

'I'd like a fingertip search of the fields around the scene. How do we manage that? Do we have to ship in more personnel?'

'In the past we've organized a search through the coastguard: Perez said. 'They made the cliff rescue team available. I'm not sure if it was officially sanctioned . . !

'Bugger official sanctions. We know how long it'll take to get more people up here. A gale or a blizzard and we've lost any evidence which might be there. Can I leave you to sort that? Get them out on the hill as soon as practicable!

'Sure! There was no other possible answer, though

Perez wasn't sure how long it would take to call the team members in.

'Then I want you to go to the schoo1.'

In full flow 'Taylor talked very quickly, the words tripping over themselves. Sometimes he couldn't find the right phrase but continued anyway. 'Ask to speak to all the Sixth year. I don't know. Perhaps a special assembly if you can organize it, something forma1.

To emphasize how important their help would be. Do it today, while they're still in shock, before they have time to get used to what's happened! He was sitting on the desk in front of them, swinging his legs like a child who couldn't keep still. 'There should be a lot of sympathy for the father. I know, pupils and teachers, they don't always get on. But in a case like this. I mean, for Christ's sake. Give them the number of the special phone line.

Tell them they'll get through to an outsider if they call it, but make it clear they can talk to you if they prefer. That way we're giving them a choice. We want to know where Catherine was the night before she died, who she usually hung out with, boyfriends, wannabe boyfriends! He stopped for breath. There was a brief moment of silence. Looking beyond the SIO Perez saw, through the long window, that the darkness wasn't so dense. Soon it would be light.

There's one lad I want to trace,' Perez said. 'He drove the girls home on New Year's Eve. I know where he lives.

It should be easy enough to find him through the schoo1.'

'What about Magnus Tait?' It was Sandy Wilson. He could never hold his tongue and Taylor’s appreciation of the Incident Room had made him overconfident. 'I mean, if he killed the girl, do we need to bother with all this?'

Taylor jumped down from the desk and swung round to face him. Perez expected an explosion. He had the inspector down as a man who wouldn't suffer fools gladly and there were times when he thought Sandy was the biggest fool in Shetland. But Taylor kept his temper. Perez thought it was taking an effort, but the SIO would know it wouldn't help relationships between Inverness and Lerwick if he ballocked one of the Shetlanders in front of his colleagues.

'We can't close off any options at this stage of the case,' he said evenly. 'You know how it works, Sandy, when you get to court. Some slick lawyer, out to make a name for himself. What other lines of enquiry did you follow, Inspector Taylor? What other actions did you take? Or were you so convinced by my client's guilt that you didn't try to look any further? It's my responsibility to obtain a conviction, not just to get a man in front of a judge. And you didn't even manage that when Catriona Bruce went missing. Someone like Magnus Tait needs careful handling. Do you understand what I'm saying, Sandy?'

Perez thought that hoping for understanding from Sandy Wilson was like waiting for piggies to float over Sumburgh Head, but by now Taylor was carried along by the flow of words and seemed not to notice the lack of response from the constable.

'We keep an eye on Tait. We'll be working on the crime scene for a few days and he lives close by, so that won't be hard. We can do it unobtrusively. If he goes out, we follow him. I don't want another murder.

But overnight I was thinking about what Jimmy said.

You disturbed my sleep Jimmy, but you were right. We explore the other options first. We only bring in the old man when we're absolutely sure!

Great, Perez said to himself. So now it's my responsibility if things go wrong. He thought Taylor was cleverer and much more devious than he'd realized.

Sally got the bus to school as usual. Waiting for it to arrive, the implication of Catherine's death hit her properly for the first time. Until now the events of the previous day had been like a drama, so exciting and different from everyday life that she hadn't been able to take it in. It had been like watching a video. Soon the film would end and she'd go back to the real world. Now, standing at the bus stop in the dark, her feet frozen already and no one to keep her company she realized this was the real world.

The absence of Catherine was more solid than the presence had ever been. In life Catherine's mood changed every minute. You never knew where you were with her. Death was constant. Sally felt if she reached out her hand she'd be able to touch the hole where once Catherine had been. It would feel hard and shiny like ice.

Sally could have stayed at home if she'd asked. Her mother wouldn't have minded and had almost suggested it.

She'd turned from the cooker, where she was stirring porridge when Sally came down for breakfast.

'Are you OK to go in?' she'd asked, dead sympathetic. It would have only taken Sally to hesitate for a moment for her to add Why not stay at home? I'm sure they'd understand.

But Sally had answered firmly and immediately 'I'd rather be with the others. Take my mind off things!

And her mother had nodded approvingly, thinking probably how brave her daughter was. It was ironic. There'd been hundreds of times when Sally had dreaded school, had dreamed up vague illnesses, headaches and stomach aches. Her mother had never shown the slightest sympathy then. She hadn't understood what it was like to grow up as a teacher's daughter, so there was no escape from school. The piles of exercise books on the shelf in the kitchen, her mother's painstaking writing of lists on the shiny card, all that was a reminder of what would happen when they walked across the yard and into the classroom. The calling of names, the sly pinches, the blank stares. And none of that had changed much when she moved to the high school. The kids were more subtle in their torture, but it was still a nightmare. Not even Catherine had understood that.

'Today her mother had asked if she fancied porridge for breakfast. Would she rather something else? An egg, maybe? When Sally had been bothered that she was putting on weight again and suggested fruit instead of porridge some days for breakfast, her mother had only sniffed and said she wasn't running a restaurant. She hadn't understood the agonies of needing to fit in.

Sally's father had already gone to work by the time she got up. She wasn't sure what he made of Catherine's murder. She never knew what he thought about anything. She thought sometimes that he had a life that none of them knew anything about. It was his way of surviving.

After breakfast her mother had begun to pull on her coat. 'I'll wait with you until your bus arrives. I don't like the thought of you standing out there on your own.'

'Mother, there are police all over the hill.' Because the last thing she wanted was her mother fussing over her, appearing concerned, but prying and poking for information. Robert Isbister took up so much room in Sally's head, it'd be hard not to let something about him slip. She couldn't bear her mother knowing about him. Not yet. Margaret would go on and on about him, about what a waster he was and nothing like his father. Sally could picture her right in her face, mocking and jeering. Sally had never been able to stand up to her mother. She might end up believing some of the things she said. And it was only the dream of being with Robert which kept her going.

So now she was standing by the bend in the road, waiting. Every now and again her mother's head appeared in silhouette at the kitchen window, to check that she hadn't been raped or murdered. She tried to ignore it. Her mind was suddenly filled with memories of Catherine. Although she tried to think of other things - the old romantic fantasies of Robert - pictures of Catherine wouldn't go away. She could see the two of them on New Year's Eve, first of all in Lerwick, then stumbling into Magnus Tait's house. Catherine had been so in command of herself that night, hard and bright and invulnerable.

The caretaker had put salt on the paths leading into the school, turning the snow into a slushy mess, which they carried on their shoes into the corridors. In the fourth year area a bunch of kids sat on the pool table, shoving and giggling. She thought they seemed very young. The radiators were full on and condensation ran down the windows.

The place smelled like a laundry, with all the drying coats and gloves. The first person she met was Lisa, tarty Lisa, whose boobs were so big you wondered how she managed to stand upright.

'Sal,' she said. 'I'm so sorry.'

In school it seemed everyone was still in the phase of considering Catherine's death a drama laid on for their own entertainment. Walking to the house room to dump her coat Sally could hear them whispering in corners, passing on rumours and gossip. It made her sick.

When she pushed open the door there was a brief silence, then suddenly they all crowded round, wanting to talk to her. Even the posse who'd taken over the table in the middle of the room and were usually too aloof to mix with anyone outside their own crowd. She'd never felt so popular. She'd never had a proper friend at school. Catherine had been the closest to it and Catherine was far too wrapped up in her own concerns to bother much about Sally.

Now she was the centre of attention. They gathered around her, covered her with mumbled commiseration: It must be dreadful.

Then came the questions, tentative at first, becoming more excited: Have the police talked to you? Everyone's saying it was Magnus Tait - has he been arrested?

Before, floating around the edge of several groups, not really accepted by any of them, she'd tried too hard.

She'd talked too much, laughed too loud, felt big and clumsy and stupid. Now that they wanted to hear what she had to say words failed her. She stumbled through some answers. And they loved her for that. Lisa put her arm around Sally's shoulder.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'We're all here for you.'

Sally knew that if Catherine had been here, if she'd heard, she'd have stuck two fingers down her throat and pretended to be sick.

Sally was tempted to tell Lisa and all the others that she could see through them. They weren't sorry Catherine was dead at all. Certainly they hadn't particularly liked her when she was alive. Lisa had called her a stuck-up southern cow only last week, when Mr Scott had read out a chunk of her essay on Steinbeck. They were enjoying every minute of this. They weren't in the least sorry that Catherine would never take her place again in the front row for English.

But she didn't say that. She had to survive in school without Catherine. And she was enjoying all the sympathy, the arm around the shoulders, the loving whispers. It didn't matter any more what Catherine thought of them.

Catherine was dead.

A bell rang and they wandered off to first lesson, leaving the posse in the house room gagging for more.

She and Lisa had English and they walked together. Sally hated the English department. It was housed in the oldest part of the school and the high-ceilinged rooms were always freezing. They had to pass a glass case with a load of stuffed birds inside. Catherine had loved those birds. They'd made her laugh. She'd brought in her camera specially to record them, though Sally had never been able to see the joke. Catherine had said the whole English department would make a brilliant set for a Gothic movie.

In the classroom too, there was a ready audience. Lisa acted as her agent, protective, encouraging, helping her to put the most exciting spin on the story. Sally was in the middle of describing her interview with the detective from Fair Isle when Mr Scott came in. The girls who'd made up her audience slipped reluctantly from the window sill where they'd been warming their legs on the radiator and into their seats. There was no urgency in this manoeuvre. Even in ordinary times he wasn't a teacher who inspired fear or respect. Today, they knew they'd get away with anything.

Mr Scott was a young man, straight from college, unmarried. Everyone said he'd fancied Catherine. That was why she'd got good marks, why he raved about her work. It was because he was trying to get into her knickers. And perhaps there was some truth in the rumours. Sally had seen him staring at Catherine when he thought no one was looking. She knew about unrequited lust. She'd dreamt of Robert Isbister for months following the dance when they'd first met up. It had been enough just to see him out in the town to make her blush. She recognized the signs.

Mr Scott was a pale, thin man. A stick of forced rhubarb said Sally's mother, who had seen him at a parents'

evening. Today, in the snowy grey light he seemed more pale than usual. He blew his nose over and over. She wondered if he had been crying. Catherine had always been scathing about him. She'd said he was a crap English teacher and a pathetic human being. But Catherine had talked about everyone in that cold, hard way and she hadn't always meant it. Looking at him now, as he tried to speak without breaking down, clutching on to the big white handkerchief, Sally thought there was something cute about him. With her new popularity she could afford to be generous.

After taking the register, Mr Scott stood in front of them in silence for a moment. He looked very serious, and so faintly ridiculous. Sally wondered if Catherine could have led him on, just for the fun of it. He seemed to have difficulty speaking.

'There will be a different timetable this morning. We'll have normal lessons up till break and then there will be a special assembly just for the sixth year. It'll be an opportunity for us all to come together to remember Catherine and her father. One of the detectives working on the investigation will speak to us too.' He paused, looked bleakly, rather theatrically around the class. 'I know everyone will be deeply upset by this tragedy. If you need to speak to someone today or in the future, the staff will be available to talk to you. Specialist counselling can be provided if we think that would be helpful. You don't need to be alone in your grief. We're all here to support you.'

Sally imagined Catherine pulling a face, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. She realized with astonishment that next to her, Lisa was enjoying a good cry.

There were a lot of tears at the special assembly. Even some of the boys seemed to get caught up in the emotion of the occasion. Some must have been genuine. Apart from Sally, Catherine had found it easier to get on with boys than girls. But even the dead heads the thugs, the footballers and the bullies - seemed moved. At one point Sally thought she was the only person in the hall with dry eyes. In the end she dabbed at her cheek with a tissue, just so she wouldn't seem hard-hearted. She wondered if there was something wrong with her. Why couldn't she cry? But she knew Catherine wouldn't have cried either. She would have mocked the hypocrisy and the sentiment.

'Maudlin rubbish!' she'd said one evening when they'd been watching the telly in her little living room and there'd been a fuss about a rock star who'd been killed in a car crash.

Sally hadn't known what maudlin meant and had looked it up in a dictionary. Now, refusing to be taken in by the false grief, she muttered the same words under her breath like a chant.

The policeman who'd come to talk to her at home was sitting on the stage next to the head teacher. Sally had seen him as soon as she had walked in. She found his presence disturbing and although she tried not to, she kept flicking her eyes towards him. He'd made some effort to dress for the occasion, he was wearing a grey shirt, a sober tie and a jacket, but the overall impression was still one of untidiness. It was as if he'd had to borrow the garments and had thrown them on at the last minute. She couldn't tell if he'd recognized her in the crowd of faces turned up towards the stage.

She didn't hear the head make the introduction because she was watching the policeman prepare to speak. He was straightening his tie, collecting up the papers he'd put on the floor by his seat. She sensed his nervousness, felt a tightening in her own stomach. He stood up, looked out at them and said how sorry he was about the way Catherine had died. It was a double tragedy for them because they all knew Catherine and her father. Sally thought he was one of the few people in the room who was genuinely sorry. That was strange because he'd never met Catherine. Then she thought it was easier for him to be sad just because he'd never met her. In his mind she could be anything he wanted her to be.

But now he was saying how important it was for the police to know the real Catherine. 'Now, when we're suffering such shock, we can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her. We just want to remember her kindly.

But this isn't a time for kindness. It's a time for honesty. It's important for me to understand everything about her.

Perhaps there were parts of her life which she would have preferred to keep secret. She doesn't have that choice now. If you know, or suspect, that she was involved with activities which might have led, even indirectly, to her death, you have a duty to share that information with me. If you had any sort of relationship with her, I need to speak to you. I'll be in school all day. Mr Shearer has allowed me to use his office. If you prefer to speak anonymously to an officer who doesn't usually work in Shetland that can be arranged too! He was just about to leave the stage when he turned back to them. 'Come and talk to me: he said. 'All of you know more about Catherine than I do. All of you have something important to contribute!

Then he was gone and throughout the room came the hiss of subdued whispering. There were none of the cynical comments which were the usual response to an adult's lecture. Sally had no doubt they would queue up outside the head's office to talk to him. They would want to play their parts in the theatre. She wondered what he would make of what they had to say.

Standing on the stage in the overheated hall, looking down at them all, Perez thought this was a waste of time and effort. Sandy Wilson was probably right. They'd get Magnus Tait for the killing in the end and he'd have wound up these kids for nothing. They'd already be shocked by the murder. Why persuade them to bring their grubby little secrets about Catherine to him? Why not leave her in peace?

He'd been a pupil here and perhaps that had something to do with his discomfort. He would rather be back at Ravenswick supervising the search of the hill. He'd feel cleaner out in the open air. It wasn't that he'd actively disliked school. He'd never been academic but he hadn't struggled like some of the others. He'd been desperately homesick. He'd missed his parents, the croft and the Isle. He'd been happy in the small school there. It had just one teacher and he'd been related to most of the kids. To arrive here at twelve to live in the. hostel had been a shock. It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd been allowed home at weekends, but Fair Isle wasn't like other places.

The boat couldn't always make it and if the weather was wild or foggy the plane couldn't land on the airstrip at the foot of Ward Hill. He'd been here for six weeks the first time, feeling abandoned despite his mother's regular phone calls and although he'd known there was no alternative. This was the way things had to be. Would he want it for his own children?

Sitting behind the headmaster's desk he remembered his first home visit. October half-term. He'd worried all week that a storm would blow up, but it had been one of those still dry autumn days, with a taste of ice in the air.

They'd been allowed off on the Friday morning because that was when the boat went. A bus had taken them to Grutness and they'd arrived in time to see the Good Shepherd approach from the south. His grandfather had been skipper then and his father had been one of the crew. Squashed beside his father in the wheelhouse, Jimmy had decided he would never go back to Lerwick. They couldn't make him. He sat eating his grandmother's date slices, which seemed to taste somehow of salt and diesel, quite determined. Though of course when the time came and he'd stood with the other children in the dark early morning at the North Haven, he'd got on to the boat without a fuss. He couldn't show his parents up. .

He knew it was the awareness of the imminent vacancy at Skerry which triggered the memories, not just the noise and the smell of Anderson High. He'd have to speak to his mother about it this evening. She wouldn't expect a decision immediately, but he'd have to work out what tone to take. He couldn't raise her hopes if there was no possibility of his applying for the croft.

That was still at the back of his mind when there was a knock at the office door. He felt out of place behind the headmaster's desk, impudent for being there. There was a pause. He realized a response was expected. 'Come in,' he shouted, again feeling like an impostor. 'Come in!

He'd prepared himself to greet a student, to be informal and welcoming, but an adult hesitated inside the door.

Just an adult, he decided. There was something about this man which was still unformed. He looked as if he might grow further, fill out, at least. His clothes hung on him. At the same time he had an air of someone prematurely middle-aged. There was a stoop and his dress - a shirt with a roundneck sweater topped by a cord jacket - was the uniform of a teacher close to retirement. Perez rose from his chair and held out his hand. The man approached.

'My name's David Scott. It's about Catherine! His voice was English, the sort of accent Perez thought of as public school.

Perez said nothing.

Scott looked around him as though he was searching for a seat, although there was a chair just in front of him.

'I taught Catherine English. I was also her form teacher!

Perez nodded. Scott lowered himself into the chair.

'I wanted to talk to you before any of the students. . . I'm aware there've been rumours!

Perez waited.

'I admired Catherine. She had a wonderful grasp of language, a fine mind! He pulled a large handkerchief out of his jacket pocket.

No other words were forthcoming and Perez asked, 'Did you ever see her outside school?' He suspected the fine mind wasn't the only attraction.

'Only once! Scott looked wretched. 'It was a mistake!

'What happened?'

'She read widely outside the set texts. Contemporary fiction. It was very refreshing. For most of my students the object is to pass an examination. They're not interested in the books themselves! He paused, realizing he wasn't answering the question. 'I wanted to encourage her, build on her enthusiasm. I didn't get the impression that Euan did much of that, though of course he teaches English too. I suggested we go for a coffee after school one evening and I'd go through a list of recommended reading with her!

'What was her response?'

'She said that coffee wasn't conducive to literary debate. Why didn't we buy a bottle of wine and go back to my flat? I said that wasn't a good idea. She'd miss her bus and the chance of a lift home with her father. She usually got the bus to and from school. Euan is something of a workaholic. He's in early and works late!

Perez thought that Scott seemed to know a lot about Catherine's daily routine.

'She said it didn't matter. I could give her a lift home. It didn't matter how late she got in. Her father was used to it. Or if I didn't want to do that she could stay over with friends!

'And did you agree? To the wine and the intellectual conversation?'

'I didn't think there would be any harm in it'

Which of course was nonsense. He'd been tempted, .because she was pretty and bright and he hadn't wanted to appear stuffy like the other teachers. But he'd known he'd been playing with fire. That must have been part of the attraction, the thrill. But what had been the attraction for Catherine? Surely she wouldn't have fallen for this dry, pretentious young fogey. And Perez had an impression of her which didn't include kindness to foolish and naive teachers.

'Did she explain her plans to her father?'

'Certainly. She sent him a text message, saying she'd be late!

'Saying she was with you?'

He blushed. 'I don't know. I didn't see the text' 'Was it a successful evening?'

'No, I've already told you! His voice had become irritable. Perhaps he was regretting his impulse to speak to Perez. 'It was a mistake. I should never have agreed to it'

'Why?' Perez asked. 'There'd be nothing more satisfying, I'd have thought, than helping a responsive student!

'That was why I went into teaching! Scott broke off and looked up sharply, suspecting he was being mocked.

'But there are so few students who care, who really want to learn!

'Tell me about the evening!

'It was the last week of term. Everyone was in festive mood. At any other time I don't think I would even have considered her suggestion, but just before Christmas, that's when rules can be relaxed. It was already dark when we left the building of course and it was very foggy. Perhaps you remember those few days in the middle of December when the fog never lifted and it never seemed to get light. She'd waited for me outside the staff room. What I'm saying is that there was nothing furtive or secret about our movements. Anyone could have seen us!

Now that he'd started talking more freely, Scott seemed to find some relief in sharing the experience. It was as if he'd forgotten Perez was a policeman.

'She seemed in a very good mood. Elated even. I put that down to the end of term too. It's a frantic time -

preparation for the Beanfeasts, our Christmas dances - but everyone enjoys it. She was singing something under her breath as we walked. I didn't recognize the tune, but it stayed with me afterwards, haunted me. She offered to buy the wine. I said I had some at home, there was no need. Of course I didn't want her going into an off-licence and breaking the law and I hoped that when we got home she might forget about the idea, make do with a coffee. My flat's in the town, near the museum. The fog seemed even thicker there. Even with the street lights it would have been easy to lose our way.

'When we got to the flat she seemed completely at ease. She looked at my bookshelf, then chose a CD. She was an only child. Perhaps she was more used to adult company than her peers. She was nearly seventeen, but in our conversation I didn't feel that I was talking to someone younger than me. There was, after all, only eight years between us. If anything I was the one who was nervous. She talked a lot about film. She was raving about a director I'd never heard of. She made me feel unsophisticated and ignorant. It seemed quite natural then to open the wine and offer a glass to her. I was even worried, I remember, what she'd make of it. I suspected she'd be much more of an expert than me! He fell into a silence.

'Did you discuss books?' Perez asked at last, gently. He didn't want to break the mood. He wanted Scott still to imagine himself in that room, the curtains drawn against the fog outside, the beautiful girl and the wine.

'Oh yes. She'd just finished Sarah Waters's Affinity. She was hugely impressed by the writing, the Victorian voice. I was so pleased because I'd recommended it to her. It's such a compliment, isn't it, when another person becomes passionate about a book you love. It gives you a connection, a sort of intimacy!

'Is that what you said to her?'

Scott blushed. 'I'm not sure. Perhaps not in those words!

'Because it's the sort of idea which might be misinterpreted. That's why I ask. Perhaps Catherine got the wrong impression. . !

'Yes,' Scott said gratefully. 'Yes, I'm afraid she might have done!

'In what way?'

'It wasn't then. It was as she was leaving. We were in the middle of a conversation about crime fiction. We'd discovered that we shared an affection for the early English women writers, though I was championing Dorothy Sayers and her favourite was Allingham. She received a text message. She said she had to go. I thought the message must have been from her father and immediately I offered her a lift home. I'd been very careful about what I'd had to drink, so there would be no problem about my driving. You see, Inspector, I wasn't entirely irresponsible. But she said she wasn't going home. The message was from a friend. They'd meet up in Lerwick. I'll admit I was quite relieved. The weather was dreadful and I didn't like the idea of driving to Ravenswick.

'It was as she was at the door. I was helping her into her coat. I kissed her. It seemed the right thing to do. I was saying goodbye to a friend. There were no sexual connotations. Not really. She overreacted. As you say, perhaps she misinterpreted my intention&, She pushed me away, held me for a moment at arm's length, looking at me as if I disgusted her. Then she turned round and walked out before I could apologize. She didn't seem upset. I mean there were no tears, nothing like that. She just walked off. I was going to run after her, then thought it would be better to let her go. It was better not to make too much of it. I could talk to her in school the next day. But for the last two days of term she avoided me. She didn't come into class for registration. I was glad when the holidays arrived. I thought this term we'd have a new start. But of course, now that's not possible.'

'Why did you come to Shetland to teach?'

The sudden change in tone seemed to bring Scott back to the present. He smiled wanly. 'I suppose: he said, 'I wanted an adventure. I thought there'd be so much scope. . . It would be ground-breaking work.'

'And I wasn't sure that I'd be able to hack it in a city school.'

'If Catherine hadn't been your student, how would things have been different between you?' Perez threw out the question as Scott was preparing to leave.

The teacher stood for a moment, considering. 'I'd have been honest with her and told her how I really felt. That I was devoted to her and I was prepared to wait.' He gathered up his bag and left the room.

Perez knew the answer was a piece of self-dramatic nonsense, but he couldn't help being moved. There'd been a dignity in Scott's words. He told himself it was the emotional incontinence at work again. Really, there was no reason for him to feel sympathy.

Another knock on the office door broke into his thoughts. It opened and a slender boy with an anorak bundled under one arm came in. Another English voice. 'Excuse me Sir. They said you wanted to see me. I gave Catherine a lift back to Ravenswick on New Year's Eve. My name's Jonathan Gale.'

As he took the chair, Perez saw how upset he was. His eyes were red. Another man who had fallen for Catherine. It seemed she had made fools of them all.

Fran waited until mid-afternoon before going to fetch Cassie from Duncan's house. When she woke up the

, police were still in the field where the body had been. Men in waterproofs were walking across the moor behind her house in a straggling line. She didn't want her daughter asking questions about what they were doing. She wasn't ready yet to explain. She phoned Margaret Henry to tell her that Cassie wouldn't be at school.

She stayed at her father's last night. I thought it would be best. . !

'Of course,' Margaret said. 'It must be a worry for you living so close to Hillhead. We'll all be glad when it's over, when the man's behind bars! As if there was no question about the identity of the culprit.

Duncan was the nearest thing there was to a crown prince of Shetland, Fran thought. She hadn't realized that when she married him, hadn't realized it would be like a commoner marrying into royalty. His family had lived in the islands for generations. They owned land and boats and farms. He lived in a big stone house which was almost a castle. A ruined castle until the oil had come and the family had leased access land for the pipelines to the oil companies at prices which meant that Duncan would never have to work again. He did work, though Fran had never been sure exactly what at. He called himself a consultant.

Never mind the oil, he'd said soon after they met. The islands' future would depend on tourism, ecotourism. He set himself up to represent Shetland all over the world, advising local businesses, encouraging indigenous arts and crafts. He had an office in Lerwick and he went out to meetings with important people in Glasgow, London and Aberdeen. He seemed to have power and that was part of the attraction. There was a sexual charge in the speed of his driving and the international calls on the mobile phone. She'd been seduced by all that.

She'd met him when she'd been sent to Shetland to take photographs for an article on a young designer from Yell who was selling her exciting knitwear to exclusive shops in New York and Tokyo. Not to London. London wouldn't take them, though soon after the article appeared the designer started to receive begging letters from a number of British fashion houses too.

Duncan had pitched the original idea of the story in his role as consultant, Fran presumed - and had been there to meet her at the airport. She'd been charmed by him. It had been mid-summer. He'd bought her a meal in town then driven her west. They'd walked along the cliffs and seen the Foula lighthouse in the distance. They'd made love in a 10ft bed in a converted boathouse in Scalloway, the windows open to let in the sound of the water and the perpetual light. She had thought that he lived there, hadn't realized then it was only one of the buildings he owned and let out to tourists, only part of his empire. .

She'd thought that was it, had never believed she'd see him again. She'd flown home the next morning exhausted and a bit ashamed. It had been her first one-night stand. Then he'd turned up at her office in London with champagne and one of the beautiful sweaters made by the young designer, which she knew would have cost her almost a month's salary. You1l need something warm to wear when you come to live with me. But that doesn't mean you can't be glamorous. . .

And eventually she had gone back to live with him, because she'd been as much a sucker for the grand gesture as the next woman, and anyway she'd loved the islands even on that first visit. Had it been Duncan she'd fallen for, or the place? Would champagne and a jumper have persuaded her to move to Birmingham?

They hadn't married until Cassie was on the way. Cassie hadn't been planned exactly and Fran had been surprised by Duncan's ambivalent attitude. She'd expected him to be as thrilled as she was. Pregnancy was a drama, wasn't it, and he did so like dramas. 'I suppose we should marry then,' he'd said tentatively, almost as if he was hoping she'd suggest another option. 'Why?' she'd cried. She was an independent woman after all. 'We don't have to get married. We can stay as we are. Only there'll be a child! 'No,' he'd said. 'If there's a child then we should marry!

It was a proposal of sorts. She had dreamed of his proposing to her but had imagined something wonderful.

Paris, at least.

Then, when Cassie was six months old, Fran had caught him in bed with another woman, an older woman, another Shetland aristocrat who could trace her family back to Norwegian rule. She too was married. It seemed the relationship had being going on for years, certainly before Fran had arrived to take her photographs. Most of their friends had known about it, taken it for granted. Fran had known the woman, Celia, well, had considered her a friend. Celia was the sort of woman Fran would have liked as a mother strong, independent, unconventional. She had a style which was unusual among the island women - she wore a lot of black and bright red lipstick, long earrings made of silver or seashells or amber. She'd married against her family's wishes.

Fran had collected together the baby's things and taken the first flight south. She refused to listen to Duncan's explanations. She thought he was pathetic. What was it with the Oedipus complex? She could see that he would never give up Celia. Fran would make her own life again in London. She told herself she was more hurt by the betrayal of a woman whom she'd admired than by her husband.

Then, when Cassie was approaching school age, Fran had experienced some sort of crisis of her own. There'd been a bruising end to a relationship. The usual thing. Nothing noble or uplifting. She'd just felt the need to run away and hide. Pride again. She hated the thought of having to relive the humiliation in conversation with her friends.

Shetland was as far as she could go, and it wasn't fair on Cassie, after all, to deprive her of her father's company. He might be a screwed-up little shit but he loved his daughter. She'd never known her father. He'd separated from her mother when she was a baby, started a new life and a new family and had wanted nothing to do with her. It still hurt.

She wanted better than that for Cassie.

She was rerunning all this in her mind as she drove very slowly over the icy roads north across the huge bare expanse of the peat moor. As always it came down to this - what was it that Duncan saw in Celia? She might have a sort of quirky attractiveness but she had a grown-up son. Her hair would have been grey if she didn't dye it. Surely Fran should have been able to compete with that? The question, which still provoked a sense of anger and insecurity, took her mind off Catherine Ross's death and the mad old man at Hillhead.

Usually when she collected Cassie she didn't spend any time with her ex-husband. She said enough to be polite, to present a united front for the little girl. Today she was inclined to linger. She didn't want to go back to the house in Ravenswick immediately. Even with the police and the coastguard on the hill she didn't feel safe there. In London there had been muggings and rapes in her neighbourhood, a shooting once in her street. Y et she'd never felt this exposed.

Duncan's house was built on low ground close to a wide sandy bay. It was huge, a four-storey, granite and slate Gothic heap, a house from a fairy tale with a turret at one corner. It was built into the slope of the hill and sheltered from the prevailing winds. There was a walled woodland on one side of the house, mostly scrubby sycamores growing in the shelter of the valley, but the only trees for twenty miles. She remembered when she'd first seen the house. Duncan had made her keep her eyes shut until they came to this point, then she'd opened them and it was all part of the fairy tale. She'd imagined herself living there when she was old and surrounded by grandchildren.

Here, in the shelter of the hill, the road was clear of snow. The sun was coming out. Driving towards the house, Fran saw that Duncan was on the beach with Cassie. They were collecting driftwood, pulling it above the tide-line.

Duncan always lit a big bonfire for Up Helly Aa. She realized that the festival was almost upon them. It was held in Lerwick on the last Tuesday of January every year. For some people in the south that was all they knew of Shetland

- the pageant of men dressed as Vikings and the longboat paraded through the streets before it was burned.

Postcard images promoted by the tourist board to boost the number of winter visitors. The main event was in town but other communities held their own celebrations over the winter too. As she drove through the big stone gateposts she lost sight of her husband and child on the beach. She parked by the front door.

Celia seemed to spend as much time at the Haa as she did in the house on the edge of Lerwick which she shared with her husband. It seemed she didn't object to Duncan's many flings. She indulged him as she did her grown-up child. Fran still found it hard to be civil and, to avoid her, walked around the house to the beach. The garden was held back from the sand by a whitewashed stone wall. Beyond the wall someone had collected a pile of seaweed to rot down for compost.

They had given up the search for wood. Duncan was skimming stones over the shallow water. Cassie was drawing with a stick in the sand, frowning in concentration. She heard the sound of Fran's boots on the shingle and turned round with a squeal of joy. Fran looked at the picture in the sand, already blurring at the edges where the water was seeping underneath.

'Who is it?' It was the drawing of a person, a stick figure with enormous fingers, carefully counted, and spiky hair. She hoped Cassie would say it was her. She knew there should be no competition for their daughter's affection, but it always crept in. The old insecurity. She couldn't bear it if Cassie had been drawing Celia.

'It's Catherine. She's dead.' The girl squinted down at it. 'Can't you tell?'

Fran looked furiously over Cassie's head towards Duncan. He looked exhausted. His eyes were red and his face was drawn. He's getting too old for the lifestyle, she thought. He shrugged. 'I didn't say anything. We were in the shop in Brae this morning and people were talking. You know what it's like.'

Cassie chased away, arms outstretched zigzagging back towards the house. They followed her more slowly.

'What were they saying?'

He shrugged again. She could have hit him.

'Everyone's very shocked. It's like when Catriona disappeared. The whole community holding its breath, waiting for the nastiness to go away, so they can get back to real life.'

'Catriona was never found,' she said.

'People forget. Life goes on.'

'They won't forget this. Not two girls.'

'Why don't you come and stay here for a bit?' he said suddenly. 'Both of you. I'd be happier. We could still get Cassie to school in the morning and pick her up. It's not so far. Just until it's over.'

'What would Celia make of that?'

'She's not here just now,' he said. He paused.

'There's some domestic drama with the boy. She's gone home.' Something about his voice made her wonder if there was more to it than that.

'Feeling lonely, are you?' she said spitefully. 'Need a bit of company in the evening?'

'I can get company whenever I like,' he said. 'You know that. This house has had more parties than anywhere else in Shetland. I worry about you. I want you to be safe.'

She didn't answer.

They caught up with Cassie by the kitchen door.

She was trying to pull off her wellingtons, balancing on one leg. Duncan took the girl into his arms and threw her into the air, catching her again at the last minute. Fran stopped herself shouting at him for his recklessness. Cassie was giggling.

He made her tea. Cassie disappeared for illicit television. Duncan let her get away with anything.

'Does it feel odd?' he asked. "To be a stranger in your own house?'

'It's not my house. Not any more.' She looked around the kitchen. She wondered how long Celia had been gone.

The room had a cold, uncared-for air. There were dirty plates waiting to go into the dishwasher and spills on the worktops. Celia was tidier than her.

'It could be.'

'Don't be silly, Duncan. Do you expect Celia and me to take turns to make supper?'

'She's not coming back.' He had his back to her, but she could feel his pain, found herself feeling a moment of pity before the satisfaction. He could still get to her.

'What was it? One bright young thing too many? I suppose Celia's too old for partying! Though she couldn't really believe it. Duncan and Celia had fallen out before. She'd always come back.

'I wish I knew. Something like that I suppose! He opened a blue cake tin which stood on the workbench and seemed surprised to find it empty.

'Sorry,' she said. 'You'll have to find yourself another live-in housekeeper!

'Come on Fran, you know it's not like that.' 'That's just how it seems!

He was standing with his back to the window. She could see the bay beyond him, was briefly intensely tempted.

'I'd met the girl,' he said suddenly.

She was distracted by her desire for the place, confused. 'Which girl?'

'Catherine. The girl who was murdered!

'How did you know her?'

'She came here!

'What was Catherine Ross doing here?' She thought of Catherine as a schoolgirl. Not the sort of person Duncan would usually mix with. But then, in Shetland, Duncan knew everyone, even the kids.

'She came to a party,' he said slowly. 'It wasn't long ago. A couple of days after new year!

'Was she here with her father?'

'Nothing so respectable. She turned up one night. . . I thought Celia knew her, so I let her in. You know what it's like. Open house. Not that I'd have turned her away. At one point I was talking to her. About film. That was her ambition, she said. To be the first major female British film director. In ten years everyone would have heard of Catherine Ross. That was how I remembered the name. They have such confidence at that age, don't they?'

'She must have come with someone! He fancied her she thought. Only sixteen but that didn't matter to him.

'Perhaps. I really don't remember, or didn't notice. It was the end of the evening by the time we had that conversation. I'd had a lot to drink. Celia had just told me she was going and wouldn't come back!

'Did Catherine spend the night here?'

'Probably. Most of the guests did! He looked up at her sharply. 'But not with me, if that's what you're thinking.

She was only a child!

'I saw her the next day, getting off the bus. And the morning after that I found her body. You'll have to tell the police. They're trying to trace her movements!

'No,' he said. 'What would be the point? What could I tell them?'

He didn't ask her to stay again and when she rounded up Cassie to collect her things, he made no protest.

Sally Henry saw Inspector Perez leave the building. She was just coming out from a classroom on her way to get the bus and he was there, standing just inside the main door. He seemed lost in thought. She'd seen some of the sixth year queuing up earlier in the day to speak to him. She'd have liked to ask him if it had been useful, sitting in the head's office, listening to stories about Catherine. But she didn't have the nerve, and anyway he was hardly likely to tell her.

He must have realized eventually that he was in the way, just standing there, blocking the flow of the kids who were on their way out, and he walked off. He had a padded jacket over his suit and most of them seemed not to recognize him. She wondered if she should follow him to his car. He was more likely to talk to her when there was no one else listening in. She was Catherine's friend. She had a right to know what they'd discovered.

Her phone rang and there was the usual scramble to get it out of her bag, so she didn't see which way he went.

She didn't get a chance to look at the display before she answered so it was a surprise, a delight to hear Robert's voice. She'd only seen him once since new year, a brief fumbled meeting one afternoon when she was supposed to be in town shopping. She'd plucked up the courage to phone him and suggested they get together. She hadn't been sure he'd known who it was at first. 'Sally,' she'd said 'Sally. You do remember New Year's Eve?' He'd been in the pub at the time, so perhaps that explained why he'd seemed so muddled. Since that meeting she'd texted him a couple of times, but there'd been no reply. That didn't mean anything though. If he was out in the boat, he could be out of range and there were places in Shetland where reception was crap. Most of the smaller islands were impossible.

'Hi,' she said. She knew better than to ask why he hadn't been in touch. She'd read the magazines. There was nothing more likely to put off a man than a nagging woman. She tried to keep her voice low and husky. She turned away from the crowded lobby into a corridor which was empty, except for a cleaner with a bucket and mop right at the other' end. She shut her eyes to block out the boring details of school life, pictured him.

'Any chance of meeting up?' He kept his voice light but he really wanted to see her. She could tell that.

'When ?'

'I'm in town,' he said. 'Ten minutes?'

'I don't know. . ! How could she explain about the school bus and her mum calling out the police if she wasn't on it, because she'd always been paranoid but after Catherine's death she'd turned seriously weird? How could she explain all that without sounding like a six-year-old? 'It might be awkward!

'Please, babe. It's important! And then he seemed to guess the sort of problem she might have, which proved to Sally just how sensitive he was, how he wasn't at all the boorish lout everyone made him out to be. 'Just one drink and then I'll give you a lift home. You'll still be back ahead of the bus! And that was probably true, because the bus zigzagged all over the place to drop kids off and Archie, the driver, was about a hundred and four and drove so slowly sometimes she thought it'd be quicker to walk.

'OK: she said. 'Why not? One drink.'

They met in the back bar of one of the town centre hotels, not in the bar near the docks where he usually drank.

Upstairs in the dining room there was a funeral tea. Through the open door she saw a trestle table covered with a white cloth and plates of sandwiches curling at the edges, elderly people dressed in black. The voices were becoming loud and a little desperate. One of the women was weeping.

Robert was waiting. She was pleased. Her only visits to pubs had been with Catherine on occasional illicit visits to town. She wouldn't have had the nerve to go in by herself. Before setting out, she'd stopped to put on some slap, just a bit of powder to hide the spot which might be starting by the side of her nose, and some mascara. But all the same you must be able to tell that she'd come straight from school. She had her bag with all her books and files in.

She looked into the room. It was narrow as a corridor, wood-panelled, four grubby tables, a variety of unmatched chairs. You could smell lunchtime's fry-ups and cigarette smoke. He stood up as soon as he saw her.

'What'll you have?'

She thought of her mother, standing by the stove, stirring pans. X-ray eyes and X-ray nose for smelling alcohol.

'Diet Coke!

He nodded and went straight to the bar, without touching her. She supposed he was thinking of her, being discreet, but there was no one else in the room except a little grey man slumped asleep in the chair by the fire. Robert came back with the Coke and a whisky for himself. Then he did reach out and touch her hand. She grasped his, rubbed the fine gold hairs with her thumb.

'How're things?' he asked. He seemed anxious. Usually he walked into a bar as if he owned the place. That's what Sally loved most about him, that confidence. It sort of rubbed off on her. It cancelled out all the snide remarks from the kids at school about her being the teacher's girl. When she was with him she ought to feel she owned the place too.

'Strange,' she said. 'You heard about Catherine Ross?'

'Aye!

'She was my best friend, lived near me. You remember, she was there in the car on New Year's Eve!

'I mind that: he said.

'Did you know her?' Sally looked at him over the Coke. 'I mean apart from then, had you met her?'

'I'd seen her around. You know, parties!

Sally was going to press for more details but decided against it and continued.

'They found her on the hill just up from the school, lying in the snow. A detective came to the house last night to interview me, and he's been in school all day, talking to the kids!

'How was she killed?' he asked. He had pulled his hand away gently and was playing with the glass, twisting it round and round on the table.

'No one's saying. It said on the radio they had to do forensic tests, but they're treating the death as suspicious!

He lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes as he flicked at the lighter. Suddenly she wondered what she was doing there. It was different from the fantasies, the romantic books she'd escaped into when things at school got really rough. Once her father had taken her to the cliffs at the north end of Unst. It had been spring, the air full of wheeling screaming seabirds and the sharp stench of their untidy nests. Looking over the cliffs, even at a safe distance, she had felt dizzy and breathless. She could see the waves breaking on the boulders below, but couldn't really believe in them. It was like staring down into nothing. She'd thought she was at the end of the world and there was nowhere else to go. Now, sitting opposite Robert Isbister, she had the same feeling of panic.

What, really, did she want to come out of all this? To be loved by him? Oh that, certainly. It was what she'd been dreaming of. The small gestures of affection - his hand on her neck, stroking her hair - the gifts. But that he should make love to her? On the way home tonight, perhaps, in the back of his van? Then that she should stroll into her mother as if she'd just got off the bus to answer questions about her day at school? Was she expecting that? She felt out of her depth. Really out of her depth as if the water was coming over head and she was gasping for breath.

She realized that he'd asked her a question. 'Sorry?'

'Everyone's saying Magnus Tait did it. What did Perez tell you?'

'Nothing about that,' she said. 'He wouldn't, would he? He just wanted to know about Catherine!

'What about her?'

'Everything. Did she have a boyfriend? Who her mates were. He was trying to find out where she'd been the night before she came back to Ravenswick on the bus!

Robert leaned back in his chair. The little man by the fire snored, a rush of air through his nose, so loud that it woke him up. He looked blankly around him then fell immediately back to sleep.

'And did she have a boyfriend?' Robert asked. 'Not that I knew!

'And you would know, wouldn't you?'

'I'm not sure: she said. 'I don't know what to think any more! She wished then he would put his arm around her and hold her, comfort her, tell her it was all right, that it was natural for her to be upset. In a film that was what a hero would do. She wanted to tell him how hard it was for her to be here. Someone might come in who knew her parents. She wasn't like the other young girls he knocked around with. She'd thought he'd been able to tell she was different and that was why he liked her.

'Did she tell you where she was the night before she died?'

'How could she? I didn't see her that day!

'Who do you think did it?' he asked. 'I mean, did she say anything to you before she died? About any weirdos who might have been hanging around?'

'No: she said. 'Nothing like that. Anyway, you couldn't believe everything she said. She could be pretty weird herself. She was screwed up after her mother died. I don't think she lived in the real world.'

'Oh: She thought he was going to ask something else, but he just added 'Right,' and stared' at the old man sleeping by the fire.

'Look,' she said, 'I should go. My mother will expect me back on the bus:

'Oh. OK' He drank his whisky but made no move. 'You said you'd give me a lift.'

'So I did: He smiled. It was something of the old smile, gallant and a little mocking at the same time, but she thought his heart wasn't in it. She thought then that he hadn't wanted to see her at all. He'd arranged to meet her simply to find out what she knew about Catherine's- death. He was no better than the kids in her class.

His van was parked near the harbour. They walked down the steep lane to get to it. He put his arm around her.

She looked around anxiously in case some friend of her mother's should be out watching, but it was very dark, slightly milder with a damp mist in the air, and anyway there was no one about. Before he opened the van door for her he kissed her and, feeling an ache between her legs and the tightness in her breasts, she could remember why she'd dreamed about him since new year. But since that moment of panic in the pub she found it harder to delude herself. He didn't fancy her, did he? Not really. She'd just be another conquest. She pulled gently away.

'I should get back.'

'Yeah?' He stood for a moment, deciding whether he should push it and decided she wasn't worth it. The new clear-sighted Sally could see him weighing up the possibilities, coming down on the side of common sense. Better just get her back to Ravenswick without a fuss. She wasn't his type anyway. That, at least, was how Sally interpreted the small shrug, the resigned 'OK then, if you're sure:

They passed the bus just before the Ravenswick turn-off, near the old chapel. Without asking for directions Robert took the van slowly down the hill past Hillhead. Sally saw that the old man had pinned a sheet of cardboard up at the window. Perhaps he'd been bothered by people looking in.

'Where do you want me to leave you?' Robert said. 'By Catherine's house. That's where the bus stops and my mother will see it come down the hill:

Was it a test? If so, he passed. 'I don't know where that is, do I?'

'Just here.'

He pulled in beside Euan Ross's car. 'Nice place,' he said.

More than anything in the world she didn't want to be talking now about Catherine, or Euan Ross. She didn't care if her mother saw her standing outside Catherine's house before the bus arrived. She opened the door of the van.

'Thanks for the lift:

He leaned across to kiss her, but she was already on her way out.

'Will I see you again?' This time, she couldn't tell from his voice what he really wanted.

'I'm sure we'll bump into each other: she said. 'A place like this. . : Proud of herself for not being too eager and this time it wasn't a game. She didn't know What she wanted any more. Things weren't simple. For the first time since Catherine had died, she felt like weeping.

He didn't say anything. He pushed the van into gear and drove off. She stood shivering, staring up at the window of the room where once Catherine had slept, until the bus rattled down the hill.

At home that night, Sally kept thinking of the first time she'd met Robert. Really met him. Of course she'd known who he was and seen him about before that. Everyone knew who he was. His father was leader of the council and this year would be Guizer Jarl during the Up Helly Aa celebrations. Robert would be in his squad following close behind him in the procession. Everyone said Michael Isbister was a natural choice. A good man. Robert had talked about it and she knew he was proud of his father. Proud and a bit jealous. One day, he said, he'd be Jar!

himself. Imagine what it would be like, walking through the streets, all the folks looking at you.

She'd first met Robert to talk to, to touch, in the autumn at a dance in the hall to support some charity her father was working with. Something to do with rare plants. Or dolphins. It was always a cause like that where her father was concerned. She hadn't wanted to go. What would they say at school when they found out?

They didn't give her such a hard time now Catherine was on the scene, but even so, they could make her life pretty miserable. Her mother hadn't been keen either, but although you always thought of Margaret as being the strong one, when it came down to it her father usually got his way, and Margaret turned out anyway. In martyr mode.

Sally hadn't made much effort getting ready. She'd been wearing that dreadful dress her mother had bought her from the catalogue last Christmas. No make-up. She hadn't even bothered with concealer on her zits. And it had been as boring as she'd suspected it would be. A couple of old men sawing away on fiddles. A fat lass squeezing an accordion. The pooled supper. She'd eaten more than she should, couldn't help it. There'd been nothing else to do.

Then Robert had turned up. Slightly drunk obviously. Ready for a laugh. What would he have been doing there otherwise? It had been the first cold night of the season and every time the door of the hall opened a blast of cold air came in. And one of the blasts had blown in Robert, red-faced, laughing, with a couple of his mates. Big and beautiful like a huge Norse god. The old people hadn't liked it. She could hear them tutting about the state he was in, and what a shame it was letting his father down like that. But what could you expect, they said, the way his mother carried on.

She'd watched from her hard wooden chair, tilting it back to rest against the wall. Her parents were dancing, her mother enjoying herself despite all the moaning that had gone on beforehand, looking OK actually for her age. She was a good dancer, light on her feet, although she had a square, solid frame. A bar had been laid out at the end of the hall and that was where Robert ended up. Sally hadn't been drinking, though she'd been tempted to sneak one when her parents weren't looking. Her father looked over her mother's shoulder and smiled at her. Sally thought he seemed happy. She wished she understood him better and could tell what he was thinking. She smiled back briefly, but it was Robert she had her eyes on.

That was when he moved away from the bar, launched himself off from it and came across the floor to Sally.

He leaned against the wall beside her. Despite the draughts from the door she felt suddenly very warm, sweating even.

‘Do you want to dance?' And he'd reached down and taken her hand and pulled her to her feet, just as one of the fiddlers called folks up for an eightsome reel. She still remembered the feel of his hand, strong against her back, guiding her through the steps, though she knew the dance as well as he did. And seeing him so close, the heavy shoulders and the twist of muscle in his arms, his legs flexed slightly as if he were balancing on the deck of a ship, she'd thought he was what a man should look like, not like the skinny boys in the house room at school or the flabby teachers. Later, when her parents were caught up in a dance of their own, Robert had pulled her outside, and he'd kissed her, holding her buttocks and pressing her into him. She hadn't been able to enjoy it properly because she was worried that her mother would appear at the door and see her, and as the music slowed she'd hurried away inside, rubbing her lips with the back of her hand.

Since then Sally had dreamed of him. After a bad day at school it had only been the thoughts of him which kept her sane. And now the dreams returned. It didn't matter that in the pub she'd had doubts about him; she needed the fantasies more than ever. She arrived home at exactly the time she would have done if she'd caught the bus, drank tea with her mother as she did every afternoon. Then, when her mother marked primary six's arithmetic, she sat in her bedroom, pretending she was doing homework, and dreamed about Robert.

When she went through into the kitchen her father was home from work. He'd taken off his boots and stood just inside the door in his stockinged feet. Her mother was in the same room, but they weren't talking or even looking at each other. Perhaps they'd been arguing and had stopped when they heard her coming from her room, although that was unlikely. Sally had never heard them raise voices to each other. Usually her mother did as she pleased, but if Alex was insistent Margaret gave in quickly. She knew there was no point in putting up a fight. In matters which meant a lot to him he was stubborn, immovable as rock.

What meant most to him was his work. That was what Margaret said occasionally, muttering it under her breath like a defiant schoolgirl, not quite brave enough to say it out loud. Sally had heard her though. Perhaps Margaret had meant herself to be heard. Anyway, she sensed Alex's work as a presence, forcing her parents apart, like the experiment they'd done in physics in the first year, when the magnets couldn't come together no matter how hard you pushed them.

Now, Sally's mother was doing her best to be pleasant.

'Good day?' she asked, speaking to Alex, not to Sally. Sally had already had the questions about her day at school.

'All right,' he said. 'There's been some oil found on a beach near Haraldswick. Some skipper washing out his hold. You'd think by now they'd know. . :

'This time of year, there's not much harm it can do. By the spring when the birds come back to nest, it'll all have gone: Margaret couldn't help herself. She thought he overreacted where his work was concerned. All those seabirds.

Did it really matter if one or two were lost?

'That's hardly the point: He scowled, shook himself out of his jacket, hung it on the hook in the porch. Sally wondered sometimes why he'd married at all. Without Margaret he'd be able to work all the time, glued to the computer in winter, out on the islands when the light days came.

She supposed they loved each other, or had done once. She didn't think they'd have sex now of course. At their age you wouldn't expect it. They probably hadn't done it since she was born. But she thought her father probably missed it. She saw the way he looked at women. Younger women. And sometimes he touched Margaret, slid his hand over her body, and Sally thought there was something desperate in the gesture. Desperate and a bit pathetic.

Her mother had cooked a chicken for tea, a treat midweek. 'Something to cheer us up a bit,' she'd said when Sally came in. Sally had smelled it cooking when she was in her bedroom, had been looking forward to it, but now she was sitting at the table she couldn't face it. Usually her mother would have made a fuss, spoken about good food going to waste, but today she just seemed concerned. Sally excused herself from the table and left her parents there, eating in silence.

Jimmy Perez knew he should go back to the narrow house by the sea wall and speak to his mother on the phone. When Sarah had left, all that he'd wanted was to scuttle back to Fair Isle where he'd always been safe. The promotion in Shetland had been the next best thing, but he'd told himself he was just waiting until a croft became vacant at home. It was typical that now he was being offered what he'd dreamed of he couldn't make a decision. The drama of the investigation was confusing him. He couldn't see straight any more.

As he approached Fran Hunter's house on the way to Ravenswick, Robert Isbister's van was coming up the hill.

The van had to stop at the junction and Perez saw the personalized number plate, caught a glimpse of Robert's mane of hair in his headlights. Everyone knew Robert. What had he been doing there? Where had he been visiting?

Hillhead? Euan Ross's place? The school? Could he be the friend Scott had talked about? But Catherine, surely, would have better taste than to knock about with him. He was good-looking enough if you liked the macho, Viking type, but he thought Catherine would want more than that.

There was a light on in Fran's house. Perez didn't stop, though he had a fantasy about what it would be like inside. Very warm. The mother and the little girl curled up together in the big chair which sat by the fire, reading a picture book together. The child would be sweet-smelling after her bath, her hair still damp, the mother relaxed at last, almost asleep. He thought, That's what I want. Then almost immediately after, But would it be enough?

He was still considering this as he drove down the Ravenswick road, and he passed Hillhead without noticing if Magnus was around. Euan's car was parked outside the big house, but there was no sign of life, the enormous windows were blank and uncovered. When he rang the bell at first there was no response. He thought some acquaintances must have come to collect the teacher, to take him away from all the memories of his daughter. He must, after all, have some friends at the school.

Then a light appeared at the back of the house Perez saw it through the glass as a wedge through an open door -

and there were footsteps, slow, old footsteps. Then the front door opened.

'I'm sorry to disturb you,' Perez said. 'Could I have a word?'

Euan stood for a moment, blinking as if he didn't recognize the inspector, or as if he'd just woken and wasn't quite sure where he was. Then he made an effort to pull himself together and when he spoke he was as courteous as always.

'Come in: he said. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting!

'Did I wake you?'

'Not exactly. I find it difficult to sleep. A sort of day dream, perhaps, reliving old times, trying to capture something of her, while there's still a flavour of her in the house. It's real, you know. A perfume. The shampoo she used, I think. Something else I can't pin down. I know it won't last for long.' He turned and led the way into the house. Perez followed.

They ended up in the kitchen, though this wasn't where Euan had been sitting. He switched on lights, filled the kettle, made an effort to pull himself back to the present. 'Are you all right in here?'

The kitchen was a workplace, modern, lots of stainless steel and marble. There wouldn't be many memories of Catherine here, little for Perez to contaminate with his questions.

'Of course.' Without waiting to be asked, Perez sat on one of the tall chrome stools by a workbench.

'Coffee?'

'Please.'

'Have you come with information,' Euan asked. 'Or questions?'

'Questions, mostly. We won't have any details from the post mortem until tomorrow.'

'I'm glad she's going south on the ferry,' Euan said. 'She loved the boat and never really enjoyed flying.' He looked up. 'What a foolish thing to say.'

'I don't think so. I prefer the ferry too, going to sleep in one place, waking up somewhere different. It makes you realize how far away from anything we are.'

'I thought she'd be safe here. I did think it was different.' He turned away sharply to make coffee. 'Now, what questions do you have?'

'The officer who searched her room found a handbag, but we've still not found Catherine's house keys. Was it usual for her to go out without them?'

'I'm not sure. I always lock the house. Habit, I suppose. Perhaps she was more careless about it.'

'I've been at school all day, talking to the staff and the students. I spoke to a boy called Jonathan Gale. He gave Catherine a lift home on Hogmanay. Do you know him?'

'I don't teach him, but I know of him. A bright English lad. He's been to the house once or twice. I always thought he had a soft spot for Catherine. You don't think he killed her?'

'Not at all. Just checking out his story.' He paused. 'Does the name Robert Isbister mean anything to you?'

Euan frowned. 'No, should it? There are Isbisters in school, but no Robert, I think.'

'It's probably nothing: Perez said. 'He's older than Catherine, but someone she might have bumped into at parties. I saw him drive up the road just now. I wondered if he'd come to visit you.'

'Some colleagues came earlier in the day. They were very kind, brought food, a casserole of some description. I suppose I should eat it sometime. But since then, no, I've had no visitors.'

He still hadn't taken a seat. He'd poured the coffee and was drinking his where he stood. Perez could tell he was desperate to have the house to himself again, before the elusive scent of his daughter faded altogether.

'That's all then,' he said. 'I'll come back tomorrow when we have some news from the pathologist. Do you have any questions for me?'

He wasn't expecting anything. He thought Euan would see him gratefully and quickly to the door. But the teacher paused, his mug in his hand. 'The old man at Hillhead . . !

'Yes!

'People are saying that he was responsible. That it wasn't the first time. That he'd killed before. . !

'There were rumours. He was never charged, let alone convicted!

'When I first heard it hardly seemed to matter. Catherine's not alive any more. What else is there to care about?

But if it's true, it means that Catherine's death could have been avoided! He looked directly at Perez. Through the spectacles his eyes seemed unnaturally large, staring. 'I would find that unforgivable!

Then carefully he set down his mug and showed Perez to the door.

Perez was sitting in his car, thinking about that, when his phone rang. It was Sandy Wilson from the Incident Room. 'We've had a call from Fran Hunter, that wife who found the body! Wife? When does a woman stop being a girl and become a wife?

'What did she have to say?'

'I don't know. She wouldn't talk to the chap from Inverness who was manning the phone. She'll only speak to you!

Perez ignored the snigger in Sandy's voice. It was automatic, meant nothing. 'When did she ring?'

'Ten minutes ago. She said she'd be in all evening! 'I'm in Ravenswick now. I'll call on my way home!

He knocked quietly because he thought Cassie might be in bed, but she was still up, just as he'd imagined in dressing gown and slippers, sitting at the table. She was drinking hot chocolate and there was a mushroom-coloured moustache on her upper lip. Fran had looked out of the window before opening the door to him.

All over Shetland people would be doing that. Here more than anywhere, he thought, that poem by John Donne they'd had to read in school, was true. One person's death affected them all, made then see the world differently. And perhaps that wasn't a bad thing. Why should they be protected? What made them special?

'I wasn't expecting you just yet: Fran said. 'I hope you didn't rush over here on a wild goose chase. It's probably not important. . . Look, can you wait just a minute, while I sort Cassie out?'

He sat in the big chair, where he'd imagined her sitting. She brought him a glass of red wine, which he knew he should refuse, but didn't, and a slice of cheese and spinach flan. 'I don't suppose you'v e had a chance to eat,' she said, not making a big deal of it.

He heard the two of them chatting, in the bathroom, and singing a silly rhyme about a fox in a box, then the murmured words of a story, which were too soft for him to make out.

'Sorry about that! Suddenly she was behind him and she'd poured her own glass of wine. He realized he'd probably dozed off.

'You wanted to talk to me!

He stood to give up the chair, but she shook her head and sat on the floor, looking into the fire, so he couldn't see her face.

'It's probably nothing. You probably already have the information!

'Tell me anyway!

'Cassie stayed with her father last night. I went to collect her this afternoon! She hesitated. 'I know where Catherine was the night before I saw her get off the bus with Magnus Tait.

Duncan told me!

'He hasn't been in touch,' Perez said, noncommittally, 'not as far as I know!

'He wouldn't. He'd see it as an inconvenience. Having to go into Lerwick, maybe make a statement. That's what he's like. Always busy. Always hustling!

'We've only put out a general request for information so far,' Perez said. 'There'll be a big press conference tomorrow. Everything takes much longer to organize than people realize!

'She was at a party at the Haa. One of Duncan's open houses. Half of Shetland will have been there. You'll be able to confirm it.'

Perez had been to Duncan's parties. They were legendary. No invitations, nothing formal ever. Word would get out. A do at the Haa tonight. The parties never got going until late. When the bars started to think about closing, then you'd get a taxi, or a friend not quite as pissed as everyone else, and drive up the island. You never knew who you were going to see there. Often musicians.

Duncan liked to encourage local talent. That was how he described it, though Perez was never sure what the kids with their fiddles and guitars got out of the event beside a hangover and a sense that they'd brushed against celebrity. Because occasionally you'd bump into a minor star as you passed round Duncan's bottle of Highland Park.

An actor on holiday, or a politician up for some conference, a small time director or producer only the arty set had ever heard of. Duncan liked to encourage the arty set. And sophistication.

Perhaps that's what the kids felt they got out of it. The guests dressed differently, talked about different things.

It wasn't like going to a dance in the village hall.

'Did Duncan say who she was with?'

'He didn't seem to know. I think he was even more out of it than usual. He'd had a row with Celia!

Celia Isbister. Robert's mother. That was the way things worked in Shetland. It wasn't necessarily significant.

People were related in complicated and intimate ways. Coincidence couldn't be allowed to appear sinister.

'Do you know if Robert was there?'

'I don't know. Duncan didn't say. Quite often he was! Her voice was dry, slightly hostile.

'You don't like him!

'He's a spoilt rich kid. Hardly his fault, I suppose! 'Not a kid any longer!

'Shame he still acts like one! She turned round, brushing Perez's knee with her shoulder. 'Look, take no notice. I hardly have an unbiased view of that family. His mother wrecked my marriage. At least, Duncan wrecked it. She was complicit. Only it seems she's had enough. She's walked out too. Gone back to Michael full-time. Convenient, just before Up Helly Aa.

She'll be there to support him in front of the cameras. Everyone will say what a lovely family they are. Duncan's on his own again. Poor, lonely Duncan!

For the first time he thought she must have started drinking before he'd got there.

'Did Catherine ever mention knowing him?' 'Robert? No!

'And Duncan?'

'No, but then she wouldn't, would she? She must have known he was my ex. Even new to the place, she'd have picked up that bit of gossip. And you can't imagine Duncan would have had a fling with Catherine? She was only a child!

But as she spoke he saw that she was considering the possibility and not dismissing it out of hand. Perhaps she'd considered it before.

'Can you tell me anything else about the party? Did Duncan mention any of the other guests?'

'No. But I had the impression he was in such a state about Celia, that Posh and Becks could have wandered in and he'd not have taken any notice. Not like him at all!

Perez stood up reluctantly. Different circumstances and he'd have stayed to share the rest of the bottle with her, suggested that they might go out sometime. The film club. She was an arty woman. It might be the sort of thing she'd like. By the end of the week, knowing him, he'd probably have told her he loved her. It was probably just as well that she was involved in a murder case and he couldn't even kiss her on the cheek as he walked out.

Magnus sat upright in his chair and listened. He couldn't see outside the house. That was his own doing.

During the day there had been people looking in and by the afternoon he hadn't been able to bear it. The first caller had been a young policeman asking for his boots.

'What boots?'

He hadn't understood. Was it a trick to stop him going out?

'The boots you were wearing when you saw the girl: the man said. 'You told Inspector Perez you crossed the field and saw her!

'Aye!

'We need them. 'To compare with the footprints we found!

Still Magnus didn't really understand, but he'd pointed to the boots, which were standing on a piece of sacking in the porch. The policeman had stooped, lifted them into a plastic bag and carried them away.

Soon after there'd been another sharp knock. Magnus had opened the door, expecting more police, but it had been a woman from a newspaper with a notebook, talking so quick - clack, clack, clack - that he couldn't make out what she was saying. She'd scared him with her squawking voice, her pointed nose pushing into his face, the pen she poked towards his chest. After that he didn't answer to their banging. He sat at the table pretending to read an old magazine which had been lying around since his mother had died. Why had he kept it? He thought once there had been a reason, but he couldn't remember now.

They'd seen him through the window, peering at an angle to make him out and rapping on the glass to catch his attention, scaring the raven in its cage. That was when he acted. He flattened out a couple of boxes and nailed the cardboard over the window. Now nobody could see in, but he couldn't see out and that made him feel like a prisoner already. He couldn't tell what the weather was doing, or if the coastguard team had finished walking over the hill. It must be dark. He could tell that from the time on his mother's clock.

In his head there were still people waiting for him outside the house, waiting to shout filth and push their faces right against the glass and their shoulders to the door. He hadn't heard anyone outside for some time, but they could be there, silent, waiting to surprise him, like the monsters in a nightmare he'd had as a boy.

After Agnes died, the nightmares became worse. In his dreams he'd seen her, pale and thin as she'd been when the whooping cough turned to pneumonia and they finally took her to the hospital. Spitting out blood when she coughed. Arms and legs white and bony so they reminded him of a sheep's bones, when the carcass has been left out in the weather and picked over by animals and birds.

But in his dreams she was still at Hillhead, doing the things she always did, helping his mother with the cooking - peeling tatties or baking, milking the cow that they'd had then in the byre by the house, squatting beside the animal, pulling and squeezing the teats, murmuring a little song to herself as she worked. And all the time getting thinner, so at the end of the dream, just before he woke up sweating, all that was left of her was her smile caked in blood and her slanting grey eyes.

Now, sitting in his mother's chair, watching the hands of her clock, those nightmares returned. The people he imagined waiting outside weren't strangers. He had a vision of his sister, banging on the window, rattling the door, surprised that it was locked.

He stood up and poured himself a tumbler of whisky. His hands were shaking. He was going daft, sitting here. Anyone would be the same, locked in a room with no view out, just waiting for the police to take him. He shook his head to clear it of the foolishness, and tried to remember Agnes as she was when she was well. He'd always been ungainly and slow, but she was dainty as a bird, flying across the fields on the short cut to school, her hair streaming behind her. 'Look at your sister,' his mother would say, trying to shame him. 'She's younger than you and she doesn't break everything she touches. She's not a big, clumsy fool. Why can't you be more like her?'

He pictured her in the schoolyard skipping. 'Two other girls were holding the ends of a long rope and Agnes had been jumping, not chanting the rhyme, but frowning in concentration, counting the steps in her head. He'd watched, proud of her, so proud that the grin had spread across his face and had stayed there all day. She'd been wearing a cotton print dress, faded from too much washing and so short now that when she jumped you could almost see her knickers.

Had Catriona been one for skipping? It bothered him that he couldn't be certain. He'd seen her sometimes in the schoolyard, when he'd found reason to walk down to the shore, to pull out a useful piece of driftwood, some netting or a barrel. Mostly she'd been standing, surrounded by two or three of her chums, chatting and giggling. Those had been different times, he thought. It wasn't like when he and Agnes were children. When Catriona was growing up, she had television in the house and there'd been catalogues to buy modern clothes from. There'd been more to play with than an old piece of rope.

The oil had come to the islands and there'd been money for computers and fancy games and the teachers had taken the children on trips south. Once there'd been a school trip to Edinburgh. A couple of the mothers had gone, all dressed up for the adventure, and Mrs Henry, the teacher, standing there with her sheet of paper when the bus came to take them to the airport, ticking them all off, though surely she must know them all. Catriona had loved the city. She'd talked about it for days when she got home.

She came up to Hillhead specially to tell Mary Tait about it and he'd broken off from his work to listen. He'd never left Shetland and asked so many questions - about the buses and the big shops and what like it was to travel on a train - that Catriona had laughed at him and said one day he should go to Edinburgh. It was only an hour on the plane.

The next time she'd come to Hillhead was the day she disappeared. It had been dreadful weather, an awful wind for the season, not cold, but fierce, blowing from the south west. And her mother had sent her out and she'd been bored, so she'd landed up here, teasing and tormenting, wicked as if the wind had got inside her and made her flighty and wild.

But he didn't want to think of that day. He didn't want to think of the peat bank and the pile of rock on the hill.

It would bring the nightmares back.

Roy Taylor had called the meeting for mid-morning, not first light. He'd hoped to have some feedback from the pathologist by then, though he knew he was pushing it and now it was ten-thirty and he was still waiting. He'd asked Billy Morton to ring him from Aberdeen as soon as he had anything useful to report. They had the crime scene investigator's report at least. Nothing back from the lab yet. That took bloody days, even fast-tracked.

Jimmy Perez sat quietly on a desk at the back of the room, listening to Taylor explaining about the delay and how frustrated he was by it. You had to listen carefully because of the unfamiliar Scouse accent, the strange, mangled vowels. The inspector had grabbed their attention from the beginning. He had the stage presence of a fine actor or a stand-up comedian. He was compulsive viewing. Perez wished he had that sort of presence, the same ability to motivate his team.

Outside the weather was milder and there was the beginning of a thaw. In the lulls in conversation Perez thought he could hear the dripping of melted snow. The clouds which had been lurking out to sea all night had rolled inshore and the room was almost as dark as during the last team meeting at daybreak.

Taylor was going through the evidence of the crime scene investigator. 'Besides the constable who was first called to the scene there are three sets of footprints: he said. Constable. He was being more polite than most. Perez thought on his home patch Taylor would have a different name for the uniformed men who did the routine work.

Here, he was careful not to offend. 'The snow was deep enough to get good impressions and it didn't melt during the day so the crime scene investigator was lucky. She's a bit of an expert on boots and shoes. Apparently.

'One set belonged to Mrs Hunter. Size six wellington boots. Of course really there are two tracks in each case -

one going into the scene and one coming away. Another, more recent, in places crossing the prints of Mrs Hunter came from Mr Alex Henry, the teacher's husband from Ravenswick. Size nine walking boots. Again, only to be expected. We know that Mrs Hunter waved at him, he crossed the field to join her and he used his mobile to call us.

The third set belongs to Magnus Tait. His prints aren't very clear. It's hard to tell how long he was there and what he was up to. That's because the other sets are laid on top of his. He was there before either of the others. Our examiner is quite clear on that.'

Sandy Wilson gave a cheer, punched his fist in the air, then fell silent when everyone else just sat and watched him.

'You think this is a cause for celebration, Sandy?' Taylor asked. The voice deceptively mild, but with an edge of sarcasm which Perez and the Inverness team recognized. He could be polite only for so long.

'Well it means we've got him,' Sandy said. 'Doesn't it?'

'He's already admitted to being at the scene,' Perez said. 'He didn't attempt to hide it. He told me on my first visit. It's in the day log, Sandy. But maybe you've not had a chance to look at it:

'Well, he would, wouldn't he? He'd know that we'd find his prints and he'd come up with a reason. . !

'I'm not sure he's capable of that sort of thinking: Perez said. He wished Sandy would admit defeat, not show himself up in front of the others.

'Besides,' Taylor said, 'if he killed Catherine, how did she get there, Sandy? There are none of her prints. Tell me, did she fly? Did those bastard birds pick her up in their talons and carry her?'

'Maybe Tait did!

'Catherine was a tall young woman. He's an old man. Strong once, perhaps, and still used to some physical work, but I don't reckon he'd have been able to hoist her over two fields without putting her down for a breather.

Even if she was already dead!

'Then how did she get there?'

The question was directed to Taylor, but the inspector from Inverness only looked at Sandy for a long time in silence. 'Tell him, Jimmy: he said at last. 'You've worked it out, haven't you?' Perhaps he didn't feel he could explain to Sandy without really losing it, saying something he'd regret later.

'She walked: Perez said. 'She walked in with whoever killed her. Then it snowed and her footprints were covered up. There was a heavy squall at about midnight. I phoned Dave Wheeler the meteorologist on Fair Isle.

There was snow on part of the body, though according to the crime scene investigator it had been stroked carefully away from her face and upper torso. That's why Fran Hunter could see her from the road!

'So Tait could still be the murderer? No reason why not. He could have gone back later, early the next morning.

He could have swept the snow from her face.'

'He could be the murderer,' Taylor said, interrupting, finding it impossible now to restrain himself. 'Of course he could. Still most likely prime suspect. But let's picture the scene. It's dark. He took the girl into his house for tea early in the afternoon. We know that. He's admitted it and they were seen getting off the bus together. Let's suppose, just for a minute, that he managed to entertain her all afternoon. How did he persuade her to go out on to the hill with him in the pitch black? She was an intelligent young woman. Brought up in the big city.

Not naive. Streetwise. Even if she hadn't heard the rumours about him and Catriona Bruce, do you think she’d just wander off into the night with him? That's what the defence lawyers will say. And it worries me too!

Taylor turned quickly, so he had his back to Sandy, as if he wasn't worth further attention. 'Jimmy, what do you think?'

'I don't think she was the sort to be easily scared. And here, in Shetland, there's a sense of security isn't there?

Bad things don't happen here. Not the sort of things that happen elsewhere. We let our kids wander round on their own. We might worry about them getting a bit close to the cliffs, but we don't worry about them getting abducted by perverts! Except now. Now we're just like everywhere else. All over the islands children are being kept indoors and being told to beware of strange old men.

'So I think she might have gone with him. If she thought he had something interesting to show her. Or for a challenge or a dare. A story to entertain her friends with the next day! He paused. 'But she wouldn't just have stood there and let him strangle her. She'd have fought him back. And there's no sign of that. No scratch marks on his hands or his face. They'll take a sample from under her fingernails. Perhaps we'll know more then!

'So how do you see it, Jimmy?' Taylor asked. 'Set the scene for me. 'Tell me what you think happened?'

'I think she walked out there with someone she knew and was comfortable with. Someone she'd stand close to, arm in arm maybe, to keep out the cold. When the attack came it was without warning. The scarf she was wearing pulled hard around her neck. She'd still try to fight, but perhaps it was so sudden that she didn't stand a chance.

Either that or someone with sufficient strength to catch her off guard!

'You're thinking a boyfriend then?'

'Aye perhaps. Probably. But not necessarily!

'Fill us in on the wannabe boyfriend you've tracked down, the lad who gave them the lift back New Year's Eve!

'Jonathan Gale. Family's English, moved to Quendale not very long ago. He's a year older than Catherine. At the high school too. He came to see me while I was there. Father's a travel writer.

Anyway, they were both outsiders so you'd expect them to get on. And he'd certainly fallen for her. Big style. I could tell, though he wasn't saying a lot. Apparently she didn't reciprocate. According to Sally Henry, Catherine hardly spoke to him in the car back from Lerwick. And Euan said she didn't seem interested. But Gale couldn't have killed her. Not according to his parents. He was with them all evening on the 4th. They watched a video!

'Until midnight?'

'No, but they claim he couldn't have driven away from the house without them hearing! He wanted to say he'd talked to the lad and liked him, but didn't think Taylor would be impressed by that. Instead he went on, 'It wouldn't have had to be a boyfriend. It could have been anyone she'd not be scared of:

'Her father?'

'I suppose he'd fit the bill. But wasn't he in Lerwick all evening? And what would be the motive?'

'God knows. But we've checked with his colleagues and he was a bit out with his timings. It wasn't as late as he said in his statement when he left town. It isn't necessarily suspicious, but he could have killed the daughter before the snow set in! Taylor began his habitual pacing. Perez wondered irritably if they couldn't give him something to slow him down. Valium? Or those little cannabis cookies Sarah used to make when she was at college? What did she call them? Hash brownies.

'I know where Catherine was the night before she fetched up on the bus with Magnus Tait. That might help!

Taylor stopped abruptly.

'For God's sake man, why didn't you say so before? Where?'

Perez was tempted to say that he hadn't been able to get a word in, but let it go. 'At the Haa. One of Duncan Hunter's parties:

There was a mutter of recognition, almost of amusement, from the Shetlanders. Taylor, though, was not amused. 'Is this supposed to mean something to me?'

'Duncan's a sort of local playboy. Businessman. Entrepreneur. He throws famous parties. We've all been to them at one time or another. Though few of us can remember much of what went on:

'Isn't the woman who found the body called Hunter?'

'Duncan's her ex-husband:

'Any significance there?'

'Only in the fact that it was she who told me the girl was at the Haa that night. Duncan wasn't going to bother letting us know.'

'Hard to keep it quiet, I'd have thought' Taylor was scowling, trying to make sense of it Perez thought he was like an anthropologist, coming to terms with some remote tribe's rituals and mores. 'I mean I take it she wasn't the only person there. We'd have got to hear of it as soon as we put out a request for information at the news conference.'

'I don't think we need assume Duncan was trying to keep it quiet,' Perez said. 'He's the sort who thinks rules are for other people. Like I said, he just couldn't be arsed to pick up the phone:

'An arrogant bastard?'

'Aye, something like that:

'Should one of us go to speak to him?' One of us. One of the outsiders. The team spirit hadn't survived long.

'Let me speak to him first,' Perez said. 'If I think he's messing me about one of you can have a shot: They sat for a moment in silence. Even Taylor's thinking was showy, energetic. Looking at him, frowning, you could imagine the synapses jumping and fizzing. A phone rang. Sandy answered it.

'Boss?' Diffident now, though he still wasn't entirely sure what he'd done wrong. 'Professor Morton from Aberdeen:

The inspector took the call in his office and while they were waiting there was an edgy silence. Perez wandered over to the window and looked out at the town. The straight lines of the grey houses were blurred by the rain which was coming down now in hard straight lines. When Taylor returned he was carrying an A4 writing pad. He'd made notes, very detailed, Perez saw, the writing small and cramped.

'Caroline Ross was strangled,' he said. 'Not manually, but with the scarf we found with her. Just as we thought.

No sign of struggle. Time of death? Not very helpful. Between six pm and midnight the night of the 4th. She'd had quite a bit to drink soon before she died. Very little to eat. Almost certainly she was killed where she was found: He looked towards Sandy. 'And if a scientist says almost certain that means 110 per cent definite. Otherwise she was a healthy and fit young woman: He paused. 'Any questions?'

'Any trace of recent sexual activity?' Perez asked the question before Sandy could find another, less delicate way of phrasing it 'No,' Taylor said. 'Nothing like that.' He paused again. 'She was a virgin.'

The two of them met up together after the rest of the team had dispersed. Taylor’s idea. Anywhere we can get a decent coffee in this place?' Perez had taken him to the Peerie Cafe in the narrow lane up from the harbour.

Downstairs was full with middle-aged women in anoraks taking a break from shopping and the weather. A couple of young mums were deep in conversation in a corner. One of them was discreetly breastfeeding. The child's head almost hidden by a baggy sweater and Perez wondered how it could breathe. Upstairs they found a table. There was so much background noise that no way could they be overheard.

'So,' Taylor said. 'What do you think? I mean, I'd always assumed that if Tait was involved the motive would be sexual. But there was nothing.'

'Doesn't mean he didn't kill her.'

'Perhaps he liked them innocent,' Taylor said. 'We thought Catriona and Catherine had nothing in common, but there was that. Both untouched.'

'You wouldn't know, though, to look at Catherine.'

'First names both starting with C,' Taylor was getting into his stride. 'Both living in the same house. That's some coincidence.'

'Maybe,' Perez said. 'Still doesn't mean it was Tait.' 'What's he like, this Duncan Hunter?'

Perez shrugged. 'I can't stand the man. Doesn't mean he gets his kicks killing lasses.'

'Would he have been around when Catriona Bruce disappeared?'

'He's always been around. Big fish in a little pond.

His ego'd not survive in the big world outside.'

Taylor's smile was mocking. 'So, what's he done to you?'

'We were at school together. Big mates at one time.'

'And then?'

Perez shrugged again. 'I'd best go to see him. See what he's got to say about Catherine.'

'Do you want me to do it?' 'No. He'll say nothing to you.'

Taylor looked slightly wistful. It was like a recent non-smoker taking in the fumes. He liked being senior investigating officer, but he missed being out there talking to people, getting a feel for the case. 'Come and see me when you get back,' he said. 'Let me know how you got on.'

Perez nodded, eased himself from the chair and out into the street

At the time Perez thought Duncan had saved his life. That was what it felt like. He was thirteen. It was September, the start of a new school year, and it was like having to get used to Anderson High all over again.

Classes, and living in the hostel, and only being able to talk to his family on the phone. After a summer of being on the Isle, helping his dad with the sheep and the boat, it was like being in prison.

Worst of all was being back with the two Foula lads who'd made his life a misery during the first year and who hadn't forgotten what fun that was over the holidays. During the week it wasn't so bad. There were other kids who boarded weekly, there was a bit of a buzz about the place. More staff on duty. Weekends were a nightmare.

Other kids looked forward to the weekends. Jimmy Perez hated them. He anticipated them with dread. He imagined himself at the wheel of a small boat and a huge wave rising up on the horizon and bearing down towards him. Inevitable. Unavoidable. And when Friday night did arrive he counted off the minutes until it was Monday morning, doing the schoolboy sums in his head, working out the percentage of misery time passed and the nightmare still to come.

Then Duncan Hunter took a liking to him. How had that happened? Was there one moment of recognition, the realization that they might be friends? Perez couldn't remember. He had one image in his head. A breezy, sunny day. The water in the harbour whipped against the tide into tight little waves. He and Duncan would have been nearly fourteen and there'd been a joke. Perez couldn't remember which of them had told it, but he remembered the pair of them laughing. Duncan had been laughing so hard he'd had to put his arm around Perez's shoulder to stop himself falling over. Perez had tipped back his head and it seemed the sky was wheeling around him, because the clouds were blown so fast. And when he'd straightened up, spent and dizzy, there were the two Foula boys, sullen and resentful, because he had a friend, an ally and they'd have to find someone else to torment.

Then Perez started looking forward to weekends too. On Friday nights he'd go with Duncan in the bus to North Mainland and they'd walk together down the long drive to the Haa. When he'd first seen the house he couldn't take it all in. It was bigger than anything he'd ever seen. 'Which part do you live in?' he asked. Duncan didn't quite understand. 'The rooms near to the shore are so damp. We don't use those much. And there's no staff. Not really. So no one sleeps right at the top: And in those days, at the peak of the oil rush, Duncan's father was too busy or too dazed by the possibilities or too cautious to spend much on the house, and it was still very dark and primitive. Often the generator didn't work and there was no power. Then they ate supper by candlelight at the long table in the dining room. Perez first got drunk in the Haa and touched a girl's breasts for the first time.

That was when Duncan's parents were away in Aberdeen. To celebrate having the place to themselves, they held a party, Duncan's first party. It was mid-summer and light nearly till dawn. Perez took the girl on to the beach.

She was called Alice, an English girl on holiday. They sat watching the sun not quite set, leaning against the whitewashed wall around the house and Perez slipped his hand under her shirt. She let him stroke her for a few minutes, then pushed him away with a laugh.

Once he asked Duncan, 'Don't your parents mind me being here every weekend?'

Duncan had seemed surprised by the idea. 'No, why should they? They know I like it'

Perhaps that was the first time Perez had been aware of the gulf between them. Whatever Duncan liked, he got He considered it his right. The gap was more noticeable when Duncan spent a few days with him on Fair Isle. There was nothing you could put your finger on. Duncan was charming, polite to his parents. There was a dance at the hall and he joined in, swirling the middle-aged women off their feet, so they giggled and said he was a rascal and should come back another time. But occasionally Perez saw that he was bored. Some of the comments were patronizing. He knew the whole of the family, himself included, were relieved when they waved Duncan off on Loganair.

And now? Now, as he'd told Roy Taylor, he couldn't stand Duncan Hunter. He hated the fake shows of friendship when they met, the remembered incidents from their childhood which were always discussed, because in the present they had nothing in common to talk about. That wasn't the only reason for the dislike.

There was something more concrete too. Blackmail. But that was never discussed.

He knocked at the front door of the Haa, not expecting to find Duncan in. These days Duncan spent as much time in Edinburgh as he did in Shetland. Perhaps Celia would be back. Duncan had a way with women. Most of them returned in the end. Perez hoped it would be Celia who opened the door. He'd always liked her and she could fill him in on Catherine Ross and what the girl had been doing there. He wouldn't have to go through that business of pretending to be old mates before he found out anything useful.

He thought at first that the place was empty and he'd have to come back. The blanket of cloud seemed to hold in the smell of salt and rotting seaweed from the beach. The rain was heavier than ever and standing at the front of the house, banging on the door, he got soaked. Water spilled from the gutter and splashed out of the drain. Then there was another sound. The slap of slippers against the flag floor. The turn of a key in a lock. Duncan stood there.

Hangover personified. Unshaven, sour-smelling, blinking against the light. 'For Christ's sake man. What do you want?'

At least, Perez thought, he was spared the usual male hug and reference to the old days.

It’s business: he said quietly. 'Police business. Can I come in?'

Duncan didn't answer. He turned and shuffled back towards the kitchen. By the range there was an Orkney chair, with the high, hooded wicker back to keep out draughts. Perez remembered it had always been there. Duncan sank back into it. Perez thought he'd probably spent all night there, once the bottle of Highland Park by his feet was empty. The policeman filled a kettle and moved it on to the hotplate. 'Tea or coffee?'

Duncan slowly opened his eyes. He gave the smile that made Perez want to hit him. 'Good old James,' he said.

'Always there to save the day!

'This is murder. Nothing I can do to make that go away!

It was as if Duncan hadn't heard him. 'Tea,' he said.

'A good strong cup of tea!

The kitchen looked as if half a dozen students had been camping out in it for a term. Duncan saw Perez looking at the mess. 'You can't get the staff these days, he said.

'No Celia?'

'She left.' The smile and the flippancy disappeared. 'I thought she was besotted!

'So did I!

The kettle boiled. The tea bags were where they'd always been. Perez rinsed two mugs. There was just enough milk in the fridge.

'Catherine Ross,' he said. 'How well did you know her?'

'I didn't!

'But she was here, at your party, the night before she was killed!

'You've been speaking to Fran!

'Mrs Hunter found the body!

Duncan finished the tea, then got out of his and poured himself a pint of water. He stood, against the draining board for support.

'I should have made it work with Fran: he said. I really loved her, you know. There was no reason why it shouldn't have!

'Only Celia!

'Well, Celia. That was different. No question of me marrying her. She would never have left Michael.

Appearances count here. You know that. Really there was no competition. I'd married Fran, hadn't I? We had a child. Anyway, now I've lost Celia too!

Perez allowed himself to be distracted. 'What happened there? I thought you had that worked out. A relationship of convenience on both sides!

'So did I. But recently she's been a bit possessive. Insecure. Her age, maybe. She suddenly started getting heavy about other women. A pain in the arse, actually!

He took a mouthful of water, stared gloomily outside. The rain splashed against the window.

'But you didn't ask her to leave. She left you. Why?'

'Honestly? I'm not sure. It was all very sudden. It happened the night the girl was here for the party. I wasn't doing anything I hadn't done dozens of times before. Chatting. Flirting, maybe. Harmless stuff. We were in the middle of a conversation. Nothing heavy. Her saying You know you're too old for this. Why don't you get rid of them? Let's have the house to ourselves. Stuff she'd said a hundred times before. And I promised like I always did.

This is the last time. The last Haa party. You're right. I should be thinking of settling down.

Then she said she was leaving and wouldn't be coming back. She didn't make a big scene. That's not her style.

Dignified. Celia's always been dignified. She packed a bag and then I heard her car. I knew she meant it. I knew I'd really blown it!

'Did anything happen while you were talking to make her leave suddenly?' Was this relevant? Why was he so interested after all? Because he was taking a delicious pleasure in Duncan's misery. It served the man right.

Duncan shook his head. He'd closed his eyes again for a moment as if a wave of pain from the hangover was hitting him. Then he opened them.

'She had a text message. She read it while I was still talking, then announced that she was leaving! He looked across at Perez, suddenly horrified. 'Do you think it could have been from another man? That she had a lover all the time she was with me?'

'Did she often get text messages?'

'Only from her son. Robert can't wipe his bum without clearing it with her first'

'Wasn't Robert there that night?'

'I think he was earlier. Not when Celia ran off. He hates my guts but he still comes to my parties!

'Did he arrive with the girl who died?'

'Hey man, you know what it's like at my parties.

The door's open and people wander in!

'You told Fran you let Catherine stay because Celia knew her!

'Did I? I'd have let her stay whatever. She was bloody gorgeous!

'You did talk to her then?'