Shetland 05: Dead Water by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

Volunteers dress up in old-fashioned clothes and pretend that they live there.’ He paused. To him, it seemed an odd way to carry on. ‘They have old farming tools. Peat-cutters and kishies for carrying the peats. We got taken there once from school and we got to try ploughing by hand.’
    ‘And where exactly is this place?’
    He could tell that Willow was impatient, not interested in tales of his schooldays. ‘It’s not so far from here.’
    As they drove, Willow was looking around her, taking in all the details of the island. He turned off the main road and into a sheltered valley, with a copse of sycamores and beyond into open land and a view west towards the sea. Stacks of rock formed giant sculptures offshore and her attention was caught by those, so for a while she didn’t notice the low croft with its roof thatched with peat and straw, the barn and the byre, and the kiln where the corn had been dried. Everything made of rough grey stone. Last time Sandy had been here it had been a bright summer’s day and he’d been eleven. He’d lived in Shetland for most of the intervening years, but had thought of the museum as a place for tourists, not for him. He slowed down as he approached the museum and pulled into the car park behind the buildings.
    Davy Cooper was there already. There’d been a piece on the Radio Shetland news that morning asking for information about the Alfa Romeo, he said, and a postie delivering to the museum had called in to say that she’d seen it. The car was in a space furthest away from the entrance of the museum and he’d taped it off, stringing the tape between fence posts.
    Willow gave him a smile when she saw what he’d done. ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘It could be our murder scene after all. Is Ms Hewitt on her way?’
    Davy nodded. ‘And the key-holder of the museum. This time of year it’s not open much.’
    As they waited, another vehicle pulled up. Sandy recognized Reg Gilbert, the editor of the Shetland Times , and his old VW camper van. Rhona Laing had asked Sandy to be discreet, but it would be impossible to keep the identity of the murder victim secret now. Sandy wondered how Reg had got hold of the news – presumably the postie hadn’t talked only to the police. There was nothing Reg liked better than a big story that he could pass on to former colleagues in the south. He’d taken early retirement from an English regional paper so that he could spend more time with his new young wife. But his woman had run off with her salsa teacher, and Reg had come to the islands to lick his wounds. He’d never been in Shetland before and had only taken the editor’s job because it was the first one he’d seen advertised. None of this was a secret. Reg took up residence in the bar of the Grand Hotel every evening after work and told the story to anyone who would listen. He said that Shetland was about as far away as he could get from the cheating cow.
    ‘Isn’t that young Jerry Markham’s car?’ The journalist had a narrow face that made Sandy think of a rat. Thinning hair and enormous eyebrows. A long, red boozer’s nose.
    He put the question to Sandy, but Willow answered.
    ‘You know Mr Markham?’
    ‘I knew him, my dear. His body’s in a bag and on its way to the ferry, so Jimmy Grieve can cut him open in the morning. I spoke to Annie Goudie, our funeral director, and she’s just confirmed it. We must definitely speak of the Golden Boy of journalism in the past tense, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘When did you last see him?’ Willow obviously wasn’t going to allow herself to be provoked.
    ‘On Thursday evening. He offered to buy me dinner in the Ravenswick Hotel restaurant. Not as generous as that might sound, because his parents own the place and I’m sure he didn’t intend to pick up the bill. All the same, I wasn’t going to turn down an offer like that.’ Reg leaned against the camper van. Rumour had it that he was so short of cash when he moved to the