The detective looked at him. ‘Was she alive when you left her?’

‘Yes!’ Dougie felt himself flush. Would Perez assume that was a sign of guilt? He couldn’t help himself. He always blushed like a girl when he was nervous. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of the plane coming in. Jane had said there’d be no flights today, but perhaps she’d got that wrong. Would it be full of birders? He wanted to be on the hill to meet it, to show the incomers his find.

But Perez still had questions: ‘Were there any feathers in the bird room? Was Angela working with them?’

‘That night? No.’

‘Any time?’

Dougie knew what this was about. Ben had described the feathers in the hair. ‘I don’t understand why there should be. Unless there was some special study I knew nothing about.’

‘Was Hugh asleep when you went back to the dormitory?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you have heard him if he left the room in the night?’

‘No,’ Dougie said. ‘It takes me a long time to get to sleep, but when I finally go off, I sleep like the dead.’

Chapter Sixteen

In the field centre kitchen Jane made a cottage pie. Easy to prepare and also Maurice’s favourite. She’d do a veggie chilli for Ben. Jane was starting to worry about Maurice, who was still holed up in the flat and who hadn’t really eaten anything the previous day. The community nurse had come up to the lighthouse the morning that Angela had been found dead and offered sedatives, but Maurice had refused to see her: ‘I don’t need her pills. I don’t need tranquillizing. I don’t want to forget my wife.’

Now, Jane wondered if she should get the nurse back. The woman was chatty, easy-going and she was probably the source of many of the rumours floating round the island about Angela’s murder. She’d be happy enough to call in. But it was unlikely that Maurice would be persuaded to see her, and Jane didn’t want to provide more fodder for the Fair Isle gossip machine. She put the pie in the larder to keep cool and phoned Mary Perez. Mary had been the island nurse before she became a full-time crofter and Maurice had always got on well with her. No reason why Jane shouldn’t invite her to the North Light for coffee and try to persuade Maurice out of the flat to meet her.

While she waited for the woman to arrive, Jane went upstairs to make beds and tidy rooms. In the height of the season they’d employed a young woman from Belfast to do the cleaning, but now Jane looked after all the domestic chores. It wasn’t too onerous this week. Two rooms: the small dormitory where Dougie and Hugh slept and the twin belonging to the Fowlers. The staff looked after themselves, though sometimes Jane took pity on Ben Catchpole and did his laundry.

The dormitory had the stuffy, sweaty smell of men living in close proximity, even though two of the beds were empty and the men were sleeping at opposite ends of the room. Jane straightened sheets and folded duvets, cleaned the sink, opened the sash window just a little to let in fresh air. She wondered if Perez had searched in here. Would that be the normal procedure in a murder investigation? Surely he’d have to get permission first and he certainly hadn’t asked her if he could look round her room. She thought she would have known if he’d been there, looking through her drawers, prying in her things. Again she felt the investigation as a sort of challenge, an impersonal puzzle that had nothing to do with the reality of the murdered Angela. Jane had always been competitive and now she wanted to pit her intelligence against that of Perez, to come up with the identity of the killer before he did. She’d become an amateur sleuth, like a character in the detective stories she’d read as a child.

Of course it was presumptuous to think she might succeed ahead of the police, but she could get away with behaviour that would be impossible for the inspector. Who would know, for example, if she looked through guests’ personal belongings? She had every right to be in their rooms.

The chest of drawers next to Dougie’s bed contained underwear, a couple of folded T-shirts and a pile of socks. On top, next to a bottle of whisky that was three-quarters empty, there was a field identification guide to the birds of America. This, it seemed, was Dougie’s only bedtime reading. Hugh’s possessions were more interesting. They were still piled in his rucksack and in such an untidy and random way that he would never tell that anyone had been looking. A torn envelope file made of pink card had been slipped end on by the side of a tangle of clothes. Jane pulled it out. There was a moment’s hesitation before she opened it. Really, what right had she to pry? But by now she was so curious that it was impossible for her to replace it before reading the contents. Besides, she had a sense that here, in the lighthouse, they were living outside the normal rules. She knew Hugh would be on his way down the island for his interview with Perez. She wouldn’t be disturbed.

The file seemed to contain all Hugh’s recently received correspondence. There was a bank statement still in its envelope. It had come in on the plane with Jimmy Perez and Fran, redirected from home; Jane had collected the mail from the post office that day. It was unusual for visitors to receive post and she recognized the envelope. It showed that Hugh had been seriously overdrawn until the week he arrived in Fair Isle, when £2,500 had been paid into his account. The indulgent parents bailing him out again, Jane thought. There were a couple of copies of his CV. Jane had worked in HR and picked up the lack of experience, the unexplained gaps, despite the creative description of his short adult life. She wouldn’t have hired him as a tour leader. At the bottom of the file there was a handwritten letter from Hugh’s father, saying he felt he had supported Hugh financially for long enough. They would continue, of course, to provide advice and support but Hugh would have to earn his own living. The letter had been written some months before. Why had Hugh kept it? And where had the £2,500 come from? Had Hugh charmed his parents into providing one last handout? Or had he actually done some paid work? She looked for a name on the statement but it seemed to have been paid in cash. It was something the police would be able to check easily enough and as she straightened she supposed she should pass this information on to Perez. But then she’d have to confess to snooping and the thought of it made her blush. Surely if the police were looking for a motive they’d look into their suspects’ bank accounts.

The Fowlers’ room was always orderly. They made their own beds each morning. Sarah’s nightdress was folded on one pillow. There were matching toothbrushes in the glass on the shelf by the sink. In the top drawer next to Sarah’s bed there was a diary. Jane left it where it was – despite the temptation to read it, she thought that was a step too far. There was something about Sarah’s closed expression, her jumpiness, which made Jane think there had been a tragedy in her personal life. They’d never visited Fair Isle before and it was unlikely to have anything to do with Angela Moore. It seemed that John had brought work with him. A laptop computer in a case leaned against the wall and a pile of files and books were piled on the bedside table. The files contained magazine articles, printed pages that looked like work in progress. After reading halfway down the pile Jane stopped. She couldn’t spend too long here; she might be missed and although she knew Perez was interviewing the Fowlers, she couldn’t bear the thought that she might be caught snooping. There was a catalogue for Fowler’s bookshop. He’d called it something fancy in Greek, that meant nothing to her. How pretentious, she thought. She blinked at some of the prices being demanded for rare and out of print books. She supposed he must operate mostly with dealers.