The first call was to Sandy. ‘Is Vicki Hewitt in from Aberdeen yet?’

‘Aye, she’s ready for the boat in the morning.’

‘I need you to charter a plane and get into Fair Isle now. Bring Vicki with you.’

‘You’ll not get a plane tonight.’ Sandy would have liked the drama of the emergency flight; Perez could tell that. He just didn’t see how it was possible. ‘It’s almost dark.’

‘There’s no wind to speak of and there’ll be a moon. We’ll light the airstrip. They’d do it for an ambulance flight.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘There’s been another murder. I need the crime scene assessed by an expert before it gets contaminated. This doesn’t look to me like the same sort of killing. This victim’s been stabbed, but it’s not such a clean job. More wounds. More of a struggle, I’d say, though the scene’s been posed like the first time.’ Perez paused for breath. ‘And I want suspects properly interviewed. I can’t do that on my own. I need you both here tonight. Within an hour if possible.’

Perez switched off his phone before Sandy could argue. He sat in candlelight. The candle was tall and fat. Occasionally a pool of melted wax threatened to douse the wick so he tilted it to pour out the liquid, but it would provide light for him until the plane came in. Then they’d have a generator and powerful torches, the equipment and the manpower needed to prevent another murder.

He phoned Springfield next, hoping his father would answer. He would need a team of men to light fires along the airstrip to guide in the charter plane and his father would organize that. Just now he didn’t want to speak to Fran. She’d be full of questions and he wasn’t sure what he would say to her. You see, you get violence everywhere. Coming back to Fair Isle wouldn’t protect us from that.

Mary answered. ‘Jimmy, we started tea without you. When will you be coming home?’ Ordinary words that seemed almost blasphemous when he thought of the scene in the loft above his head. Before he could answer her she shouted: ‘Fran, Jimmy’s on the phone for you.’

‘Hi, sweetie.’ Her usual greeting.

He struggled to find words and her response to the silence was immediate. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘There’s been another murder.’ It came out as a confession, as if it were his fault. And of course it is, he thought. If I were better at my job I’d have prevented it.

‘Who?’ she demanded. And before he could reply: ‘It’s Poppy, isn’t it? I let her walk back to the North Light on her own. She wouldn’t let me go with her.’

‘No!’ The last thing he wanted was for her to feel guilty. He could do that well enough for the both of them. ‘No, it’s Jane Latimer, the field centre cook.’

Another pause. No hysteria. ‘I liked her,’ Fran said at last. ‘I wanted to know her better. I thought we might be friends. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No. Stay in Springfield. Tell Mother to lock the door. Now I need to speak to my father.’

Perez explained to James what had happened and what he needed. ‘You’ll have to meet the folk from the plane and bring them up to the Pund. There’ll be a lot of heavy gear, so sort out a vehicle to bring them as close as you can. Borrow the centre’s Land Rover if you need to, but don’t tell Maurice why you need it. I’ll have to wait here. I can’t leave the scene unprotected.’

‘Would you like to meet them yourself? I could stay at the Pund for you, once I’ve sorted the team on the airstrip.’

For a moment Perez was tempted, but he’d broken enough rules already in the Angela Moore murder. If he’d been in a position to follow procedures perhaps the killer would already be caught.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I have to stay here. But thanks.’ It was the first time his father had wanted to participate in his work.

Perez’s next call was to Rhona Laing, the Fiscal. She was still in her office. ‘You’ve just caught me, Jimmy. I was on my way out. Dinner at the Busta House Hotel with a group of lawyers.’ Her voice was posh Edinburgh, the tone as ever faintly accusatory.

‘I’ve arranged for an emergency flight into Fair Isle this evening. I thought you might want to be on it. There’s been another murder.’

‘That sounds expensive, Jimmy. Have you cleared it with Inverness?’ Thinking of the politics before even asking the identity of the victim.

‘I thought I’d leave it until the plane was on its way. Then they couldn’t object.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘My, my, Jimmy. You’re learning. I’m a great teacher, am I not?’

Still he sat. It was quite dark outside now. He would have liked to go back to the loft, to look again at Jane Latimer, lying on her bed of sheepskins. Although the image was printed in his brain, perhaps there was a detail he’d missed. Something that would point immediately to the killer. The thought tantalized him. He was a patient man but it was driving him slightly crazy to be sitting here, in the strange cold light, inactive, nothing to do but wait. If he were to climb the ladder he might contaminate the scene again with his fingerprints, the fibres of his jersey, his breath. This time things would be properly done.

He got up and stood at the door of the Pund and looked out across the hill. He couldn’t see the airstrip from here. Earlier he’d thought he’d heard vehicles along the road past Setter, heading north. He imagined the island men working, building fires, lighting hurricane lamps, all under his father’s supervision. The volunteer fire crew would be there; someone was always on duty when a plane came in and that would be even more important in these special circumstances. Dave Wheeler would be in charge of them. This was what Fair Islanders did best, pulling together in times of emergency.

The sky was quite clear and there was a half-moon, a scattering of stars. He realized how cold he felt and he stamped his feet to bring back the life to them. But not as cold as Jane Latimer, he thought. And he pictured her again, like the Snow Queen, resplendent on her sleigh, resting on the sheepskins, covered with a dusting of feathers that looked like crystals of ice.

There was a red glow behind the dark line of the hill. The fires were lit and ready. Then he heard the plane’s engine to the north and saw its lights approaching. He looked at his watch. It had been an hour and a half since he’d phoned Sandy. Not bad, he thought, with something approaching admiration. Sandy’s drinking friends were in positions of power throughout Shetland. He must have called in some favours to get an aircraft out this quickly. The plane came lower. Perez could see the light in the cockpit and the silhouette of the pilot. Then it dipped out of view on to the airstrip and the engine stopped.

Perez went back into the croft house and tried to warm his hands by holding them close to the candle flame. It would take some time to unload the gear and bring it here to the Pund. But he felt as if the cavalry had arrived. He was no longer working alone.

Sandy arrived first, much sooner than Perez had expected, in Tammy Jamieson’s van. Tammy was obviously keen to hang around – this was the most exciting thing to happen in Fair Isle since the Queen had visited in his parents’ time – but Perez sent him away. Sandy was flushed with the success of getting the plane out to Perez’s deadline: ‘What a nightmare,’ he said. ‘Some reporters must have got wind of the fact that there was a flight coming into Fair Isle. They were waiting for us at Tingwall. I thought they were going to stand on the runway in front of the plane.’ Tingwall was the small airport close to Lerwick from where the inter-island planes operated.

‘Had they heard there was another murder?’

‘No,’ Sandy said. ‘All the questions were about Angela Moore.’ He paused. ‘There was a film crew there from BBC Scotland. I might have my picture on the television tonight.’ Perez thought Sandy wouldn’t mind about that. He’d quite like the idea of being a celebrity, of his Whalsay relatives pointing him out on the evening news.