He had followed Perez halfway up the stairs, but now he turned and went back to the kitchen, moving very lightly for such a tall man. All his movements were easy and unhurried. It was as if he’d expected a visitor and had planned in advance the words he would use and the way he would move.

As Wilding had said, the workroom was more civilized. The bare, unvarnished floorboards were hidden by a woven rug in the middle of the room. The desk was old, leather-topped and obviously his own. He’d made some makeshift shelves from bricks and planks and they were crammed with books. There was a CD player and a rack of discs. A large unframed canvas hung on one wall. It was of a field of hay, which had been cut and piled into untidy heaps, under a fierce yellow light. Perez thought it might be by Bella Sinclair and felt ridiculously pleased with himself when he approached and saw the signature. He would tell Fran later. He was still staring at it when Wilding came in, pushing the door open with his foot. He was carrying a cafetiere and two mugs on a tray, a box of shop-bought cakes. He had learned the convention of island entertaining. It was considered impossibly rude not to offer a guest something sweet to eat.

‘I don’t have any milk,’ he said, in no way apologetic. ‘But I could run to the shop if you’re desperate.’

‘I drink it black.’

‘Splendid.’ A favourite word. ‘You have the chair, inspector. I’m quite happy on the floor.’ And he lounged, legs outstretched, still managing to dominate the room.

Perez would have liked a cake, but it seemed they were just there for show. He couldn’t ask for one without seeming greedy. ‘Martin says you’re a writer.’ Perez was interested in the man, his profession. Every witness statement and confession was part fiction, but he couldn’t imagine conjuring a whole story from thin air, couldn’t see where you would start. ‘Do you write under your own name?’

Wilding laughed. ‘Oh yes, inspector, but don’t worry if you’ve never heard of me. Few people have. I write fantasy, an acquired taste.’ He seemed rather pleased that he was unknown. ‘Fortunately I do quite well in the States and Japan.’

Perez thought some comment of congratulation was expected, but wasn’t sure what to say. Instead he sipped his coffee, took a moment to enjoy it.

‘Have you had any visitors recently, Mr Wilding? Friends from the south, perhaps?’

‘No, inspector. I moved here to escape distractions. The last thing I need is people under my feet.’

‘There was an Englishman in Biddista yesterday. You might have seen him.’

‘Nobody came to the house and I was in all day.’

‘But not in the evening. Then you were at the exhibition at the Herring House. As was the Englishman.’

‘And so were you! Of course, I recognize you now. You were there with the attractive young artist. Ms Hunter. A great new talent. Art, I must confess, is another of my luxuries. I love Bella’s work. It was she who inspired my first visit to Shetland. And so I was delighted to receive an invitation to the opening. There were fewer people than I was expecting. I suppose I’d thought it was going to be more of a local event.’

‘People are very busy in the summer.’ Perez wondered why he felt so defensive. It wasn’t the time to explain that the event had been the subject of a practical joke, but he didn’t want the man thinking there was no interest in Shetland in Fran’s work. ‘Do you remember the man who became a little emotional?’

‘The guy in black? Of course.’ Wilding paused, for the first time dropped the light, affected tone. ‘I felt sorry for him. I’ve suffered from mental-health problems too. I understood his desperation.’

‘You thought his distress was genuine?’

‘Oh I think so, don’t you? It seemed real enough to me.’

Perez didn’t answer.

‘What happened to the man?’ Perez thought Wilding seemed unnaturally concerned about a stranger. ‘Has he been admitted to hospital? Sometimes, for a short while, it’s the only solution with depression.’

‘I’m afraid he’s dead,’ Perez said.

Wilding turned his head away. When he looked back, he’d regained some control, but his voice was still unsteady. ‘The poor man.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t know him, Mr Wilding?’

‘Quite sure, inspector. But it seems a terrible waste. Suicide. The worst sort of tragedy.’

‘We don’t think the man killed himself. We believe he was murdered.’

There was a silence. ‘When I moved here,’ Wilding said at last, ‘I thought I’d escaped mindless violence.’

Oh, we can do mindless violence, Perez thought. Scraps in bars, fuelled by drink and frustration. But this death wasn’t like that at all.

‘What time did you leave the Herring House?’ he asked.

‘Soon after you. The heart seemed to go out of the party when the man made that scene.’

‘Did you come straight back here?’

‘I walked along the beach for a while. It was such a lovely evening. Just as far as the rocks and back. Then I came inside.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I made coffee, brought it here to the window.’

‘Did you see anyone? You have a good view of the jetty from here.’

‘No. It was surprisingly quiet. I think the last people must have left the Herring House when I was walking. I didn’t notice anything when I was on the beach. I was thinking about my book. There’s this sticky patch with the plot. It’s been troubling me for a few days. I was concentrating on that.’

‘But you were here, with your coffee, by eleven o’clock?’

‘I can’t remember looking at my watch. But yes, I must have been. I hadn’t been out so long.’

‘Roddy Sinclair and Martin Williamson left the gallery at about eleven. Did you notice them?’

‘No,’ Wilding said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.’

‘Apparently Roddy became rather rowdy.’

‘All the same I didn’t notice them. My mind was still elsewhere, inspector.’

‘On your book?’

‘Yes, the book. Of course.’

Standing in the road outside the house, Perez tried to decide what he made of Wilding. What had really brought him here? He couldn’t see Shetland as a natural home for the man. Did he have no friends or family to keep him in the south? There was something unsettling about the intensity of his gaze and the voyeuristic pleasure he took in watching his neighbours.

Chapter Thirteen

In her office at the top of the converted textile mill in Denby Dale, West Yorkshire, Martha Tyler was putting together the rehearsal schedule for the week. This show was about bullying. The next would be around racism. Schools didn’t seem interested in hiring the Interact theatre-in-education group to entertain their pupils; there always had to be a message. The young actors with their new degrees in performance rolled their eyes when they saw the scripts, clunky with politically correct jargon, but it was work. They might dream of the Royal Shakespeare Company or a lucrative television ad, but Interact work counted towards their Equity card and the pay kept them in beer.

The company shared the mill with other small businesses – there was a decent wine merchant in the basement, a middle-aged woman who made silver jewellery, and an acupuncturist – but Interact had the whole of the top floor. One big space for rehearsals, a couple of offices and a small room with a microwave and a kettle where they took their breaks. This wasn’t one of the smart conversions that had taken place in other parts of Kirklees. The mill was a rackety jumble of stairways and levels. The floors were uneven and the windows leaked.