But nobody went to the man’s assistance. The people stopped talking and watched in a fascinated, embarrassed way as he continued to sob, his face turned up now to the light, his hands at his sides.

Perez could sense Fran’s disapproval beside him. She would expect him to do something. The fact that he wasn’t on duty meant nothing. He should know what to do. And it wasn’t only that. She took advantage of the fact that he was devoted to her. Everything had to be at her pace. How long had he waited for this date? He was so desperate to please her that he would fit in with her plans. Always. He hadn’t realized before how subject he was to her will and the knowledge hit him suddenly. Then, immediately after the rush of frustration, he thought how churlish he was being. She’d nearly lost her daughter. Didn’t she deserve time to recover after that? And surely she was worth waiting for. He walked up to the weeping man and squatted beside him, helped him to his feet and led him away from the public’s view.

They sat in the kitchen where the young chef, Martin Williamson, was filling trays of canapés. Perez knew him, could have given his life history, told you the first names of his grandparents after a few seconds’ thought. The Herring House had its own restaurant and he ran that. Tonight, herring featured of course. Small slices curled on circles of soda bread. It had been pickled and there was a clean scent of vinegar and lemon. There were local oysters and Shetland smoked salmon. Perez hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and his mouth watered. Martin looked up as they came in.

‘You don’t mind if we just sit here for a while?’

‘You’ll have to stay well away from the food. Health and safety.’ But he grinned. He’d been happy as a child, Perez remembered. Perez had seen him at weddings and parties, had an image of him always laughing, in the middle of the mischief.

Now he went back to his work and took no notice of them. The sound of fiddle music came from the gallery. Roddy had been brought back to fill the awkward silence and get the people in the mood again for spending. Still the stranger was sobbing. Perez felt a moment of sympathy, thought how heartless he was to have been distracted by the food. He couldn’t imagine making a show of his grief, thought that something dreadful must have happened for the man to be crying in public. Or that he was ill. That must be it.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’ He pulled up a chair for him, settled him into it.

The man stared at him as if he was realizing for the first time Perez was in the room.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was a childish, unsophisticated gesture which made Perez warm to him for the first time. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it over.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ the man said. He was English, but not southern English, Perez thought. He thought of Roy Taylor, a colleague who worked out of Inverness. He came originally from Liverpool. Was this man’s voice like Roy’s? Not quite, he decided.

‘We all feel like that sometimes.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Jimmy Perez. I’m a detective. But that’s not why I’m in the Herring House. My friend’s one of the artists.’

‘Herring House?’

‘This place. The gallery. That’s what it’s called.’

The man didn’t respond. It was as if he’d shut down, was lost again in his own grief, as if he’d stopped listening.

‘What’s your name?’ Perez asked.

Again there was no response. A blank stare.

‘Surely there’s no harm in telling me your name.’ He was starting to lose patience. He’d thought this was the night when he could sort things out with Fran. He’d imagined staying at her house. There’d been fantasies which would have shocked the people who knew him, which had shocked him. Cassie would be sleeping at her father’s. Fran had told him this, and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? Usually he found it too easy to be swept up in other people’s emotions. Today he had an incentive to resist this weeping stranger.

The Englishman looked up at him.

‘I don’t know my name,’ he said flatly. No drama now. ‘I can’t remember it. I don’t know my name and I don’t remember why I’m here.’

‘How did you get here? To the Herring House? To Shetland?’

‘I don’t know.’ Now there was an edge of panic in the man’s voice. ‘I can’t remember anything before the painting. That painting of the woman in red hanging on the wall out there. It was as if I was born staring at that painting. As if that’s all I know.’

Perez was starting to wonder if this was some sort of practical joke. It was the kind of prank Sandy would think was funny. Sandy, who came from Whalsay and worked with Perez, had a juvenile sense of humour. The whole team would know the boss was here tonight with the English lady artist and he wouldn’t put it past them to try to wreck his evening. They would think it a great joke.

The man had no sign of a head injury. He looked so sleek, so well-groomed it was hard to think he might have had an accident. But if it was an act, he was convincing. The tears, the shaking. Surely that would be hard to fake. And how would Sandy know him? How would he persuade this man to set up the stunt?

‘Why don’t you empty out your pockets?’ Perez said. ‘There’ll be a driving licence, credit cards. We can give you a name at least, track down some relatives, some explanation of what might have happened.’

The Englishman stood up, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘That’s where I always keep my wallet.’

‘You remember that, then?’

The man faltered. ‘I thought I did. How can I be sure of anything?’ He began in a slow, meticulous way to search the other pockets. There was nothing. He took his jacket off and handed it to Perez. ‘You check.’

Perez did, knowing as he did that there would be nothing to find. ‘What about your trousers?’

The man pulled out the pocket linings, stood there looking terrified and faintly ridiculous, the white cloth hanging against the black trousers.

‘You had nothing with you?’ Perez asked. ‘A bag? A briefcase?’ He realized he was sounding desperate. His fantasy of a night spent with Fran was fast disappearing.

‘How would I know?’ It came out almost as a scream.

‘I’ll go and look.’

‘No,’ the man said. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘Has someone hurt you? What are you frightened of?’

He thought for a moment. Had some trace of memory returned? ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Come with me if you like.’

‘No. I can’t face those people.’

‘You remember seeing them?’

‘I told you. I remember everything after the painting.’

‘Was there something specific about the picture to disturb you?’

‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’

Perez stood up. Now they faced each other across the table. The chef had left the kitchen and Roddy Sinclair had stopped playing. From the gallery came the quiet murmur of voices. ‘I’m going to find out if you had a bag with you,’ Perez said. ‘And if anyone knows you, saw you arrive. You’ll be safe here.’

‘Yes,’ he said. But his voice was uncertain. He sounded like a child trying to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

In the gallery Fran was deep in conversation with a large woman wearing a flowered tent. Fran was a little flushed. As he walked past he gathered from the conversation that the woman had bought one of the paintings and they were discussing how to ship it south. A tourist, he thought. It was that time of year. Obviously a wealthy tourist. She was saying how much she admired Fran’s work and asking if perhaps they could discuss a commission. He felt suddenly very proud of Fran.

Bella came up to him, having walked straight past an elderly man who was trying to catch her attention. With her grey hair cropped very short, long silver earrings and a grey silk shirt, Perez thought she looked like a large silvery fish. Something about her mouth, too, the wide pale eyes. But she was attractive still. She’d been known as a beauty when she was younger, a legend, and something about her still demanded attention. ‘Thank you for dealing with that poor man, Jimmy. What was wrong with him?’ She fixed him with her grey, unblinking eyes.