‘I know about the conviction, Mother. It’s one of the first things we do: check the criminal records of suspects.’ He hadn’t known that Ben had received a suspended sentence though. Or if he had known, he’d forgotten. He remembered the case, even though he’d been working in the south when the offence was big news in Shetland. The protesters had had some support locally, the effect of the Braer still fresh in people’s memories. He read on to the end of the article and couldn’t prevent a small gasp when he saw the byline. John Fowler. So all these apparent strangers, turning up in the North Light for the same week in late autumn, had been in contact in the past. Catchpole was quoted in the article, so Fowler must have spoken to him at least over the phone. Coincidence? Birdwatching was a small world. Or had the autumn gathering in the Fair Isle field centre not been random at all, but planned? For the purpose of murder?

Chapter Thirty-two

Monday. Fran’s last day on Fair Isle. She found herself looking forward to being back in the small house in Ravenswick. Her own space and her own rituals: working in the early morning while she was still in pyjamas, catching up with her friends over more than the one glass of wine she felt she could take in front of Jimmy’s parents, cooking for herself and for Cassie. And being free to swear when the mood took her. They’d decided they would sell Perez’s place and the Ravenswick house and buy somewhere bigger before they got married. Fran had enjoyed driving around Shetland mainland looking at prospective homes. The west side was so pretty, she thought, but if they moved somewhere like Walls, it would be a long trek into work for Jimmy and to school for Cassie when she started at the Anderson. Now she wondered if she could bear to leave Ravenswick. Maybe they could build on to the small house there. She imagined something wonderful, very light and spacious to contrast with the original space, new and old Shetland together. And a purpose-built studio. Would that be too much of an indulgence? It would be a project and she loved projects. She’d discuss it with Jimmy when this case was over. Now it would be pointless; he’d never concentrate.

He’d been back late the night before and when she’d asked how things were in the centre he’d been noncommittal, not uncommunicative, but not sure himself what to make of events surrounding the case. It seemed to her that he brooded about it all night. She woke to find him already up and dressed, a shadow in the room, though it was dark still outside.

‘Shall I bring you tea?’ Usually she adored tea in bed. It was his way of pleasing her.