The women looked at him. Willow nodded slowly. ‘Of course. It would take them ages to dry out, there in the long grass.’ She looked at Sandy. ‘I need someone to tell Evie Watt that her fiancé’s dead. Before news gets out. I met her at lunchtime and she’ll still be at work. Will you do it?’ Thinking that he’d better agree straight away, because she couldn’t deal with another bolshie Shetland man at the moment. ‘And make sure she has family or friends to stay with her, before you leave.’ Sandy nodded gravely, turned to get into his car and she could have kissed him for not questioning her judgement.

Willow got Jimmy Perez to drive to Hvidahus, a community of just three houses at the end of a long track looking over a jetty and a sheltered bay. On the way he repeated the information gained from the harbour master.

‘Henderson was supposed to start work at midday,’ Perez said, ‘but he didn’t turn up. No phone call, either. It was completely out of character. He’s never missed a day since his wife died. Not even through illness. Joe Sinclair, the harbour master, thought he must have made a mistake with the roster. Or that maybe John was caught up with his wedding preparations. But he was concerned enough to phone Hvidahus a few times, and Henderson’s mobile. No reply. He was planning to drive out here himself once he finished work.’

‘So we can put time of death at some time this morning.’

‘Aye.’ Perez drove across a cattle grid and pulled up outside the bungalow behind a small car. ‘This is Henderson’s vehicle,’ he said. ‘I saw him in it just last week.’ The bungalow had been freshly painted white and windows looked out over the water. In the garden stood a small wind turbine and behind the house, in its shelter, a long polytunnel. The turbine hummed gently. Two hens pecked on the lawn.

‘He was going for the good life,’ Willow said.

‘All this is quite recent.’ Jimmy gave a small smile. ‘Evie’s influence maybe. He was wooing her with natural energy and the life of a crofter.’

They stood for a moment looking around them. The house close by was older, tiny, one storey made of grey stone.

‘This would probably be empty,’ Perez said. ‘It’s a holiday let, and I doubt there’d be people renting so early in the season. The big white house near the pier belongs to Mark and Sue Walsh, the incomers who’ve been making a fuss about the tidal power.’

Willow turned. From where they stood they looked down at a roof, tall chimneys, a sheltered garden of lawns and shrubs. ‘We’ll talk to them later.’ She peered through the windows of the holiday let. Everything tidy. A pile of folded linen on the table, waiting for the first guests. No sign of occupation.