‘Would you normally buy Ms Laing’s plane tickets for her and make her travel arrangements?’ Perez asked.

‘Only if it was work-related. Not her personal travel.’

‘Has she mentioned a trip south to you?’

‘No, but then she probably wouldn’t.’ Heather paused. ‘She doesn’t talk much about her life outside the office.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be in soon.’ Perez replaced the receiver with a sudden and intense sense of anxiety. It was as if his world was shifting again. He had never liked Rhona Laing, had found her too shiny and slippery and certain. But he’d respected her. He wished he knew what was happening here, and that he’d tried harder to get hold of her the day before. He should have known that she’d never confide in Willow Reeves and that it must have been important for her to ask for his help.

He phoned Rhona’s home number, suspecting there would be no response, even as he dialled. Then he sat at the table in the big room. It had filled up with people, but he hardly noticed them. The chat and movement provided a blurred background to his thoughts.

He should check the airport and the ferry terminal to see if Rhona Laing had booked tickets south. But that would cause talk: it would get out that the police were investigating the Fiscal. Perez suspected that Reg Gilbert had spies in both airport and ferry company, and the last thing Perez needed was a spiteful, insinuating editorial in the Shetland Times.

So he stood up suddenly, picked up his coat and headed for the door. Only halfway down the corridor did he think that his behaviour might have seemed strange to his colleagues. He’d barged out of the room without a word. But now it was too late to go back.

On the pavement just outside the police station, on his way to his car, he bumped into Peter Markham. Perez was so preoccupied, so concentrated in his thoughts, that he didn’t see the man and almost stumbled over the briefcase at his feet. And for a moment he didn’t recognize Markham. Perez was accustomed to seeing him at the Ravenswick Hotel and here, out of context, he seemed slighter, rather shabby and nervous. Almost elderly. An old-fashioned commercial traveller, with his case of samples.

‘Jimmy!’ Markham seemed relieved to see him. ‘I was just going to the police station.’

‘Have you thought of anything that might help?’ Perez felt awkward, confused still, disorientated, standing here in the grey mist that felt more like November than spring.