It was Willow Reeves’s first murder investigation as SIO. The boss had called her into the office and said he’d like her to take it on. ‘It takes a special sort of understanding to work in Shetland. They’re on the edge of the known universe up there and they think the normal rules of life don’t apply to them. They’re mad buggers.’ The implication was that she was a mad bugger too – though she came from the far west and not the far north – and that for her the case would be a piece of piss. No pressure then. If he’d known exactly where she’d come from, and how her family had been, he’d really have considered that she was crazy, but she never talked about that at work. What business was it of theirs?

They landed in Sumburgh on the first flight out of Inverness and her initial thought was how big and grand everything was. It was like a real airport, with the car-hire office and the lounge and the cafe. Everything shiny in the sunshine. Vicki Hewitt, the CSI, had worked in Shetland before and greeted the sergeant who met them like an old friend. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘How’s Jimmy Perez?’

The sergeant shrugged and muttered in an accent Willow struggled to understand. ‘Not so good. It’s taking a long time.’

They all knew the story of Jimmy Perez and how his fiancée had got caught up in a murder investigation on Fair Isle, how she’d been stabbed by a psycho and how Jimmy blamed himself. It had been talked about in canteens throughout the Highland and Islands Police for months. There were people who blamed Jimmy too. What was he thinking, involving his woman in his work? Willow had never expressed an opinion. One thing she’d learned growing up in the commune in North Uist was that often it was best to keep your mouth shut. At least until you knew what you were talking about.

The sergeant drove them north up a fine, straight road, pointing out landmarks on the way as if he were a tour guide. She had hundreds of questions to ask him about the case. Overnight she’d read the preliminary report from Shetland and everything she could find about Jerry Markham. In her briefcase there was a file of cuttings of the stories he’d written. ‘Tell me about Markham,’ she said at last.

Sandy Wilson didn’t seem offended by the interruption. ‘His father was from the south,’ he said. ‘But his mother was a Shetland woman, and Jerry was born here and grew up here.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Oh aye, but I’ve not seen him since he moved to London.’