‘And who was he here to see?’ Willow sensed the man’s antagonism, but couldn’t work out why he was so hostile. He must realize that they’d have to ask questions about a suspicious death. She felt herself grow tense in response, but made an effort to keep her voice pleasant. No point losing it.

‘Andy Belshaw, the press officer. I was expecting Markham. Andy had told me he was likely to turn up.’ The guard shifted his feet. A raven croaked above their heads. ‘I sent him along to the office. You can ask Andy what it was all about.’ It was clear he wanted to get rid of them. Maybe he just didn’t like the police. Willow was about to get out of the car so that they could continue the conversation properly when another vehicle came down the road behind them. It pulled into a space on the other side of the fence and a dark man got out and walked towards them.

‘That’s Jimmy Perez,’ Sandy said. He shouted to the guard, ‘You can let him in. He’s with us.’ Then he bounded out of the car. Willow followed more slowly. She thought Perez’s appearance suited his name; he was dark-haired and dark-eyed and his skin was olive. She thought he’d pass unnoticed in southern Spain, but he stood out here. She wondered how he’d got on at school. She knew what it was like to be different in a small community. Sandy was bouncing around him, but Perez took no notice and walked towards her, his hand outstretched.

‘You’ll be the inspector from Inverness,’ he said. ‘You’re very welcome.’ And he smiled as if it took a great effort. ‘You don’t mind if I sit in? I’m supposed to be easing myself back gently. You’ll have heard about that. Sandy will have told you.’

She nodded.

‘Should we get on?’ he said. She realized that she was staring at him and that they were all expecting her to speak.

She pulled herself together and nodded again. ‘Of course.’

Everything about Belshaw was big: his hands, his head, his teeth, his voice. He was another incomer from England. Willow wondered how that worked. Did all these folk from the south lead an ex-pat existence, socializing only with each other? She had a brief image of colonial Africa, the white men with their exclusive clubs and their cocktail parties and their delicate wives. But surely, she thought, Shetland could be nothing like that.

Belshaw was welcoming. He offered them tea and sent his assistant off to make it. All the time there was that beam with the big white teeth, the jovial voice that sounded as if he was laughing, even when he was saying how sorry he was about Jerry Markham. ‘He was a good journalist,’ he said. ‘One of the best of his generation.’