Rhona Laing, the new fiscal, was a cool fiftysomething with a cutting tongue and a designer wardrobe, which seemed completely out of place in Shetland. Rumour had it that she flew south to Edinburgh every month to visit her hairdresser. Perez never believed Shetland stories, but he could almost believe the blonde hair was natural and the way it was cut took ten years off her age. Her passion was sailing. She’d come to Shetland on a yacht from Orkney and fallen in love with the islands. In an unguarded moment at the opening of the new museum, she’d told him that from the sea Shetland looked like paradise. He’d wanted to ask what she thought it seemed like from the land, but by then she’d been swept away to meet more distinguished guests. She lived alone in an old schoolhouse near the marina in Aith, and managed to keep her past and her present entirely private. All that anyone knew about her was that she owned a catamaran, the biggest and most expensive sailing vessel in the islands.

Perez didn’t know quite what to make of her. She was efficient and organized, but rather ruthless, he always thought. There were rumours in the islands that she had political ambitions. She would like to be a Member of the Scottish Parliament. Certainly, he thought, she would like the power.

She got up from her desk when he came into the room and they sat in easy chairs across a small table. A moment later her assistant brought in coffee.

‘You’re here about Jemima Wilson.’ She poured the coffee, turned her flawless face to him.

‘It looks like one of those unfortunate accidents. A man out for rabbits with a torch after dark. He couldn’t have known the elderly woman would be wandering round outside. We still don’t know why she was there.’

‘Lamping for rabbits is illegal,’ she said.

‘Aye, but everyone does it, and we’ve never yet taken anyone to court.’

There was a moment of silence. He could hear the tapping of a computer keyboard in an outer office. A phone rang.

‘When I first moved here I was asked to give a talk to a group in Bressay,’ she said. ‘I asked the organizer what people would think of having a Fiscal who was a Lowland Scot and a woman. He paused for a while and then he said, “Folk won’t consider you to be the enemy.” Another pause. “No,” he said. “Rabbits are the enemy.”’ She looked up and smiled. ‘He was only half joking.’

‘So you won’t be popular if you prosecute.’