‘For lamping, no. A death is a different matter. There is the question of recklessness.’ She was wearing a cream trouser suit. Now she crossed her legs at the ankles and he saw the slim flat shoes that matched in colour exactly. ‘To be reckless, Mr Clouston must have considered it a possibility that Mrs Wilson would be outside her house that late at night.’

‘Mima was known for keeping indoors after dark,’ Perez said.

‘In that case I don’t see that we have a crime here.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘What do you think, inspector?’

‘I certainly don’t see Clouston as a criminal.’

‘But?’ She gave a frown, not of impatience exactly, more of surprise. She had thought her decision on the matter to his satisfaction as much as hers.

‘He claims not to have been shooting over Mima Wilson’s land.’ Perez wished she hadn’t picked up on his hesitation, the slight emphasis on the man’s name. After all he’d got what he’d come for.

‘A natural response, surely. He must have been devastated to discover what he’d done. In similar circumstances we’d all want to avoid the guilt, to persuade ourselves we weren’t responsible.’

‘Perhaps.’

She looked at him. It was hard to imagine this immaculate woman managing her boat single-handed in a force-eight gale, though he was aware of the strength of character that allowed her to enjoy the experience. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you, Jimmy. Off the record.’

‘I wish I knew what Mima Wilson was doing outside in that weather. And I’d be happier if Ronald Clouston admitted to shooting over her land.’

‘What are you saying, Jimmy? That someone else killed the woman?’ Somewhere in her voice he picked up a hint of sarcasm, almost of derision, but there was no sign of that in her face.

‘Clouston says he was out on his own last night. He’s not trying to lay the blame elsewhere.’

‘So if someone else did kill Jemima Wilson, it wasn’t an accident. Is that what you’re saying, Jimmy? You can’t seriously expect me to open a murder investigation just on the slight possibility that Clouston didn’t fire close to the house. You know how much that would cost the taxpayer.’

Now that the words were spoken Perez realized that the possibility of a conspiracy had been at the back of his mind since he’d first seen the scene of the shooting. He’d dismissed it as ridiculous, melodramatic. ‘I can’t see why anyone would want to kill her,’ he said. ‘She’s Sandy Wilson’s grandmother. She’s lived in Whalsay all her life. A bit of a character by all accounts, but not a natural victim. I only have reservations because I don’t understand how the accident happened.’