It was a breezy day with a gusty wind blowing little clouds across the sun and the water in the voe into white-topped waves. On his way to the Malcolmsons’ croft Perez ran through what he knew of Lowrie’s parents. George had been one of the last lightkeepers at Muckle Flugga before it was automated. Perez remembered that time in the mid-Nineties. There’d been a photo of George and his colleagues, all very smart in their uniforms, in The Shetland Times, accompanied by tales of his life on the rock. Perez had been still at school in Lerwick then and he’d been very taken with the stories. George had moved onto his father’s croft when he lost his work with the Northern Lighthouse Board. His wife Grusche was a German woman who’d come to cook in the work camps when the oil was first discovered. They’d met at a dance when George was on shore leave, and gossip had it that he married her because she didn’t mind being alone when he was away at the light. He’d had other girlfriends, but they’d all wanted him to give up his work.

Perez knew Grusche better than her husband. She’d signed up to one of the art evening classes that Fran had run and the women had become friends. Occasionally Grusche had stopped overnight with them in Ravenswick, if she’d been in Lerwick for a film or a concert and had missed the ferries back to Unst. She’d just retired as cook at the island school, and she baked for Springfield House. Perez knew all these facts without having to check them. In the islands such domestic histories were known by everyone.

When Perez arrived the Malcolmsons were in the kitchen. Grusche was making bread, kneading the dough on a board on the table. She was a tall woman, with strong features, striking rather than attractive. She saw him as he passed the window and waved him to come in.

‘Caroline said that you were here,’ she said. ‘I’m glad it’s you looking after this business, Jimmy.’ Her accent was German mixed with North Isles Shetland. She turned to her husband, who was in a low chair by the range, half-asleep. ‘This is Jimmy Perez, Fran’s man. I told you about him.’ She paused. ‘George didn’t get much rest last night. He and the bairns were up most of the night talking about what had happened.’

Perez wondered what Lowrie and Caroline would make of being described as bairns. He held out a hand to George, who half-rose in his seat to take it. ‘I need to ask some questions. Intrusive questions. You understand.’

‘Of course, Jimmy. That’s the work that you do. Just give me a moment.’ She rolled the dough into a ball, lifted it into a cream china bowl and covered it with a clean tea towel, before setting it on the Rayburn. He wondered if she always answered for the two of them. ‘Do you want tea, or are you swimming in it?’