‘Really?’ Perez gave that smile again. ‘Most of us think of Shetland as a safe place. We leave our doors open and we feel happy to go out alone at night.’

‘One of you killed her!’

‘Really?’ The question repeated itself like the chorus of a song. ‘Most homicides in the UK are committed by people we know. Much more likely, I’d think, that she was murdered by one of her friends.’

Longstaff looked up sharply, but didn’t answer. They sat for a moment staring at each other in silence.

The interview over, the three of them stood outside Springfield House. The breeze tugged at Willow’s hair, until she pulled it out of her eyes and her mouth and tied it in a knot at the back of her head.

‘I don’t believe any of her friends killed her.’ It was clear that Ian Longstaff had been thinking about Perez’s last comment, and the words came out without warning. ‘They adored her.’

Neither of the detectives answered him. They watched him climb into his large car and drive away.

They ate that night in the kitchen, while the B&B guests sat in the dining room. Charles’s partner David had arrived back from Lerwick with fish from the Blydoit shop and he cooked scallops, quickly seared while they waited at the table, and followed it with a rich lamb stew. He was an intense man, very quiet and dignified. He’d taught classics in a provincial university and Willow wondered what had brought the pair together; the scholar and the stage magician seemed to have little in common. He left the casserole on the middle of the table so that they could help themselves. There was a home-made loaf and Shetland butter to complete the meal.

‘The bread’s Grusche Malcolmson’s,’ he said, on his way out of the room, unwilling to claim credit for another person’s work. ‘She does all our baking.’ He paused. ‘If anyone asks, you’re our family. We’re not supposed to have guests in the kitchen. Health regulations.’ He gave another tight smile.

Willow gave an absent-minded nod, but she was preoccupied. Grusche was the mother of the bridegroom at the hamefarin’. Another witness. Another possible suspect. In these islands there were too many connections. It would be just the same at home in the Western Isles.

‘So, Sandy.’ She looked at the young man over the table. ‘You got Eleanor’s body onto the ferry for James Grieve. Do you have any other news for us?’

He looked like a schoolboy asked to stand up in front of the class to show what he’d learned, uncertain and flushed. ‘Just confirmation of what Eleanor’s friends told us. I checked with the ferry terminal and they were booked on the boat on Friday night. Two executive cabins and two cars. None of them has a criminal record. I’ve got details of her next of kin and her work colleagues. Her mother, Cilla, was informed of Eleanor’s death yesterday. She’s expecting Jimmy to visit. She’ll be at home, not at work.’ He paused for breath and looked up from the stew.