‘But you’ll have a cup of tea at least.’

So he agreed to a cup of tea. He had to respond in some way to her generosity of spirit. Downstairs Fran’s father already had the kettle on. They sat in the tiny garden on uncomfortable wrought-iron seats, balancing the cups on a wobbly wrought-iron table, while Cassie played with the neighbour’s cat and they all tried to pretend there was no tension or awkwardness. He thought even Cassie was relieved when he took his leave. He stood on the doorstep and said he would be there early on Thursday morning to take the girl home. That provoked the only crack in the mask of cordial civilization.

‘So soon, Jimmy?’ Fran’s mother cried. ‘Is that all we have? One full day?’

‘I have to be back in the islands for work.’ The words mild. ‘And Cassie has school.’ He understood that deep down they wanted to capture Cassie and bring her up themselves. How could they entrust her safety to the man who’d allowed their daughter to be killed? But Fran had bequeathed Cassie to him and they all had to respect her wishes.

‘Of course.’ She’d already recovered her composure. ‘You said that it would only be a flying visit.’

‘Why don’t you come up and stay with us?’

‘We will.’ But they’d only been in Shetland once since Fran had died and he knew they’d found the experience distressing. It reminded them of how far she’d grown away from them, even before her murder.

He checked into his hotel and phoned the number he’d been given for Cilla Montgomery, Eleanor’s mother. No reply. Then he tried Bright Star, Eleanor’s production company. It was five o’clock and he’d expected that the staff would be preparing to leave work for the evening and thought he’d be forced to make an appointment for the following day. But a young man said everyone would be around for a couple of hours yet, if Perez wanted to call in, and went on to give crisp directions. Perez found the office in a converted brewery close to King’s Cross station. Bright Star took up half the ground floor. In the rest of the building there was an architect’s practice, a literary agency and a firm of lawyers. Perez was buzzed into an open-plan office where five people sat in front of PCs. Most seemed very young and all were casually dressed. He’d been expecting a place where films might be made – a studio with cameras and spotlights – but this had the air of a well-appointed sixth-form common room. The atmosphere was sombre. Perez supposed that Eleanor’s death would mark the end of Bright Star Productions and these people might now find themselves without work.

A tall, dark man dressed in jeans, Converse boots and a loose sweater of the kind that Willow Reeves might have worn came up to him with his hand outstretched.

‘Inspector Perez. We’ve been expecting you. You found us OK?’ He smiled as if the inspector was a valued client. Perez wondered if Eleanor’s team had been appointed for their charm. He supposed that it would be part of the job to be appealing to broadcasters and commissioners. ‘I’m not quite sure how we can help, though. We’re in a state of shock.’ He shook Perez’s hand. ‘My name’s Leo Whitehouse. I was Nell’s assistant.’