Free Thin Air: (Shetland book 6) by Ann Cleeves

their temporary accommodation. Sandy had found rooms for them in a hotel just south of Meoness. The house was Georgian, large and very grand, beautifully restored with period furniture and paintings. Peerie Lizzie had grown up here, not far from the cliff where Eleanor’s body was found, and she’d drowned in the voe, the inlet that cut into the land from the sea. The legend was that she’d been caught out by the tide in a thick fog. Now it was the darkest part of the night, the stars were out and the water reflected a sliver of moon. The house stood on a slight rise and had a view of water and, in the distance, the standing stone, breaking the line of the horizon. Lizzie’s father had been an English laird and now it was mostly English tourists who pretended to be masters of their island universe, or at least this house and its surrounding garden. Locals came here too, but to the public bar that had been built in the old stables at the back of the house, and on special occasions to eat in the dining room.
    Sandy was apologetic. ‘It’s a bit pricey, but everywhere else was full. I got them to give us a discount.’
    Willow could see that he was uncomfortable in this house, overwhelmed by its grandeur. ‘Hey, it’s fab. Really convenient and enough space for us to set up a base if we need to. Good choice!’
    It was past midnight and they had the lounge to themselves. The owners had left food for them in the kitchen, and Sandy brought in trays of sandwiches wrapped in cling film and a plate of cakes and biscuits. Willow had been given a double bedroom. It had brocade curtains, a huge ornate mirror and delicate chairs that looked as if they would snap under her weight. She’d always been clumsy and had a horror of breaking things. She’d dumped her holdall there and pulled out a bottle of the island malt whisky that always reminded her of home. She’d brought some to the islands with her when she was last in Shetland and had thought it might be the start of a good tradition.
    In the lounge they switched on a couple of table lamps and began to eat. Willow found glasses in a sideboard and poured out the whisky. James Grieve raised his glass to her. ‘I’ve spoken to the funeral director. We’ll get the body south on tomorrow evening’s ferry.’
    ‘And you really have no idea about the cause of death?’
    She always felt untidy and awkward in comparison to him. Unsophisticated and gawky. She suspected that he regarded her with amused resignation, as if he saw her as an example of how the police service had deteriorated in the time he’d been working as a forensic pathologist.
    ‘Are you asking me to speculate, Chief Inspector?’
    ‘I wouldn’t dare, Doctor.’
    He laughed. ‘If I were a betting man I’d guess that we’ll find some form of blunt-force trauma on the back of her head.’
    ‘And that’s why she was posed in that way?’ Willow was talking almost to herself. ‘So she still looked perfect.’
    ‘Ah, that’s psychology or some other magic, and beyond my area of competence.’ The small man drained his glass. ‘I just can’t see any other cause of death until we move her.’ He stood up. ‘I’m away to my bed. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.’
    Sandy Wilson seemed to have been drowsing throughout the conversation and he stood up and left the room too. Willow reached out and tipped a little more whisky into Perez’s glass and then into her own. ‘So how have you been, Jimmy?’ She thought she wouldn’t have had the nerve to be so personal without a drink inside her. ‘And how’s Cassie?’
    ‘She’s well,’ he said. ‘Fewer nightmares at least.’
    ‘And are you sleeping better these days?’ When she’d last been in Shetland Perez was still on sick leave, depressed and struggling to survive after the death of Cassie’s mother.
    ‘I’m fit for work,’ he said quickly. ‘Signed off the sick months ago.’
    ‘You’ve always been fit for work, Jimmy. I’ve