He led Perez through the house and into the kitchen. It was uncluttered and tidy. Perez suspected he’d been drinking in the grand living room where they’d talked the day before, and the debris of empty bottles and snack wrappers would be there. He’d probably fallen asleep on the comfortable sofa. Perez would have behaved in exactly the same way after Fran had died if he hadn’t had her daughter Cassie to look after, to hold him together.

  ‘I’ve just made coffee,’ Miles said. ‘Do help yourself while I go and make myself respectable.’

  The man was gone for longer than Perez had expected. It was quite dark outside by the time he returned. He’d showered and shaved and was wearing corduroy trousers, a flannel shirt and a hand-knitted sweater. The country gentleman in mufti. He went to the range where the coffee pot had been standing and poured himself a cup.

  ‘I suppose you have more questions. But do you have any information?’

  ‘A little information, which has led to more questions.’

  ‘Go ahead!’ The man must have spoken like this, Perez thought, to his subordinates. He could have been an army officer demanding information. The shower seemed to have cleared his head. He was sharp. Focused.

  ‘A professor of history called Anthony Johnson is staying on Westray. I wonder if George ever mentioned him.’

  ‘Oh, he did, especially recently, and never in a complimentary way. Most of his comments are unrepeatable. George had a wide and varied vocabulary when it comes to insults. A good university education can do that for you.’

  ‘George thought that Johnson had stolen much of his research from Archie Stout’s father, Magnus,’ Perez said.

  ‘Ah, that’s why I recognized your other victim’s name! I thought it was familiar when you first came looking for George. I knew about Magnus of course. He was the main player in the story. And I knew he had a son, but I don’t think George mentioned what he was called.’

  ‘George did suspect that Johnson was a plagiarist?’ Perez kept his voice even. He didn’t want to influence his witness.

  ‘He didn’t just suspect. He knew.’

  ‘George had proof?’ Again, Perez tried to keep the urgency from his voice.

  ‘Magnus’s son came to see him in school a couple of months ago. That was how George referred to him. Always as Magnus’s son.’

  Perez nodded to show that he didn’t blame Miles for not making the connection to Archie earlier. Miles continued talking.

  ‘In fact, it was a little longer ago than that, because it was at the beginning of the school term. The new head had just started, and George was finding life a little less easy-going than under the last one. It was parents’ evening, so officially Stout was there to talk about his sons, but he’d brought a box of notebooks and papers that he’d found at the back of a cupboard. His father’s research. The notebooks were all dated, so it was clear to George that the initial translation of the runes on the story stones had come from Magnus. He’d done all the research about the presence of Vikings in the islands, before Johnson had shown any interest in the topic.’

  ‘George didn’t confront Johnson then?’

  Miles shook his head. ‘He wanted to get his facts straight before accusing a prominent academic of stealing another man’s research. But then, in October, a television documentary aired to a lot of publicity. It was a history of the Northern Isles – Orkney and Shetland – fronted by Johnson. There he was, looking out from the screen being smug and professorial, with the beautiful island landscapes behind him. All the material he used to confirm his theories about the Westray archaeology had been taken directly from Magnus Stout, but the Westray man’s name wasn’t mentioned once. In fact, the islanders came across as ignorant farmers who hadn’t realized the importance of the excavations on their land.’ Miles looked out at Perez. ‘I’ve never known George so furious.’

  ‘Even though he wasn’t personally involved?’ Perez thought it was unusual to feel such anger on another person’s behalf. This seemed too abstract a subject to be worked up about.

  ‘But he felt involved.’ Miles paused, pulling together the words so he could explain. ‘It felt personal. History mattered to him. George might have appeared flippant and carefree, and in lots of ways he was, but he thought history was about truth. How could we understand the world if our knowledge of it was based on lies? He felt Johnson’s rewriting of history like a kick in the gut. He said it wasn’t just about the past, but about the way Westray people were regarded in the present. Political decisions were made on the basis of facts provided by historians.’ Miles was becoming more and more animated. He stopped and pulled a little face. ‘I’m sorry to sound so passionate. It’s not my default setting and it feels a little odd to become so emotional. But now he’s dead, I suppose I feel I should take on George’s mantle. Protect his legacy.’

  He got to his feet, stood with his hands resting on the edge of the deep, old-fashioned sink, and looked out of the window into the darkness, towards the garden where he spent so much of his time. Perez thought he needed a moment to gather his thoughts. Or once again perhaps he wanted to hide the fact that he was crying. When he turned back into the room, though, he was dry-eyed.

  ‘Did George tell you that the Johnsons were staying in Westray the day that Archie Stout was killed?’ Because he’d told Rutherford and explained that was why he’d spent the night with Nat Wilkinson.

  ‘No!’ Miles Chambers seemed genuinely shocked.

  ‘I’d have thought he might have mentioned it.’

  ‘I told you, Inspector, George and I hardly spoke to each other once he returned from the island. I was sulking. And George would have waited until we had time to talk it through properly. He’d know I’d find the story entertaining. He could make anything entertaining, and he loved an attentive audience.’ Miles looked across at Perez. ‘Do you think Johnson killed George? To stop him publishing his book?’

  ‘It’s one theory. The one thing that links Archie and George is that they believed Johnson was a fraud. But we have no proof.’

  ‘I’ll publish the book on George’s behalf,’ Miles said suddenly. ‘You can tell Johnson that.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be a sensible idea.’

  ‘You think Johnson would kill me too?’ Miles gave a little laugh that was more sinister than the question. ‘I’d like to see him try.’ There was a moment of silence before he repeated, with more venom: ‘I’d really like to see him try. That would give me a legitimate excuse to hurt him.’

  ‘As I said, we have no proof that Johnson was involved in George’s murder at all, so please don’t do anything foolish.’ Perez wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake talking like this to Miles, if Archie’s death had coloured his judgement. The conversation had run into a direction he regretted now, and there was something frightening in the man’s anger. Perez believed that Miles had the ability to be entirely ruthless. Violent even. ‘Besides, if you confront the professor, you might frighten him off. He could get rid of all the evidence we need to get a conviction.’

  Miles held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m not a foolish man, Inspector. I promise that.’

  ‘Would you be able to recreate the book? Do you have the box of Magnus’s notes, which Archie gave to George?’

  Miles shook his head. ‘I don’t have them. I’m pretty sure he planned to take the originals to Westray with him on that last trip. He thought they belonged in the heritage centre there. That was their true home.’

  Perez made a mental note to tell Willow that, as soon as he was alone. They knew George had been given a key to the heritage centre by Vaila, but surely he’d have told someone that the notes were there. He wouldn’t just have dropped them at an unmanned reception desk. They were too valuable for that.

  Miles interrupted Perez’s thoughts. ‘He made copies though. He scanned them all. They’re on his computer in the study upstairs. The book is almost finished. He just wanted a few more details from people in Westray. He’d sent a first draft to his publisher. I’m his executor, he left everything to me. I’ve seen the will. I can give permission for publication to go ahead.’

  ‘Can you email the notes across to me? I’d like Orkney’s archaeologist to take a look at them.’

  ‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘I met Paul Rutherford a few times through George. They were friends. He seems a decent chap.’

  ‘Did George know that Anthony Johnson was staying on Westray before he set out? I know that he found out once he was on the island.’

  Miles shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’d have prepared for battle if he had. As I remember, the visit was more routine than that. He was there as a teacher, working on his kids’ book, not to champion the name of Magnus Stout. That was how it seemed to me, at least. Giving Magnus the credit he deserved would come later. George wanted the heritage centre to have the notebooks, and he might have discussed his ideas with Archie, but I don’t think he was expecting a confrontation with Johnson. Not yet.’

  Miles was still standing. Perez got to his feet too. ‘Thanks for all your help.’

  ‘Not at all, Inspector.’ There was a pause. ‘It’s been a welcome distraction.’

  They walked together into the hall, with its curved staircase, and faded paintings in tarnished gilt frames. ‘Paul Rutherford might come to visit you,’ Perez said. ‘Would you mind that?’

  Miles shook his head. ‘He might be willing to help form a plan to tell the truth about the Westray story stones. Another documentary perhaps, putting the record straight. George would have loved that. Besides, a visit from Rutherford would be a kind of distraction too.’

  Perez nodded and left the house. Outside, the air smelled a little different. It had lost the scent of iron and ice that came from extreme cold, carried by winds from Siberia. It was softer, gentler and his windscreen was clear.

  He drove to Alison’s house to pick up his son. The pair were curled together on the sofa, and she was reading a story to him. There was a decorated tree in the corner and a fire had been lit. When Perez got home, the house felt empty and cold.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WILLOW LISTENED TO PEREZ’S ACCOUNT OF his conversation with Miles. If the CSIs had found anything at all to place Johnson at the crime scene, she felt they’d have more than enough for a formal charge, but because of the storm on the night of the murder there was no trace evidence.

  ‘I’m not going to get back to Harray this evening,’ she said. ‘You do realize that we have to speak to the Johnsons about this before I leave.’

  She could sense Perez’s disappointment, but he said nothing. He’d know she was right. Johnson’s motive might be strong, but there was nothing to convict him. In her room in the hotel she was running through possibilities. To make a charge stick, they’d need a witness or a confession. Barbara could be a witness if she decided to cooperate. She must have had knowledge of what happened that night. But why would she cooperate? She had almost as much to lose as her husband if he were to fall from grace, and Willow suspected that Barbara would be harder to break down. She was a performer. She worked with actors and storytellers, and she did all the publicity for the community arts centre that she ran. Her job was to manage the narrative, to portray the place in the best possible light.

  Willow was convinced that the next meeting with the Johnsons would be crucial, and she didn’t rush into arranging to speak to them. She discussed her plans with Phil Bain, as they sat waiting for their evening meal. It was still early, but she’d had a long day, and she found her focus shifting, sliding from one possible approach to another.

  ‘I’m not sharp enough to talk to them tonight. Let’s arrange to do it in the morning. Not here though. Somewhere more formal.’

  ‘Where were you thinking?’

  ‘How about the heritage centre? It’s only open at weekends in the winter, so we won’t be disturbed. Annie can give us a key, and make sure the heating’s on. And I’d like to talk to them separately. Tony first, I think. They’re both arrogant. They’ll underestimate us and think they can bluff their way through.’

  ‘Shall we see them this evening though? Just to make an appointment to talk to them?’

  ‘Why not? Let’s rattle them a bit. I’ll sort it.’ Willow got to her feet. She was finding the hotel claustrophobic now. The darkness outside seemed to be closing in, and she was feeling restless, uneasy. Even a wander to the bar would provide some movement and a brief change of scene. When she pushed open the door, she didn’t recognize any of the locals there, though Perez would probably know most of them. There was no sign of the professor and his wife. Godfrey, the elderly widower, was sitting in his usual corner, his back to the room, repelling any overtures of company. His half-pint of bitter sat, almost untouched, on the table in front of him. He turned when he heard her approach, smiled and seemed almost glad to see her.

  ‘Inspector. I saw you were at the cathedral. That must have been your little boy. What a wonderful service! Edith and I always loved it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Willow pulled across a chair and sat beside him. ‘It’s rather terrible to think that George Riley was being killed that afternoon too.’ She looked straight at him. ‘Did you come across George while you were here? You were working on similar projects.’

  ‘I did meet him once. It was on the morning that poor Archie Stout died. He’d come over on the ferry. It was just before the storm hit. I was taking a photo of the links. The beach there is a great place for sanderling, the little wading birds.’ Godfrey smiled. ‘Such comical little creatures. They run like clockwork toys.’

  ‘And George was there too?’ Willow tried not to sound impatient.

  ‘He was. Staring at the former dig site. It looks so ugly. All that black plastic weighed down with old tyres. Like a dump or an abandoned building site. He was taking photos too. We talked for a while.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The island and what a special place it is. He explained that he was a teacher, and he loved what he did, that it was a privilege to shape young minds.’ Godfrey paused for a moment. ‘After a while, he seemed a little troubled. I asked if anything was wrong, and he became jolly again. “Nothing that can’t be put right,” he said. We walked together for a way along the beach. He told me stories of the Neolithic people who’d lived on the site and then the Vikings who arrived centuries later. I was entranced. I could see that he’d be a magnificent teacher and I told him so.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘George said he was meeting someone, and he peeled away. He’d brought his car with him, and I suppose he’d parked it somewhere close by. I walked back to Pierowall to the cafe for a bite of lunch. I’d asked if he was staying at the hotel – I would have been glad to hear more about his work – but he said he’d met a former student on the ferry, and he was staying with him.’

  Willow nodded. All this confirmed the theory that Riley was planning to expose Tony Johnson. She was about to offer to buy Godfrey a drink – although his glass was still half full – when the Johnsons came in. The locals all recognized them now and shouted their greetings. The couple seemed to bask in the recognition. Willow imagined them back at home, boasting to their friends.

  Oh yes, we’re part of the island now. We’re not treated like visitors at all.

  None of us like to admit that we’re tourists, Willow thought. We’re all travellers these days.

  Johnson saw Willow and waved across to her. ‘Inspector, so you’re back.’

  She got close enough to him so the other drinkers couldn’t quite listen in.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard,’ she said. ‘There’s been another murder, so I’m afraid there will be more questions.’

  ‘Of course! George Riley, the teacher. But naturally we hardly knew him.’ There was a tight, impatient smile.

  ‘I’m talking to everyone.’ Willow didn’t respond to the words. ‘I’d like to see you in the heritage centre at nine-thirty. You too, Mrs Johnson. Though perhaps you could come along a little later. We’ll have a word with you after we’ve spoken to your husband.’ A pause. ‘Please don’t be late.’

  Johnson was about to protest, to make an excuse, but Willow jumped in before he could speak. ‘I’m investigating two deaths and I believe that you can both help me with my inquiries. I’ll either talk to you here in Westray, or I’ll require you to come in to Kirkwall for a more formal interview in the police station there. It’s entirely your decision.’

  She waited a moment for an answer and when none came, she nodded and turned away.

  After they’d eaten, Willow looked for Annie. Bill was serving behind the bar.

  ‘I’ve sent her home to rest,’ he said. ‘The lasses can manage fine by themselves in the restaurant, and it’s been manic all week. She needs a bit of a break.’ A pause. ‘Pop in to see her though, if it’s important. We’re just a couple of doors away.’

  Willow pulled on her jacket and went outside. There was a milkiness to the sky, which meant she saw the stars as if through a filter. It seemed that the weather was changing at last. The air wasn’t so sharp that it took her breath away. The MacBrides’ house was a small cottage, one of a terrace. It still wasn’t late, but she hoped that Annie hadn’t taken herself to bed for a very early night.

  It seemed though that Annie was expecting her. ‘Bill texted to say you were on your way.’

  ‘It seems a pity to interrupt you on your one night off, but I need your help.’

  ‘Ah, come away in. I’m not much good at resting and there’s nothing at all on the television.’

  The room was small and warm. There were photographs of beaming grandchildren on the walls. Annie had already made tea and in the little time it had taken Willow to get there, she’d set out a plate with oatcakes and local cheese. ‘The tea’s decaff,’ she said. ‘I can never drink the real stuff after lunchtime, and I know you prefer it.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized that Archie had a share in the hotel.’ Willow wasn’t sure if that was at all significant to the investigation, but the fact had lurked at the back of her mind, troubling. ‘Did it cause any problems?’