‘Great, that’s all I needed. Thanks.’ But really, he knew, this didn’t prove Rosalie’s innocence. She’d still have had time to kill Riley before driving to the gallery. They only had the jeweller’s word that she’d had lunch in Stromness beforehand. Leaving the phone message for Grace just added a little veracity to the narrative. He made his way outside and into the cafe a couple of doors down. If they’d served Rosalie at a time before Belinda the dog woman had met George Riley in the Tormiston Mill car park, close to Maeshowe, that might put the jewellery maker in the clear.

  It was busy with the early lunchtime rush. The cafe had laid on a Christmas dinner special – turkey with all the trimmings. He thought it odd that people might want a meal like that so close to the day itself, but they were doing a brisk trade. He waited at the counter, hoping to speak to the manager, but the staff all seemed rushed off their feet, and he felt awkward about disturbing them. They wouldn’t be able to focus on his questions while people were becoming impatient, waiting for their meals. Instead, he decided that he’d come back later – if Rosalie had eaten there it would have been early in the afternoon – and walked outside again, feeling guilty because he should be back in Kirkwall. This felt like an escape.

  In the distance he could see the car ferry from Scrabster, making its way into the harbour. It was the route that George Riley had taken from his conference on the Scottish mainland when freezing fog closed the airports. Perez tried to open his mind to any other way that he and Archie might have been connected. He’d been so sure that Johnson was involved, and certainty was always dangerous. Perhaps, after all, the obvious reason was most likely: George Riley had witnessed something leading up to Archie’s killing and so he’d had to die.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THAT MORNING, WILLOW WENT INTO THE heritage centre half an hour early for her appointment with Johnson. She wanted to look through Magnus Stout’s notebooks before the professor arrived. But when she went into the archive room to take down the box, there was no sign of it. The low sun slanted through the window, and even with the lights switched off, she couldn’t have missed it. She stared at the shelf where it had been, wondering for a brief moment if she was quite sane, if she’d imagined it being there the night before. But she could picture the box vividly: blue cardboard, which might once have held a pair of shoes, with its neat stack of books inside. Somebody must have come in and removed it.

  Then she considered who could have taken it. She’d locked the door the previous evening. Again, the memory was clear. She heard the click of the lock and pictured herself pulling on the handle to make sure that the door was firmly shut. And with that came another memory, the sense that someone else was close by. So whoever came in must have had a key, unless there was a different entrance. Perhaps the person she’d heard, who’d been waiting for her to leave. She walked briskly around the centre. None of the windows were open and the emergency exit at the back of the building was locked too.

  Time was moving on. Soon Tony Johnson would be here, and she needed to prepare herself for the interview. There was a tap on the door. Not Johnson but Phil Bain, whom she’d asked to sit in on the conversation.

  She explained what had happened: ‘I can’t see the disappearance of the notebooks as a game-changer. They’ve been saved in digital form and can still be used in evidence. Miles told Jimmy that he could retrieve them. Johnson might not know that though. He might think he’s in the clear now, and that we have no evidence of his fraud.’

  ‘Show’s he’s panicking, doesn’t it?’ Phil said.

  ‘Certainly does.’

  Willow arranged the furniture in the space where the archives were kept. She set it up like a classic interview room. A table with a chair at one side and two chairs opposite for her and Phil. She was still angry with herself – she should have taken Magnus Stout’s notebooks into safekeeping – but took some breaths to slow her pulse and calm her nerves. Her mother had been a great proponent of meditation, and that was something else that Willow had brought with her from the commune, the power of slow breathing.

  She’d expected Johnson to be late. He was arrogant and rude, and he’d see making her wait as a way of asserting his authority, but after fifteen minutes of waiting, she sent Phil Bain to find him.

  Phil was back almost immediately. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bill says they checked out this morning and were on the early ferry.’

  ‘He’s not expecting them back?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘They paid the bill and left, said something unexpected had come up. No details. He charged them until the end of the booked stay, but they coughed up without any fuss. Bill was shocked that they paid without a scene. He said that wasn’t like them at all.’

  ‘What time did the ferry leave?’

  ‘Seven a.m.’

  She was so shocked that it took her a moment to process the information.

  ‘I guess there’s no point in asking Jimmy to meet the boat at the harbour in Kirkwall and pull the couple into the station for questioning then. They’d have arrived at least an hour ago.’

  ‘They could have headed for one of the ferries south to the Scottish mainland,’ Phil said. ‘Not the NorthLink. That doesn’t leave until much later.’

  ‘You’re thinking they might be in Stromness? For the big ferry to Scrabster?’

  ‘We can get someone to check. That’d be more likely than going all the way south across Scapa Flow to get the Pentland boat south. As far as I know all the planes to the Scottish mainland are still grounded, so if they’re trying to get home it would be by boat, not on a flight.’

  She pulled out her phone to talk to Perez, prepared to rattle off instructions, but he was no longer in the police station.

  ‘Sorry.’ Ellie’s Yorkshire voice sounded very loud over the phone. It filled the heritage centre. ‘You’ve just missed him. He’s gone to Stromness to check Rosalie Greeman’s alibi for the afternoon of the Riley murder.’

  ‘Can you ask him to look out for passengers boarding the Scrabster ferry? We need to know where the Johnsons are. I must have frightened them off and I think they have the hard copies of Magnus Stout’s research with them.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll try. And I’ll get in touch with all the ferry companies now. There are no planes south because of the Scottish weather.’ A pause. ‘It doesn’t look good for them, does it? The fact that they’ve done a runner.’ Her voice was almost jubilant. She hadn’t liked the couple either.

  Willow switched off her phone and stood up, feeling again the strain in her back and her legs. She looked across the table at Phil. ‘We might as well get back to Kirkwall. There’s no point staying here now the Johnsons have disappeared.’

  He grinned. ‘Fine that. There’s a party tonight at my lass’s house. Even if we’re on the last ferry home I’ll be in town in time to catch it.’

  Annie was back on duty in the hotel and cooked them a late breakfast.

  ‘The Johnsons have gone then.’ She’d delivered their scrambled eggs to the dining room, and looked down at them, still holding the tea towel she’d used to carry the hot plates.

  ‘So it seems.’ Willow grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’re sad to see them go.’

  ‘Not at all, but maybe you’re upset that they’ve left in such a hurry.’

  ‘I went into the heritage centre yesterday after we had our chat. I found those notebooks, just where you said they’d be. They weren’t there this morning.’

  ‘You think the Johnsons took them?’

  ‘Somebody did. I left the key with Bill last night.’

  ‘He’d not have handed it over to them.’ Annie was certain. ‘Not without asking me first.’

  ‘Can you find out if Tom and Evelyn Angel were in the bar last night? And if the Johnsons were in the hotel all evening. They were there when I came to visit you, but that wasn’t anywhere near closing time.’

  Annie didn’t speak. She wasn’t a woman to waste words. But she nodded and left them to their breakfast. She returned as Willow was drinking her last cup of tea.

  ‘The Angels were in for an hour before closing.’ The information was given with a trace of reluctance. Annie might see this as a form of betrayal – she’d grown up with the Angels and they’d feel like family. ‘And Bill very definitely didn’t give the key to either Barbara or Anthony Johnson.’ She turned and went out before Willow could thank her.

  They found Tom and Evelyn Angel at home in Hillhead. It was clearly coffee time, and they were both inside, in the kitchen, exactly as they’d been on Willow’s last visit. One sat on each side of the granite breakfast bar. They weren’t moving, just staring at each other. It was as if they were mannequins in a fancy department store window, fixed, not quite real and on display. Again, when Willow knocked on the door, it was Evelyn who came to answer.

  ‘What is it now?’ She seemed so stressed that she couldn’t even summon the energy to pretend at politeness.

  ‘We’ll be leaving today.’ Willow almost felt sorry for her. She seemed so taut, ready to snap at any moment. But the pair had gone to the Pierowall Hotel late on the previous night. They must have helped the Johnsons to steal the notebooks. Her sympathy was limited. ‘We’re just saying goodbye, tying up a few loose ends.’

  ‘I suppose you’d best come in.’ This time there was no offer of tea.

  Tom seemed anxious to see them too. ‘What is it? Have you some news for us?’

  Willow shook her head and asked a question of her own. ‘Have you heard from Vaila? How is she coping?’

  ‘She’s struggling,’ Evelyn said. ‘We’re going out tomorrow. We’ll stay with them all in the Kirkwall Hotel and watch the Ba’. A way to remember Archie. The boys might feel a bit more settled when that’s done. It’s kind of looming on the horizon for them. Having to mourn their father in public. Their mother told them there was no need, but they want to be at the game to celebrate him. When it’s over, Vaila should feel able to move them back to Nistaben, to take up their old life. She says she’s not sure she wants to stay in Westray, but this isn’t a time for rushed decisions.’

  Only then did Willow realize that the next day was Christmas Eve. There flashed through her mind a list of the things that needed doing. James’s presents to wrap, food to sort out. But what would it matter, she thought, if they ate egg and chips and James pigged out on chocolate all day? If he had to wait for his presents. She’d be home.

  ‘Why did you give the Johnsons your key to the heritage centre?’ she asked.

  ‘We never had a key.’ Tom’s reply shot out without a pause. It was as if he’d been expecting the question and had prepared the answer. There was something of the guilty schoolboy about him. ‘We’re not on the committee. You can ask anyone.’

  ‘Vaila had a key. You could easily have fetched it from Nistaben and brought it back to the hotel. You were there last night.’

  ‘We felt the need to get out of the house,’ Evelyn said, ‘and meet other folks. But we didn’t stay long. It was hard, hearing everyone talking about their plans, laughing and joking, when we knew how Vaila is falling apart.’

  ‘And you gave the Johnsons a key to the centre. Why would you do that when I explained how they linked Archie’s and George’s murders? I took you into my confidence. And now they’ve gone. They ran away on the early ferry.’

  Evelyn looked wretched, but Tom was defiant. ‘Tony explained,’ he said. ‘He’d humoured Magnus, let him help with his work. There was no question of any kind of fraud. They needed our help.’ He looked up, shamefaced. ‘He could persuade a man to do anything.’

  ‘Did Tony tell you why they needed the key to the heritage centre?’

  ‘For a few last hours of research. That’s what he told us.’ Now Evelyn was carrying on the tale, desperate to explain. ‘He said that the police, that you and Perez, were determined to make them scapegoats. Because they weren’t local, they were obvious targets. He thought everyone hoped they’d turn out to be the killers.’

  That, Willow thought, was probably true. In her case at least. She carried an entirely conscious bias in her dealings with the pair. But stealing Stout’s notebooks and escaping from the island hardly helped in their protestations of innocence.

  ‘The Johnsons stole Magnus Stout’s notebooks.’ She kept her voice flat. Ranting at the Angels would do no good at all now. ‘That was why they wanted the key to the centre.’

  They stared at her. ‘But the professor was on the television,’ Evelyn said, pleading for understanding. ‘He was famous and respectable, and he needed our help. They were so grateful when we said we could get the key to them.’

  Willow didn’t reply.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  PEREZ WAS BACK, SITTING ON A bench looking out over Stromness harbour. It might be a little warmer than earlier in the week, but he was still feeling the cold. As soon as he’d heard from Ellie about the Johnsons’ sudden escape from Westray, he’d made his way to the ferry terminal. He’d been there when the Scrabster boat came in to watch the passengers disembark. Then he’d stood by the barrier when the vehicles were loaded for the return journey, checking each car, and he’d spoken to the company about foot passengers.

  Now he phoned Ellie again. ‘I didn’t see the Johnsons’ car, and they weren’t on the passenger list. I checked.’

  ‘I’ve contacted all the other operators,’ she said. ‘There are still no flights into Scotland and the space is tight for cars on all the ferries. Lots of folk going south to spend Christmas with their families. The couple haven’t booked in anywhere yet. They would need an advance booking, unless they’re planning to leave their car behind.’

  ‘They might be staying somewhere on the Orkney mainland. Let’s check the hotels and B&Bs.’

  ‘We’ve already started doing that.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ He hoped he hadn’t offended her again. ‘Great work.’

  When he got back to the cafe, it was almost empty, ready to close. He took a seat near to the window, but it was running with condensation and there was no view out. A young waitress came to take his order.

  ‘Were you working the day that George Riley was killed in Maeshowe?’ He thought there’d been so much news around that day, that it was the best way to get witnesses to remember. Better than giving a date. He’d already introduced himself. She’d been excited. It was as if she was serving weak milky coffee to a celebrity. Murder had that effect on some folk. They got so caught up with the drama of it that they forgot the sadness and chaos it left in its wake, and for a while the investigating officers became famous.

  What an odd thing celebrity was, he thought. It seemed that the Johnsons had taken in people in Westray, because the professor had once hosted a popular television programme.

  ‘I was!’ she said. She’d told him her name was Natalie. ‘My mother phoned me with the news almost as soon as I got home. It had been on Radio Orkney.’ She was a young woman, somehow bonny despite poor skin and a flabby body. It was the lovely smile that made her shine. ‘Mr Riley was a wonderful man.’

  ‘Did he teach you?’

  ‘Aye, I work here, but I bide in Kirkwall. I was at the grammar until I left after Highers. I was in the panto the last few years too. Only the chorus, like, but I loved it.’ She sounded wistful.

  ‘You won’t be in this year’s show?’ Perez wondered what the panto would do without George. The first performance was scheduled for Boxing Day. He presumed it would be cancelled, out of respect and because it wouldn’t be any kind of show without George as the dame.

  The waitress shook her head. ‘Some of the kids were kind of mean. I guess I don’t have the looks for that sort of performance. There were some pictures on social media of me dancing during rehearsals. The woodland scene. The comments weren’t very flattering. It was only a bit of fun, maybe, but not very kind. Mr Riley told me not to be so stupid, and he’d make sure the bullying stopped. The mean kids took no notice of him. I don’t think anything would have stopped it, though it was nice of him to try.’ She paused, shaking her head to get rid of the unpleasant memory. ‘I decided I didn’t need the hassle. Besides, there’s plenty of overtime going here before Christmas and I could use the money.’

  Perez didn’t know how to respond to that. It occurred to him that he’d never found anyone yet with a bad word to say about Riley. Was it possible to be so universally admired? Could the man be hiding some secret so dark that he needed to compensate by being pleasant to everyone he knew?

  ‘And then Archie Stout died in Westray just a few days earlier.’ Natalie’s excitement had returned. She looked straight at Perez, her eyes gleaming. ‘The murders must be linked, mustn’t they? It couldn’t just be a dreadful coincidence.’ He had her down now as a viewer of true crime television programmes, a consumer of the gorier podcasts. Perhaps they compensated for the gap in her life, the drama that the pantomime had provided.

  ‘Did you know Archie?’

  ‘A bit. We were kinda related.’ Perez could see her searching for the link in her mind, but not quite finding the detail. ‘We shared some great-aunt or other. I saw him sometimes at family occasions. Weddings and funerals. But I didn’t really know him. You ken how it is in the islands.’

  Perez nodded. He knew how it was. He supposed that he was probably connected to her in some way too, but he didn’t say that. It was unkind, but he imagined her as needy, maybe turning up on his doorstep with some excuse. He could picture her boasting to her pals.

  I’m related to that Archie Stout who was killed in Westray. And to the detective fae Fair Isle who’s investigating the story stone murders.

  Because one of the English tabloids had used the headline The Story Stone Murders, and now Radio Orkney had taken up the term. And she’d be hoping for some vicarious drama. That strange idea of celebrity again. Of fame.