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exhaustion, the shadows under her eyes. It seemed to Perez that she was furious, so angry that she didn’t trust herself to speak. He couldn’t tell if the fury was directed at her husband, at Sandy or at the situation in which they found themselves. Or Perez, for the intrusion into their grief. On one of the workbenches lay half a dozen rabbits ready for skinning and gutting. Baby clothes hung from an airing rack lowered from the ceiling.
    ‘This is my boss,’ Sandy said. ‘Detective Inspector James Perez.’ He followed Perez’s instructions to the letter, said nothing more, leaned against the wall in the corner of the kitchen, an attempt to be inconspicuous. Perez took the spare chair and sat at the table, between the man and wife, sensed again the tension in the room.
    ‘Sandy took your gun,’ he said. Not a question. He’d checked already. Sandy had got that part of procedure right at least. It was one way to start the discussion, factual, safe.
    Ronald looked up again. ‘I don’t see how it could have happened,’ he said, almost on the verge of tears. ‘I was shooting between here and Setter, but nowhere near the house or garden.’
    He turned towards his wife. She stared stonily ahead of her. Perez saw that this was the conversation that had been going on all night. The man had spent hours trying to convince the woman that the tragedy hadn’t been his fault and she had refused to excuse him, to make his guilt any less. Clouston looked like a child desperate to be held.
    ‘It was very dark,’ Perez said. ‘Dreadful visibility. You must have lost your bearings. It happens.’ Despite himself he felt sympathy for the man. This was his curse, what his ex-wife had called ‘emotional incontinence’. The ability always to see the world through other folks’ eyes.
    Anna Clouston remained rigid.
    ‘Tell me in some detail what happened yesterday evening,’ Perez said.
    And now the woman did speak. ‘He was drinking,’ she said. Her words were bitter and accusing. ‘As he does every night when he’s not actually working.’
    ‘A couple of cans.’ Ronald looked up at Perez, pleading. Perez resisted the temptation to reassure him. ‘Friday night I deserve a couple of cans.’
    ‘Were you working at all yesterday?’ Perez asked. Back to the safety of facts.
    ‘No. These days we just do two or three long trips a year with the deep-sea ships. I got back about a month ago.’
    ‘So you were in all day?’
    ‘No. I went into Lerwick. I wanted to go to the library.’
    Perez would have liked to ask what books the man had chosen – he was fascinated by the detail of other people’s lives, even when it had no direct relevance to his work – but Ronald was continuing: ‘Then I stocked up in the supermarket. The shop in Symbister is fine, but sometimes you’d like something a bit different. Since we brought the baby home we’ve not managed to get into town. I got back about seven thirty.’
    ‘Nearer eight,’ Anna said. Not contradicting her husband, but trying to be accurate. Perez thought she was starting to relax a little. At least she was prepared now to participate. He smiled at her. ‘But you stayed here?’
    ‘Yes. Perhaps Sandy explained, the baby’s only a few weeks old. He certainly hasn’t got the hang of sleeping at night yet. I took the opportunity to grab some rest.’ And Perez saw now that she was very tired. Without the adrenalin triggered by Mima’s death she’d be asleep on her feet.
    ‘Did you work before you had the baby?’ It wasn’t relevant, but he wanted to know, to understand her better.
    ‘Yes, from home, so I’m hoping to get back to it as soon as I can.’
    ‘What is it you do?’
    ‘Traditional crafts,’ she said. ‘Spinning, weaving, knitting. I work mostly with Whalsay wool, either the natural colours or I dye it myself. The fish is already disappearing. Sheep prices have gone down. The oil’s nearly gone. Eventually we’ll have to develop new