‘He’s not local,’ Perez said. Fran agreed. It wasn’t just that she didn’t recognize him. It was the man’s style, which marked him out as a soothmoother. The clothes; the way he held himself and looked at the picture.

‘Who do you think he is?’ She looked over her glass, tried not to seem too obvious, but still he was staring at the drawing, lost, so she didn’t think he’d notice even if he turned round.

‘Some rich collector,’ Perez said, smiling at her. ‘He’s going to buy everything here and make you famous.’

She giggled. A brief release of tension. ‘Or the arts reporter for one of the Sundays. I’ll feature in an article about the next new talent.’

‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

She turned to look at him, assumed that he was joking again, but he was frowning slightly.

‘Really,’ he smiled again. ‘You are very good.’

She wasn’t sure what to say, was groping for something witty and self-deprecating, when she saw the man turn round. He fell to his knees, much as Roddy had done when he was playing the violin. Then he put his hands over his face and began to weep.

Chapter Three

Perez thought that at this time of year everyone went a bit crazy. It was the light, intense during the day and still there at night. The sun never quite slipping behind the horizon, so you could read outside at midnight. The winters were so bleak and black that in the summer folk were overtaken with a kind of frenzy, constant activity. There was the feeling that you had to make the most of it, be outside, enjoy it before the dark days came again. Here in Shetland they called it the ‘simmer dim’. And this year was even worse. Usually the weather was unpredictable, changing by the hour, rain and wind and brief spells of bright sunshine, but this year it had been fine for nearly a fortnight.