Magnie had told me about it. ‘It was afore I went to sea,’ he’d said, ‘and I’d got work laying pipes to the Coonty. We had to dig in this gairdin. Well, this wife came out as we were digging, and said, ‘Boys, you’d maybe better no dig ower deep in here, for the house used to belong to a witch, and I’m aye been told there are twa babies buried in it.’
I glanced up at the darkness and shuddered, then headed forwards, alongside the coloured houses. My footsteps echoed on the flagstones. I was just level with the green house when I heard a shout in the night, swirling on the wind, then an angry voice. I paused for a moment, not wanting to run into a drunken quarrel, but the sound wasn’t repeated. Young men, high spirits. All the same, I slid into the little steps that led down the water and spent a few moments admiring the lines of a long-keeled yacht that someone was restoring on the far side of the pier: a lovely curve from stem to stern. She’d hold her course in waves halfway up her mast. When I was sure all was quiet, I came back into the lamplight and strolled on once more.
The Chinese restaurant around the corner was open, spilling tantalising smells into the night, but we’d gorged ourselves on fresh plaice, Cat and I, and it wasn’t hard to walk past it. The castle’s jagged gables were floodlit in orange so that the shadows stood sharp and sinister against the stonework. Next to it was the wood-clad side of the new Scalloway Museum, with its glass porch and double logo on the corner, the stylised castle on its promontary echoing the real one beside it.
New Smiddy Closs, just opposite, would bring me back to the water. I passed below bushes planted among gravel onto the flagstoned path. The textured concrete stones were slimy with algae, but I trusted the grip of my boots. The green mesh fence on my left gave way to whitewashed wall, belonging to a solid old house whose small-paned windows were set back in metre-thick recesses. It was the first of a cluster set around an irregular courtyard known in the village as the ‘Spanish closs’, because of its pantiled roofs and angled doors. The entrance to the closs was a low gate set in a wide arch. A glass oval, held with rusty bars, shone white light over the inside of the close. I heard the ‘snick’ of a closing door, as if someone had come down just before me, though I hadn’t seen anyone.
I was halfway down the little flight of steps above the archway when I saw the body lying sprawled in the entrance.
It was a girl, young, with blonde hair spilling from her sweatshirt hood. She lay in a tumbled heap, as if she had crumpled from standing, her fashionable boots tucked up under her flounced skirt. Her right hand stretched out towards a carved front door, as if she was pointing. I crouched beside her, picked up the outflung hand, and laid two fingers on her wrist. Nothing, and the hand had the chill weight of a dead animal. I replaced it as it had lain, then loosened her scarf and laid my fingers on her neck. I felt the rough line of scratch under them, and my heart missed a beat. I turned her head to the light.
It was Annette. Her face was death-white, and set in an odd expression I couldn’t quite read, something between shock and guilt, like a child caught with its hand in a biscuit jar. Oh, Kate, Peter, their beloved baby with golden curls. I eased her head down, tucked into its hood, as it had been. Then I stepped back and thought. What was my quickest way to get help?
It wasn’t easy. The Scalloway sub-police station had been closed in the last round of cuts, and the policeman’s house sold off, so I couldn’t knock at his door. I needed the Lerwick police, but I didn’t have their number, and 999 had become a last resort for isles residents. Just this summer a tourist guide on the island of Mousa had had difficulty getting help for an injured visitor because the island doesn’t have a postcode, and the central office in Inverness wouldn’t let her speak directly to the coastguard. All the tourist guides had now been issued with the island’s GPS co-ordinates, just in case.
I looked around the little close. There were four doors. Number 1 was just behind me, a plain wooden door. I tilted my head up to the windows, but there were no lights. Number 2 was the wooden door Annette was almost touching, carved with four oblong panels in a line down the centre, each with a wooden flower, and great cylindrical hinges, like the ones on my Poitevin granny’s wooden china cupboard. There was a frosted glass window on the right of it, with green-painted wood around it, and as I looked at it I thought I saw movement behind, but there were no lights.
Door 3, in the angle past me, was a plain door with a glass panel, and Door 4 was set slantways under a low, narrow roof. There was a curving step in front of it, and a little window under the roof. Glory be, just as I looked at it, a light sprang up in the darkness. It must have been the bathroom, for I heard water running as I walked towards it. I knocked. There was a long pause, then, just as I raised my hand to knock again, I heard footsteps, a cough, a voice, ‘Coming – joost a minute.’ The door eased open, and an elderly man with a shock of grey hair stood in the doorway. He passed a hand over his head to smooth his hair down, and looked at me in surprise, then his gaze went past me, over my shoulder, to Annette.
‘My mercy, what’s happened?’
‘Do you have a phone book?’ I asked. ‘I need to call Lerwick police.’
He stayed on the doorstep, peering over my shoulder. ‘Is your friend bad hurt? The wife at Number 1’s a nurse in the hospital, only she works shifts, the way they all do, so she might no be hame.’
‘I need to phone the police,’ I repeated, holding tight to my patience. ‘I need a phone book.’
‘Should we maybe put a blanket over her?’
‘No!’ I said. It came out more sharply than I’d meant. I added, gently, ‘I’m afraid she’s dead. We need to call the police. They say not to touch anything.’
He shook his head, then began to close the door. ‘You stay there.’ Through the last inch he said, ‘I’ll get you the phone book.’
It seemed an interminable wait, with the bitter wind curling into the close, and the dead girl lying there. I stood listening to the noises from inside the house: a light switching on, another, a drawer being opened, a glasses case – I could see his fingers unfolding the earpieces, polishing the lenses with that light blue pinking-edged cloth. In my peripheral vision, a shadow moved behind the frosted glass of Number 2’s window. I turned my head slightly, tilting it downwards as if I was looking at Annette, and thought I could make out someone standing in the dark, motionless, with a pale blur of face looking out at me. Behind the closed door of Number 4, another drawer opened and closed, then the footsteps padded to the front door again. It opened a crack, and the phone book came out, suspended in air.
‘Thank you.’ I carried it over to the light above the gate, found the number, and dialled.
It was answered straight away. ‘Police Scotland, Lerwick office, good evening.’
I recognised the voice. ‘Sergeant Peterson?’
‘Cass Lynch,’ she retorted. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’ve found a dead girl,’ I said, ‘in Scalloway, in the Spanish closs.’
I heard the click of computer keys. ‘Don’t touch anything, Cass. We’ll be right over. Where exactly are you?’
I explained, and said I’d stand at the end of New Smiddy Closs to guide them.
‘We’ll be with you in less than fifteen minutes,’ she promised, and put the phone down. I leaned against the wall, looking at Annette. The way she was lying didn’t look right to me. The crumpled look, yes, that was right enough, as if she’d fallen all of a heap, but there was something very melodramatic about that outstretched arm. Her handbag was dropped beside her, one of these fashionable little rucksacks, and I wondered about that too. If she’d been taken by a sudden seizure, I’d have thought she’d have gripped it, or that it would be closer to the body, dropped as she herself dropped. Then, there was something about her coat, as if someone had pulled it out, then rumpled it back … in short, it looked to me as if someone had checked inside her handbag and pockets, then taken her arm and made it point at the carved door. And if someone had interfered with the
body, then the chance of it being a natural death was receding. I cast a quick look sideways at the frosted glass window with the shadow still behind it, and decided to stay at my post.
Only twelve minutes had gone when I heard the soft whisper of a car drawing up. I ran up to meet it. It slid quietly to a stop beside me, without flashing lights or siren, and Sergeant Peterson got out. ‘Well, Cass?’
‘Down this path,’ I said.
‘That’s fine. Sit in the car, and I’ll get your statement once I’ve had a look.’
I was glad to get out of the cold. I huddled into the warm seat, and prepared to wait.
I’d met Sergeant Peterson before. She was tall and fair-haired, groomed like a businesswoman. Her eyes were the green of sea-washed glass, and as indifferent as a mermaid’s. I suspected she was ambitious, and wondered she hadn’t been moved to somewhere more active. The main crimes in Shetland were drink-driving and, recently, street scuffles. The thought reminded me of the noise I’d heard. It had come from somewhere up towards the castle, I was sure, although the wind could blow noise from unexpected places. It had been a man’s voice, the same man speaking twice, rather than an argument between two. I hadn’t recognised the actual voice, just the angry sound.
The warmth of the car was soothing. I eased my gloves off, and paused. My right hand was gritty with a reddish dust. I rubbed it between finger and thumb, then lifted my hand to my face, and sniffed. Yes, it was the fine, red ash from a peat fire. The texture and smell were unmistakeable. Where on earth had I got that from? I tried to recall if I’d touched anything in the skip, but I couldn’t see how I could have got peat ash on my hand from there. I’d been wearing gloves all the way from Khalida until the Spanish closs, where I’d taken them off to feel Annette’s pulse. I tried to recall my movements. I’d taken her outflung hand up in my right hand, and felt her pulse with my left. Once I’d done that, I’d checked her neck with my left hand. Then I’d put my gloves back on. I could only have got the ash on my hand from Annette.
Whatever she’d been doing, wherever she’d been, it was somewhere with a peat fire.
Thursday 27th October
Low Water Scalloway 00:39 BST 0.6m
High Water 06:52 1.4 m
Low Water 12:52 0.7m
High Water 18:59 1.5m
Moon waxing gibbous
Moonset 02:53, 262 degrees
Sunrise 08:12
Moonrise 15:55, 93 degrees
Sunset 17:25
heksi (n) : a witch
Chapter Four
I woke at seven. The hills were still black, but the heavy sky was marbled with milk-grey streaks of light. The wind had risen; Khalida jerked at her mooring ropes, making her fenders creak against the pontoon. Even in this sheltered space, the slate-mauve ripples flowed like a river. I’d tied the halyards so that they wouldn’t rattle against the mast, but they thrummed in the wind, each gust giving a vibration that could be felt right through the hull. A glance out of the window showed me long, white crests rolling in to break on the pebble shore of the Minister’s Beach. It was just on high water.
I wriggled out of my berth, wincing as my bare feet touched the icy wooden floorboards. I boiled the kettle and took a cup of drinking chocolate back to bed, leaving the gas ring on low, with a clay flowerpot over it – the poor woman’s central heating. Cat swarmed out of the propped-up forehatch to his preferred toilet on the shore, then returned, his fur cold, and smelling of seaweed. I stroked him absently.
Poor Kate, poor Peter! I hadn’t seen any signs of violence, only that shocked look, but I hadn’t examined Annette’s body. She could have been struck on the head, stabbed, strangled … I remembered the scratch marks I’d seen, and heard Nate’s voice: What if the Devil was loose in Shetland? I shook the thought away. I didn’t believe in a Devil that came down to earth and attacked people. A human hand had wielded whatever weapon had been used.
But why should anyone as young as Annette have murderous enemies? The three crows had given her a basilisk warning stare, but I didn’t see a group of teenagers resorting to this kind of murder. I wondered if Kate had been right about drugs.
I’d done my best to give details last night, under Sergeant Peterson’s indifferent gaze, with the other officer taking notes. No, I hadn’t known Annette particularly well. I worked for her mother, gardening. The last time I’d seen Annette had been that morning. I didn’t mention the row with her parents; I’d let them tell that in their own way. We’d passed as I was going in, she was coming out. We’d said hello, that was it. Sergeant Peterson gave me the sort of look that made it clear she didn’t believe me, and started on my movements for the evening. I’d spent the evening aboard Khalida. Yes, I’d been alone. I didn’t think she’d accept Cat as an alibi, and she didn’t. I’d gone out for a walk, to warm up before bedtime. I hadn’t seen anyone around, but I’d heard shouting, in the direction of the castle. No, I couldn’t distinguish words, but it was a man’s voice. I thought I’d heard only one voice. It had been midnight before I’d finally been allowed to crawl into my berth.
Now I set my memory to work. Annette had been worried about something, to the extent of talking of running away from home. She’d complained about her parents stopping her from meeting people. Her soft wail came back to me: If I think they can help me. I remembered her air of defiance, as if she knew the help she was taking was something she shouldn’t be doing. There had been a pause, then she’d put her hand up to tug her scarf away from her throat, and begun to talk about reincarnation – do you ever feel as if you’ve lived before? I wasn’t sure if that had been part of the same conversation, what she was wanting help about, or if it was a new one. Then I remembered the words I hadn’t stayed to overhear. Kate, I’ve found out who it is that Annette’s got herself entangled with …
Peter would tell the police the name, and they would investigate. It was none of my business. I hoped that the DI sent from Inverness (Shetland pub fights and drink-driving didn’t warrant a criminal investigation department) would be Gavin Macrae. We were edging our way to a tentative – no, I couldn’t call it a relationship. An undeclared interest in each other, that showed itself in the occasional phone call, carefully not in a regular slot, although it was moving to as often as once a week. It would take more than attraction to smooth a relationship between a roving skipper with Alain’s death in her past and a respectable DI who lived in the family farm with his brother and mother. Maybe if I got a post aboard a tall ship, I’d be respectable too. Second Officer Lynch. First Officer. Captain. I’d be spending my time at sea, of course, which might make a relationship difficult. I sighed and got up.
By now the heat from my improvised radiator was warming up Khalida’s small cabin, and condensing the long windows. I had a basin wash, scrubbed myself with the towel to warm me up, and dressed in several layers, then laid a cloth over the prop-leg table to protect my varnish, and made a pot of porridge. One of the benefits of this living attached to the land was fresh milk; it was going to be a shock going back to UHT when I went wandering again. While it was cooking, I grilled the last two plaice, and put one down for Cat.
Outside, the sky was overcast, long skeins of grey wool cloud with lighter streaks between, grey-blue to the west, pale rose to the east. I chopped the leek and turnip I’d bought yesterday at the Meat Co, peeled and grated the carrots, then put them all with the lamb neck and shanks into my largest pan, added water and a handful each of barley, dried peas, and lentils, and left it to simmer. There would be real mutton soup for lunch.
Going outside was like walking into iced water. The wind was glacial, and my hands were frozen by the time I’d checked all the mooring ropes. I reached back in for my gloves, then slid the cabin washboards into their slots and pulled the hatch closed. Cat’s fur was blown in partings as he paused on the pontoon to wait for me.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the morning. I should have been heading for Kate’s garden, but there was a police car parked in fron
t of the house. I made for the college instead. There wasn’t an official library, but you could always find an empty classroom for studying in. I’d just spread out my diagram of the inside of a diesel engine when my mobile rang. It was Gavin.
‘I thought I’d let you know that I’m at Inverness Airport, checked in for the 09.50.’ He had a Highland accent, lingering on the final ‘ss’.
‘You’ve heard all about it, then.’
‘Sergeant Peterson told me all you told her. She wasn’t very pleased with you. I’m hoping you’ll be more forthcoming with me.’
I quoted one of his own proverbs back at him. ‘The roe is swift enough without setting the dogs on her.’
‘Would that be a yes?’
‘Annette was worried about something,’ I said. ‘She’d had a row with her parents about going out at Hallowe’en. I wanted to let them explain it, instead of me making it sound worse than it was. Kate’s been kind to me.’
‘And the row was worrying Annette?’
‘No.’ Suppose the Devil was loose in Shetland … I explained my morning thinking. ‘But I’m not sure if the reincarnation thing was to do with the worry.’
‘I’ll be in Scalloway around midday. They’ve given us “the old museum” as an incident room.’
‘On the seafront,’ I said, ‘A grey stone building, with a good view of the marina, so Sergeant Peterson can keep an eye on me. Very handy for the shops, too – coffee, tab-nabs, pies, that sort of thing.’
A Handful of Ash Page 4