I kept looking at him, and knew I still loved him. But that had been then, and this was now. We were both different people. Now I was thirty, and I’d done enough adventuring. I could look out at this wide sea horizon from Sørlandet and know that Gavin would be waiting for me in port, so long as a policeman’s duties allowed. In a few years we could settle down and have children. I’d get my red-sailed Osprey down from Dad’s garage roof and teach them to sail. I’d learn to bake scones and make jam. I wasn’t going back.
Once I’d handed over the ship, I lay down for my post-breakfast nap, with Cat curled in the crook of my neck, but I couldn’t sleep. Alain’s presence was too sharply with me. I framed conversations in my head as I watched Shetland creep past in my porthole: the black rock of Sumburgh Head slashed slantwise, with pointed teeth below, and the seabirds wheeling. The thatched roof of the Crofthouse Museum was set in a sea of buttercups. That bright puce on the shore was a last clump of red campion.
My phone pinged. Good morning. See you in Lerwick xxx
Gavin was on his way. Once I was with him again, this unsettled feeling would ease. I’d know where I belonged.
Above my head, there was a tramp of feet on deck. The sails were being furled for anchoring off Mousa. I swung my legs down and headed into dazzling light. The sun shone on the scrubbed decks, drying the last corner pools of water, and on the creamy sails, bleaching them to cloud-white. On land, it was harvest time, with rectangles of lime-yellow standing out in the green sweep of hill, either combed with the dulled green of drying hay, or dotted with black plastic bales like a giant’s chequer pieces waiting to be moved. The rumble of machinery drifted towards us: a shining green tractor trailing a whirl of gulls.
I joined a group of trainees who were leaning on the rail, looking forward. We were between Levenwick Ness and the island itself, with the broch coming into view around the headland, a fat stone chimney-pot, grey-green with lichen.
‘That’s Mousa Broch,’ I said to the father of the family. Egil, that was his name. ‘We’re anchoring up in the bay just ahead, to go and explore it.’
Phones flashed as we came closer. The broch stood solitary on its headland, twenty metres from the water, with a jagged tumble of rocks below it. One part of the top of it was higher, as if stones had been lost from it, pushed down for later building, but the walling of the curved sides that spread towards the base was unbroken. Closer yet, we could see how carefully it had been made, of long, thin stones fitted together. The entrance came into view, a black square looking seawards.
We anchored just off the bay at the north end of the island and ferried the trainees over to the jetty by the pony pund, ten trainees and one crew member to each load. I was on the first one, to lead the way over the hill, along the shore and across the wooden walkway over the stone beach to the broch itself. If it had looked imposing from the sea, it was twice as impressive from the shore; the sheer size of it, tall as a three-storey house, and the closely fitted stones covered over with grey-green lichen. We paused halfway along the walkway, and I did my tourist guide bit.
‘Brochs like this are only found in Shetland, Orkney and the north of Scotland. This one’s the best preserved anywhere – the rest have mostly been taken down to reuse the stones, though you can still see the foundations on Google Maps. There were around a hundred of them in Shetland, all built over a relatively short period, from 400 BC to 200 AD. It’s 13.3 metres high, and the walls are five metres thick.’
‘What’s inside?’ Laura asked.
‘It’s a passage into an open space,’ I said. ‘There’s a double wall, and between the walls there are little cells. There are stairs too.’ We’d been on a school trip, when Inga and I were nine. I remembered us climbing up the uneven steps and waving to the ones who’d stayed at the bottom. The teacher with them had looked horrified and told us to come back down right now; it was only looking from below that I realised how high we’d been, leaning precariously out. ‘You can get right up to the top. The view’s amazing.’ I went back to my tourist spiel. ‘There were two eloping couples took refuge in the broch, in separate incidents. One was a couple from Norway, Bjorn and Thora Lace-sleeve. They fell in love at a party, and Bjorn abducted her and took her to his house. His father was friendly with her brother, so he insisted they didn’t live together, but he didn’t send Thora home.’
‘That’s romantic,’ Daniel said. He smiled at Laura, and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Running away to live in the sun together. Don’t you think that’s romantic?’
She gave him a squashing look and hunched her shoulder free. ‘Then what?’
‘Her mother helped them elope, and they headed for Iceland, but got shipwrecked on Mousa. They married, spent the winter here, then set off for Iceland and lived at Borg.’
‘A happy ending,’ Daniel said, nodding. ‘Escape and live together for ever.’
For ever, in the Viking past, was likely to be quite short, especially for a young man who’d stolen a chief’s daughter. ‘The other one involved Harald Maddadsson, one of the Orkney earls. This was in 1153. This Erlendur had asked for his mother Margaret’s hand, and Harald refused him, so they ran away, and took refuge in the broch. Of course Harald couldn’t get them in there, so they made an alliance, and Margaret and Erlendur were married.’
‘Romantic,’ Daniel said again, and tried another smile at Laura, but it was met with indifferent eyes and a polite lip-curve. He looked baffled for a moment, then gave a stiff smile, and turned away to talk to one of the sirens. I wondered suddenly if that was what he was doing aboard – if Oliver had set him up to chat up Laura. I suppressed a smile. The reality of quick showers on a moving vessel, watches at strange hours and three layers of protective clothing against the North Sea winds was very different from the rose-tinted vision of bronzed, T-shirt clad Beautiful People admiring sunsets over palm-tree islands.
‘Can we get inside?’ Geir asked, abandoning his cool teenager pose.
I nodded. ‘Yes, on you go. I’ll wait to tell the next group about it. Keep your heads well down as you go in. Watch the steps to the roof, they’re really uneven, and obviously, don’t lean over the top. The stones of the parapet may be loose.’
By the time the next group had joined me, the first heads were appearing at the top of the tower. Geir waved, and yelled, ‘Hi, Cass!’ I did my tourist guide spiel six more times, and went up to the broch with the last group.
The square entrance led to a low, flagged passage, which opened out into the wider circle. When it had been inhabited, there would have been mezzanine-floor scaffolding for the people, and animals stabled in the cells within the thick walls, and the warmth of a blazing hearth. Now, even filled with bright waterproof jackets and impressed chatter, it had a dank chill after the brightness of sea and sky outside, with the tall circle of stone wall pressing in on you, and the dark openings like lairs of wild beasts. The space swallowed sound and gave strange echoes. I saw Laura shiver and press closer to Fireman Berg, a solid, reassuring presence in his black jacket.
I moved over to them, and continued my tourist guide act. ‘You’ll be surprised to learn that archaeologists haven’t yet decided what brochs were for.’
‘Defence,’ one of the Swedish men said promptly.
I shook my head. ‘Seems obvious, doesn’t it? OK. You’ve seen the enemy approaching, so you all run for cover, bringing the crucial things they would steal with you – your cows, horses and sheep.’ I pointed at the narrow doorway. ‘Through there.’
They turned, looked, thought about it. ‘Were cows smaller then?’ Laura asked.
‘No,’ Fireman Berg replied promptly, as if he had a farming background. ‘Not as small as that. Maybe they chased the animals out onto the hill, and then ran for cover.’ He frowned. ‘Even so, if you could catch them to milk, so could the enemy.’
‘Another theory is that they were communication towers. Each broch can see another broch from it. When you go out again, have a look across the so
und, and you’ll see the ruins of another one. However …’ I gestured into the dark passage behind me, where the stairs began. ‘Anyone been up those stairs?’ I looked up at Geir and Erling, watching us from halfway up the ladder of lintel stones. ‘What were they like?’
‘Pretty dangerous,’ Erling said enthusiastically. ‘Angles all over. If you came running down, shouting, “The enemy’s in sight!” you’d break your neck.’
‘They weren’t in regular use, either,’ Geir said. ‘They’re not worn at all.’
‘Who was the enemy anyway?’ the teacher asked. ‘Did the Romans get up here?’
I shook my head. ‘They saw it, Ultima Thule, but didn’t visit.’
‘Us!’ Geir shouted. ‘Here come the Vikings!’
‘Not at that period,’ the teacher said. ‘So were they just houses?’
‘That’s the current thinking,’ I agreed. ‘Iron Age status symbols: my broch’s bigger than yours. But—’
They all laughed. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple,’ Berg said.
‘But,’ I continued, ‘several of them are built on tidal islands, or inaccessible cliffs, the last handy place for a house. So the jury’s out. Anyway, go and explore.’ I checked my watch. ‘We’ll move on round the island in half an hour, at 14.00.’
I stayed to answer questions as best I could. At the same time I kept a rough eye on where everyone was as they moved in and out of the cells and passages. Everyone peered up the stairs, and a good few went up, with the sound of manoeuvring on the narrow steps floating down as they returned. I checked my watch. Ten to two. Alain was still up there, with a couple of his watch, and Petter with Oliver and Berg. Laura had gone out into the sun again; I heard Oliver’s voice calling downwards, then he came charging out of the dark hole, headed through the entrance and returned, shooing her before him, just as I was about to start rounding them all up to move on.
‘You really need to come up, Lols, the view’s fantastic.’
She sighed, laughed, and went before him into the dark entrance. I headed up after them. The stairs were a jagged, uneven path between the two broch walls, with an unnerving section in black darkness before the light from above penetrated down, and the walls were rough under my hands. I went cautiously, feeling each footstep, and found myself running into Oliver’s back in the dark. I felt him start.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Cass, behind you.’
‘Black, isn’t it?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Only for a couple of steps, though, I can see the light now.’
I kept following, and gradually there was a greyness, then the square of light, and we were up on the parapet, a narrow, flagged walkway with a waist-high wall around it. Petter was taking a photo of Berg against the view of Sandwick, and Alain and his two trainees were squeezing round them, ready to come down. I could see from Laura’s face that she wasn’t happy about being so close to the edge.
‘Great, isn’t it?’ Oliver said.
She glanced at me, behind him, as she nodded. Her face was white.
‘Time to be coming down,’ I said. ‘We’ve got the seals to see.’
I flattened myself against the parapet to let them past me, and was just following when suddenly there was a clatter and a thump. Laura screamed, and Oliver shouted, ‘Watch out!’, and I heard the awful sound of shoes striking the sides of the stair, and a thump as someone went down. The clattering ended, and the echoes died.
Then there was silence.
Alain and I moved together. I was first onto the steps, hand on the wall. It was black dark after the brightness outside. I shouted a warning ‘Hold still!’ and stopped to let my eyes adjust. Alain came up against me. It felt a long ten seconds before the blackness became grey. A tangle of arms and legs was sprawled on the stone stair, both of them tumbled together, Oliver lying face upwards with Laura underneath him. I came swiftly down to them. ‘Don’t try to move, either of you.’ Oliver raised his head. ‘Hold still,’ I repeated. The whites of Laura’s eyes gleamed at me from the darkness beneath Oliver’s outflung arm. She gave a stifled yelp, and tried to free herself. ‘Take it easy, Laura,’ I said. ‘Let me help you disentangle yourselves, or you’ll fall further.’
Laura lay still again. Berg was on the step below them, ready to stop them rolling downwards. I knelt beside them, the cold stone gritty under my knees, and looked. Oliver had ended up mostly on top of Laura, his legs stretching to the step below.
‘Laura, can you breathe OK?’ I asked.
‘Ye-es.’ Her voice was shaking. I heard her take a deep breath. ‘Yes. I don’t think I’m hurt, just a bit squished.’
‘Just keep still.’ Reassure the casualty. I laid my hand over hers, and felt it tremble like a trapped bird, then turn to grip mine. ‘There’s no blood. That’s a good sign. Oliver, do you feel you’ve done yourself any damage? Anything hurting?’
‘No damage,’ he said. He managed a smile. ‘Laura broke my fall.’
‘Right then.’ I reached out my right hand to his left. ‘If you can manage to turn over downwards, putting your weight on your right hand, you should be able to balance and stand up on the step below.’
‘Take my hand,’ Berg said. He supported Oliver’s weight, keeping it off Laura as Oliver fumbled his way over and got his right hand onto the step. His back arched, and Laura drew a deep breath. I held my hand out, and she grasped it. As she came free, she scrabbled herself upwards and slid out from underneath.
Oliver righted himself and stood to his full height, one hand reaching out to clutch the wall, then bent over to rub his knee. ‘Phew, that was a nasty one. Are you OK, Lols?’
She managed a shaky laugh. ‘Just squished. Nothing serious.’
‘Here, take my hand.’
She shook her head. I stayed beside her as she edged her way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the rough wall. In the daylight outside, the others clustered round her, concerned. Her face was chalk-white, and there was the beginning of a blue bruise on one cheek, but she shook her head at all enquiries. ‘I’m fine. But you’re right, Cass, nobody would use those steps in a hurry. The lookout tower theory is definitely out.’
She was making a joke of it, but in this clear light, with the sun full on her cheek, there was something strained about her, a whiteness of the eyelid, a bruised shadow under the eyes. I was trying not to stare, yet at the same time trying to analyse what she reminded me of. The memory came back suddenly: Alain, just after the boom had swung over and hit him, with a queer, glazed look in his eyes, and his hands moving mechanically. A sudden, stunning blow – yes, that was it. Something in her eyes, her movements, was like someone who’d had a severe shock – not a physical injury, like Alain, but a mental shock. There was a blindness about the way she leant one hand on the lichened walls and looked around, as if she wasn’t really seeing the blue of the water, or Sørlandet’s masts rising above the green hills. Her eyes were turned inwards, wrestling over and over with some problem she couldn’t share.
I kept an eye on her as we began the walk across the island. She was limping slightly, and Oliver offered his arm, concerned. He gestured towards the way we’d come, but she shook her head. I went over. ‘Can you manage the walk, Laura? You can easily go back to the ship, if you’d rather.’
‘You might be better, Lols,’ Oliver agreed.
She shook her head, blonde hair flying out round her face. ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped at him.
‘Here,’ Alain said, appearing at my elbow. ‘You go and lead the way, Cass. I’ll stick with Laura.’
She took his arm, and we moved on: past the old ruined Haa House to the West Pool, where we watched the dog-nosed grey seals sunbathing; alongside the beach, and back by the cliffs. She stuck close to Alain all the way, and he did his best charmer act. By the time we reached the jetty she was laughing.
CHAPTER SIX
We moored right in the centre of Lerwick, at the Victoria Pier. I wasn’t off duty till eight, but I’d told my parents to come earlier, at seven
, so that I could show them around the ship. Dad’s black Range Rover bulldozed its way onto the pier on the dot of ten past, and I watched them get out: Dad in a dark suit over a white polo neck, Maman in her swirling white wool coat which she insisted on wearing outside in Shetland even through the summer months. I shook my head, smiling. It was a fine summer day; the crowd that had gathered to watch us come in were wearing T-shirts and licking ice creams. Her dark hair was swept up in its usual chignon, protected by a silk scarf. She saw me looking, and waved a gloved hand.
I hurried down the gangplank and gave them each a hug. ‘Well, what do you think of her?’
‘He’s beautiful,’ Maman said. She held me back from her. ‘Let me look at you! I like the uniform.’
‘Very smart,’ Dad agreed. He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘Sure, I never thought I’d have a ship’s officer for a daughter.’
Maman gave the mast height an apprehensive glance. ‘You don’t climb all the way up there?’
‘Not often.’ I linked my arm through hers, and drew her forward. ‘Come on board. I need you to dazzle Captain Sigurd so that he’ll let me come to Glyndebourne. Don’t forget that ships are she in English.’
He was on the aft deck. I led them up the officers’ gangplank, stifling my apprehension with faith in Maman to have him eating out of her hand in five minutes. Actually, it took thirty seconds: one sweep of her dark lashes as she shook his hand, English-style, an admiring glance round the ship, and a prettily accented ‘thank you’ for turning her vagabond daughter into a ship’s officer whose whereabouts she could follow on the Internet. He stared at her in disbelief, and said, ‘But you’re Eugénie Delafauve!’ Maman smiled and admitted it, and our stately captain actually blushed. ‘I have several of your recordings. This is a huge honour, madame.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Will you allow me to show you round your daughter’s ship?’
Death on a Shetland Isle Page 6