‘I’m not that high up,’ Gavin said, ‘but I don’t see why not.’ He looked at me. ‘Monday. What’s our schedule, Cass?’
‘Sailing first thing from Fetlar, around the top of Unst, past the cliffs of Eshaness and into Hillswick for a Shetland meal and an evening’s entertainment at the St Magnus Bay Hotel. More fiddles, and a local guide to tell us stories. Oh, and a visit to the wildlife sanctuary in the morning, to see their seals and otters.’
‘When do you get into Hillswick?’ Inga asked.
‘18.00,’ I said. ‘We’ll anchor up in the bay and ferry folk to the beach in the dinghies.’
Inga made a face. ‘You won’t be going ashore in Fetlar on the Monday morning?’
I shook my head.
‘OK,’ Inga said, ‘then we’ll make you our last kidnap, Gavin. If you get the first boat ashore, we’ll take you from Hillswick. We’re holding everyone at a secret location, then doing the big release for the TV cameras at eight, in time for the evening news. We’ll definitely be on the Scottish news, and we’re hoping for the BBC an’ aa.’ She got up. ‘Thanks to you. Enjoy your weekend, and see you on Monday.’
Gavin made a You’re welcome gesture, and rose as she did. ‘See you then,’ I agreed.
We watched her walk along the pontoon, get into her car, and drive off. The sky had cleared while we’d been talking, and the first faint star shone out above the hills. Gavin’s arms slid around my waist and drew me back against his chest. ‘Do you think we’ll be allowed to go to bed now?’
‘Definitely bedtime,’ I agreed, and turned to kiss him.
PART THREE
Bluff and Counter-bluff
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday 31st July, Lerwick
Low water 03.45 BST (0.6 m)
High water 09.28 (2.0 m)
Low water 15.56 (0.7 m)
High water 22.13 (2.0 m)
Moonrise 02.58; sunrise 04.45; moonset 19.31; sunset 21.36
Crescent moon
Ah, it was good to wake in my own Khalida, even if it took me a moment to orientate myself to being in the forepeak berth. I lifted my head to look out through the open companionway. It had to be just before four; the last rags of darkness still clung to the land, but the sky and sea were both milk-white. Gavin was warm beside me; I curled up into his back and dozed again until six, when the alarm went off. We kissed, and stayed in bed for a bit longer, then he rose, wrapping his kilt round him, and went out into the cockpit to turn the gas on. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Luxury.’ I stretched lazily, then sat up to shove the foredeck hatch open. Cold air flowed in on me. It was clear daylight now, with the makings of a bonny day. The sky was streaked with parallel bands of cloud, dazzling white in the east; the grey sea was glass-calm within the marina, but fretted with a light wind in the voe. A tirrick dived with a splash just astern of us, and rose again with a fish glinting it its beak.
We showered in the clubhouse, then had breakfast facing each other across my little prop-leg table. Everything was blessedly familiar: the china bowls with the faint gold rim, the faded navy cushions, the locker smell on the cardboard cereal cartons. Gavin looked across at me and smiled. ‘Home?’
‘Home,’ I agreed. ‘But Sørlandet is home too, only in a different sort of way. Workplace-home, without the chance of going home-home every night.’ I drew my finger along the gold-grained wood. ‘It’s good to be back.’
Gavin looked down at the tea in his mug, and swirled it round between his brown hands. ‘If you could keep Khalida, could you bear to give up Sørlandet?’
I couldn’t answer. Of course I could still sail the wide oceans in Khalida, but she was small and slow. If I took off on her, it would be a year, two years, three, before I came back. Sørlandet was a better key to adventure: Tierra del Fuego, the storms of the Roaring Forties, the Polynesian islands. I’d see tropical stars again, and feel that velvety warmth in the night. There would be flying fish on the decks … but in Khalida, they’d be on my own decks, and I’d have the immensity of the ocean all to myself.
The silence stretched between us. ‘I don’t know,’ I said at last. ‘It’s not the boat, it’s the sea. The ocean, out there, calling me.’ I looked straight at him. ‘But I’m thinking about it.’ I spread my hands. ‘I’m trying … will that do?’
He nodded. ‘That’ll do.’ Suddenly, he leapt up. ‘Creator Lord, is that the time? Your Dad’ll be here any moment.’
Dad drove us in, with Gavin in the front beside him, talking about turbines. Cat sulked beside me in the back. His projected morning had included a lengthy foray along the shore – the point at which I’d grabbed him – and no doubt a casual pass by the sheltered housing in case any sympathetic pensioner had a bit of fish or saucer of milk to spare. Not even Inga’s fish consoled him. He folded his front paws, greeted my attempts at reconciliation with a warning flick of his tail, and was out of the car and trotting up Sørlandet’s gangplank the second I opened the door.
Alain was on duty now, watching us arrive from the aft deck, a cup of coffee in his hand. It irked me to have him come to the gangplank to meet us. ‘Hey, Cass.’ He held out his hand to Gavin. ‘Rafael Martin, third mate.’
They shook hands. Gavin gave him a long, thoughtful look, face closed into that police blank honed on provocative teenagers after pub closing time. I couldn’t read what he was thinking. ‘Gavin Macrae.’
I could see Alain not being sure what to make of him. He’d seen the kilt as a Scottish joke, but Gavin’s air of being somebody to reckon with, an eagle surveying his own world, made him pause to reassess. He shot a quick glance at me, another back at Gavin. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a police officer.’
‘We come in all sizes,’ Gavin said equably.
‘Glad to meet you,’ Alain said. ‘Cass has told me all about you.’
I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Gavin’s arm went round my waist. ‘Chatting? That doesn’t sound like you.’
His tone was light. I strived for an equal casualness. ‘Oh, I didn’t need to chat. Tall ships are a hotbed of gossip. They’d have had you a chief superintendent, at the very least.’
Round one to us. Alain stepped back from the gangway and launched into round two. ‘You all set to give us this tour of Lerwick, then, Cass?’
‘Oh,’ I said, disconcerted. ‘Aren’t you on duty?’
‘You’re not the only one who can hand over to a watch leader,’ he retorted.
Dash. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, without having to worry about what mischief Alain would be stirring against Gavin behind my back. I went into officer mode. ‘All well during the night?’
His eyes danced. ‘The price of British drink was appreciated.’
By which he meant, I supposed, that everyone had hangovers; though naturally not Petter, who was waiting for me up on the aft deck. I reported in, thanked him for letting me have the night off, and promised to do the same for him sometime. Captain Sigurd did the official morning muster and headcount, then Gavin and I headed out onto the pier to gather my group together.
We were moored in the centre of Lerwick, looking straight across the Esplanade car park at the line of shops along what had once been the waterfront. A shiny red bus with snail horns protruding from its forehead was squatting on the pier, waiting to take trainees on a ‘Historic Shetland’ trip down to St Ninian’s Isle and Jarlshof. For those who preferred, I’d offered to guide a walk around Lerwick. When we gathered on the pier I found I had most of my watch and a handful from the other watches, twenty-four in total, all looking at me as if I was an expert. It was paralysingly unnerving, and Alain’s eye on me didn’t help.
I began by explaining the buildings we could see. Facing us was the road going up into Commercial Street, known locally as Da Street, with the Market Cross in the middle, and the tourist office behind. Moving to the right, I showed them Don Leslie’s, where we bought sweeties as children, then the white harbourmaster’s house. The town
ran upwards in a ladder of grey rooftops, up to the red Victorian baronial crenellations of the town hall.
I was just pointing out The Shetland Fudge Company for take-home presents when I saw Daniel coming out of the narrow lane beside it, walking quickly as if he was worried he’d be late. He saw our group and stopped dead, eyes scanning us all in an irresolute way, as if he hadn’t expected so many of us. His gaze sharpened on Oliver, pointing out a bobbing guillemot to Laura, then he saw me looking, and turned his head away. It was as if he’d gone out to get some information and wanted to report back privately, before the tour began, only he’d left it too late. He might, of course, have been up photographing the town hall in the early sun, or admiring the flower park, but he’d shown no signs of being an enthusiastic photographer. He’d mentioned climbing, so I supposed a quick, illegal ascent of the fort wall before anyone was up was just possible, but he wasn’t carrying any rope. He couldn’t have been shopping so early. Nothing opened till nine o’clock, and if he’d been after a daily paper he was definitely out of luck; they didn’t arrive till ten.
I was thinking this through while I was still describing the fudge known as Trow’s Bogies, and Oliver turned at last to look. His gaze passed indifferently over Daniel – too indifferently? Then Daniel’s head went up. He’d seen something on the pavement opposite us. Someone? I scanned the seafront: a group of people waiting at the bus stop, a woman in a red jacket using the TSB cash machine, several teenagers sitting on Don Leslie’s windowsill, a mother with a pram going up towards the Market Cross, a yellow jacket coming down from the tourist office.
Daniel eased himself back into the shadows, but I could still make out the paler blur of his face, watching us.
I’d tell Gavin about this later.
We went left first, past the shop with the huge K-boot on its wall, past the peerie dock, filled now with yachts fluttering the flags of every nation, and up by the Queens Hotel to the flagged road that was bounded by Lerwick’s oldest houses on one side and sandy beaches on the other. We paused at the Lodberrie so that I could point out the window slits in the store for drying hung fish, and the pulley and double doors just above high-tide level for loading goods into boats and getting cargoes ashore. We walked past the beach of clear, clear water washing over coloured stones, and saw the Foula mailboat doing duty as a shed roof, and the projecting rock known as the Duke’s Neb, in doubtful compliment to His Grace of Wellington.
It was at that point I began to get a prickling feeling between my shoulder blades. I resisted the urge to turn and look. ‘These big houses were built as merchants’ town residences, but this one’s a children’s home now, and that’s a hotel.’
While I spoke, I glanced backwards, and caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye, that Formica yellow of an oilskin jacket, slipping out of sight around the corner. There had been someone in yellow coming down from the tourist office – the person Daniel had been watching out for?
‘A children’s home?’ Oliver asked, in my ear.
I turned to face him, seeing out of the corner of my eye that Gavin’s head was up, and he too was looking in the direction of the yellow flash, mouth closed in a thoughtful line.
I tried to remember what I knew about Leog. ‘There’s a respite centre for children with special needs, and there’s one for …’ I tried to think of a PC equivalent for ‘bad bairns’, and substituted, ‘children who’ve been in trouble.’ I turned my head to nod at the steel-encased drainpipes, and caught that yellow flash again. ‘The boxing round the drainpipes is because one of the residents took to climbing up onto the roof.’
Gavin nodded, with the air of someone who’d been called out to rooftop children. Alain gave it a quick upwards glance. If he’d been sent there, he’d have climbed it too, and danced on the roof afterwards.
I kept going, leading them on at a gentle stroll, with a weather-eye cocked behind me. We went past the town’s first bank, with the safe reputedly still in the basement, past the former sheriff’s house to Battery Close, where there had been a gun emplacement in the World Wars, and back up by one of the town’s steep lanes, to show them where the poor lived, ten to a room, with an open sewer running down between the houses. Finally, we reached the town hall, and I ushered them in between the dolphin lamp posts. I gave a last, casual look behind me as I reached the top step. Nothing; then there was a flash of yellow, as someone in a waterproof jacket turned their back to me and dived into Pitt Lane. I knew Gavin had seen it too; he gave me a bright glance, but said nothing.
Male, female? I couldn’t be certain.
We followed my group through the imposing doorway. ‘Downstairs is the council chamber.’ They had a quick peek in, then we climbed the wide stone steps into a blaze of stained glass light. I gave them a moment to take in the beamed ceiling with its painted shields, and the intricate rose window, which cast a patterned carpet on the polished floor. ‘These are Victorian images of some of the key figures in our Norse history.’ I gestured towards the left-hand corner and hoped nobody would ask searching questions.
‘He’s got a raven on his head!’ Laura said.
‘He’s Harald Fairhair, who first settled Shetland. They used ravens to navigate.’ I knew this bit. ‘They knew Shetland was two days’ journey from Norway, so they’d row or sail out to sea for a day and a half, then release a raven. It would fly in the direction of land, and they’d follow it.’
‘Like Noah’s ark,’ the teacher commented.
‘The next pair are bishops.’ The mitres were a clue. ‘That’s Bishop William the Old of Orkney, who went on a crusade with Earl Rognvald. Earl Rognvald was a poet and adventurer, and he was the one who built St Magnus Cathedral, in Orkney, in honour of his murdered uncle.’ I turned to point Earl Rognvald out: ‘Over there, with the Arab headdress, and the chain-mail socks.’
They revolved obediently to look, which gave me the chance to skip the next couple of windows, a Norse husband and wife and a couple of warriors with shields, about whom I had no information whatever.
‘The girl in the alcove window is the Maid of Norway, Margaret, who died in Orkney on her way to marry Edward of England.’ I had a sudden blank as to which Edward. ‘Then King Haakon, and Earl Rognvald, the crusader, and this last one is the marriage window, commemorating how Shetland went from being Norse to being Scottish.’ I’d learnt this bit off, because people always wondered why the isles were so Norse. ‘Princess Margaret of Denmark and Norway became engaged to King James III of Scotland in 1468, and her father had no money for her dowry, so he pawned the Northern Isles to Scotland.’ Nearly done. ‘Tradition has it the windows were set the wrong way round, which is why they’re looking away from each other.’
I gave them a bit of time to admire and photograph, then ushered them all forwards in front of me, pausing at the door to wait for Alain, who was still admiring Earl Rognvald.
‘Sounds an interesting bloke,’ he commented. He turned to look at me. ‘Have you read any of his poetry?’
I gave him a for goodness’ sake look. ‘Do I look like I read poetry?’
‘You might have hidden depths.’
I shook my head. ‘Norse poetry’s not in them. As far as I can gather, the Vikings spent most of their time behaving like quarrelsome three-year-olds.’
‘Shame on you, deriding our heritage like that.’ Our? I turned quickly towards him, but he was already starting towards the door.
Our last stop was just two minutes away: past the Garrison Theatre, where our Brownie pack had shrieked with laughter at the panto every Christmas, and down to Fort Charlotte. I ushered them towards the arched stone gateway. ‘This fort belongs to the Territorial Army now. It was first built for the Dutch wars, then rebuilt for the American ones. Now look at this for a view.’
We all paused to admire the sound, with Bressay green across the water, and Sørlandet’s masts soaring over the grey roofs of the town. The group took photos of the battlement wall, and the black cannons against the
dancing sea, and I juggled cameras for one of all of us, with Sørlandet behind – and then, glory be, my stint was over.
‘Just down there,’ I said, pointing to Da Street, ‘is Lerwick’s main shopping street.’ I led them through the arch, down the last ten metres of cobbles, pointed them forwards to souvenirs, knitwear and The Shetland Times Bookshop, and waved them off with a sigh of relief.
‘Hey,’ Laura said, beside me, ‘why don’t we go for a coffee somewhere?’ She looked round and spotted Fine Peerie Cakes behind us. ‘You’ve done a great job, you deserve a rest and a piece of cake.’
‘I certainly do.’ I flicked a glance at Gavin, and turned to Laura. ‘Better still, a hot chocolate with cream on top.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gavin nod.
‘Great idea,’ Oliver said heartily. ‘On you go, Laura. We’ll find you and Cass a nice cafe somewhere, and I’ll inspect the shops, and take you along to the best knitwear.’
‘There’s a cafe right there,’ she retorted, ‘and I’m not taking fashion hints from any man who thinks cabbage green is a colour.’
Fine Peerie Cakes was a little friendly place with flowered oilcloth covering the tables, plump china teapots and an array of cupcakes with whirl-piled icing. We sat down at the window, and in three minutes the woman in charge came bustling over with two fat cups smelling deliciously of chocolate, and lippering over with swirled cream.
‘My favourite cure-all,’ I said. I took a sip of chocolate and cream mixed, and leant back with a sigh. ‘Goodness, that was exhausting. Give me a race in a force 7 any day.’
Laura laughed. ‘Yes, I’m beginning to feel my ankle again. I thought it was fine, but maybe not.’
‘Your fall yesterday?’
She nodded, and smiled. ‘I’m used to skiing falls. Stone staircases are much harder.’ The smile changed to a frown. ‘But I’m still not sure how I came such a cropper. Whether I tripped and fell, and brought Oliver down, or whether he fell on top of me. It all happened too fast.’
Death on a Shetland Isle Page 9