Death on a Shetland Isle

by Marsali Taylor

  She put the phone away, and turned back to me. ‘So, she was booked to stay in the camping böd, but she came up on the ship with you. As a trainee?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think she came on board in Lerwick. A stowaway.’ I spread my hands. ‘We had one peg too few.’

  Sergeant Peterson raised her fair brows. ‘Explain.’

  I did my best, and she nodded. ‘So this woman didn’t have a pin to take, and took someone else’s, to avoid drawing attention to herself.’

  ‘She didn’t have to have help on board to know about that,’ Gavin said. ‘She could just have watched the other trainees going off, and copied them. With you standing there, she’d know it would have looked odd if she hadn’t taken one.’

  ‘But it would have caused just as much fuss if she’d taken someone else’s, and then they came along and theirs was missing,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it was coincidence that the peg she took was Oliver’s.’

  ‘But she was one of the last off the ship,’ Gavin said. ‘There would only have been a handful of trainee pegs to choose from. I think we should keep that as a possible coincidence, rather than proof that they were working together.’

  ‘But his peg being missing drew attention to him,’ Sergeant Peterson said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s not like the peg gave him an alibi – his alibi was that he was here, on the ship, in the full view of the officers on board, all morning.’

  ‘Tell Freya about the conversation you heard this morning,’ Gavin said.

  I did my best.

  ‘We’ve come too far to give up now,’ she repeated. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I can’t tell,’ I said. ‘I only caught that because it was hissed, slightly louder. I don’t know if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s.’

  ‘But someone was having second thoughts,’ Sergeant Peterson said. She nodded to herself, lowered her laptop screen, and looked over at Gavin. ‘So, what have we so far?’

  ‘A brother and sister,’ Gavin said. ‘The parents recently dead, in a car crash which so shocked the sister that she gave up her car. The parents’ will left the bulk of their estate to that sister, who’s the golden girl of the family, taking her place as a director of the firm, while her brother is still an office boy.’

  ‘And if she were to die, presumably the brother would inherit everything.’

  ‘Not to mention getting rid of the little sister who outshone you,’ I added. ‘Oliver would like to be king.’

  Sergeant Peterson gave me a look which reminded me I was the interviewee. I ignored it. ‘I don’t suppose Oliver has any mechanical skills?’

  ‘The car accident?’ Gavin asked.

  Too easy to tamper with. ‘If Laura suspected him of having caused the parents’ death and was worried he was going to make her have an accident too, that could be why she gave her car up.’ I’d had a car myself only briefly and illegally, in the longship time, but I knew how loath people were to give up driving.

  ‘I can find that out,’ Sergeant Peterson said, making a note. ‘It wouldn’t be unusual. Most young men can tinker a bit.’

  ‘Then there was the incident in the broch,’ Gavin said. He nodded an Over to you to me.

  ‘On Mousa?’ Sergeant Peterson said.

  ‘We stopped off there, yesterday,’ I said. I gave as clear an account as I could of what had happened, finishing with Laura’s words: ‘He tripped, I think. Yes, I’m certain … there was a scuffle and a clang behind me, then I felt him push me, and then we were both rolling downwards.’

  ‘What did you think happened?’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t see it. I was coming down above them. But I don’t see why he’d try to kill her there. The stairs are too narrow to fall far; she came off with a few bruises and a warning that he was a danger to her.’ Gavin began a nod, then suppressed it. I envisaged Oliver. ‘But Oliver’s an opportunist type. He might just have looked at this stone stair and decided it was worth a try.’

  ‘But the real plan was for here,’ Sergeant Peterson said. ‘Eastley got Reynolds on board surreptitiously and established an alibi, while Reynolds did the actual murder.’ She wrinkled her ruler-straight nose. ‘A girlfriend, a wife. Andy will pick that up, if there’s a legal connection between them.’

  ‘If there was a known connection,’ Gavin pointed out, ‘then his alibi would do him no good. It would be an obvious conspiracy.’

  ‘OK, I think we’re done. Gavin?’

  He read me back what he’d written in a deadpan voice, and I signed it. Sergeant Peterson raised her head. ‘Well, thank you, Cass. Can you send in Mona now?’

  I nodded and left them to it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I’d vaguely noticed the bustle of people tramping about on deck – the trainees being ferried over to the hall for the evening dance. The last inflatable-full was loading as I came out on deck. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was only 19.45. Handover time. I went up to relieve Petter, and found Alain by the nav shack too, long legs stretched out towards the sea rail, a cup of coffee in hand. He looked up and smiled as I came up the stairs. ‘Third degree over?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Must be awkward, being interviewed by your boyfriend,’ Petter said.

  ‘He wasn’t allowed to ask any questions,’ I said. ‘What was the forecast?’

  ‘Calm now, rising to a 3 gusting 4 later, visibility poor through the night.’ He nodded southwards. ‘Mist rolling in.’

  I looked and saw a grey cloud blotting out the sea. It was the Shetland east coast haar, caused by warm air from Spain. It blew up the Channel, gathering moisture on the way, which it released as fog when it came to our colder waters. Unfortunately, the airport was on the east coast, so you could have several days of no newspapers or mail from the south, to say nothing of a lot of people waiting at Sumburgh or taking the boat instead. The mist stopped at the central spine of Shetland; the west side could be basking in sunshine while the east was steekit.

  ‘That’s not going to help their search,’ Alain said. He tilted his chin up towards the helicopter, distant in the sky, rotor blades whirling.

  ‘Here come the land force,’ Petter said.

  A navy coastguard pick-up was moving on the road, followed by the shuttle bus we’d used earlier. We watched as the two vehicles came to a halt by the Interpretative Centre, and a dozen people in blue boiler suits clambered out. ‘The search team?’ Alain said.

  I nodded. ‘I’ll tell Captain Sigurd.’

  He’d come out while we were speaking, and was on deck, watching. He turned to me as I moved towards him. ‘Ms Lynch. I think there should be representatives of the ship with the search party. I will send you, Mr Andersen and Mr Martin. My compliments, please, to Ms Solheim, and I would be obliged if she would take over the ship from Mr Martin.’

  ‘Sir,’ I said. I headed below, found Agnetha and gave her the message, nodded into Jenn’s office to tell Gavin I was going with the search party, grabbed my black jacket from my cabin, sprayed myself liberally with anti-midge stuff, shoved the canister in my pocket to share with those who hadn’t yet met a Shetland midgie, and reappeared in time to clamber into the inflatable.

  The last drift of wind had died. A gull creaked as it flew over, then settled on its own reflection, beady eyes watching us. When we arrived at the pier, we were instantly attacked by midges, clouds of them, zooming in like fighter pilots. Alain swore in Spanish, and I passed him the spray. ‘Don’t miss your ears.’

  The search party had got their gear on now: black overall trousers with a high-vis strip around the mid-calf, neon-yellow jackets and blue helmets with head torches strapped to the front. One was getting a yellow duffel bag marked ‘Stretcher’ out of the pick-up, another two were comparing OS maps, and a third was pulling on a chunky first aid rucksack. Another was giving out hand-held torches. No time was being wasted; they knew exactly what they were doing, and what they would need for the task.

 
; One, still dressed in his blue boiler suit, was directing operations. Nils explained who we were, and he introduced himself: Jon, the senior coastal operations officer. He was splitting his team into three groups to cover more of the island quickly, with local help. A dozen locals were standing in a bunch, waiting. We watched as he divided them, allotting the jobs of communications, first aid and navigation within each group.

  ‘Right,’ he said, once that was done. ‘Everyone ready? Radio check first – channel 99.’

  There was a minute of crackling and buzzing as each communications person checked in on a neon hand-held.

  ‘Good. We have two missing women, last seen together. They’re both in their mid to late twenties.’ The communications person in each group was scribbling this in a notebook. ‘They were last seen heading along the road towards the east end of the island. One, Laura Eastley, was half expected back at the hall for lunch, but didn’t turn up; we don’t know any plans for the other one, possibly called Anna Reynolds. Laura was definitely expected back at five, so she’s three hours overdue, maybe longer. Laura was wearing a powder-blue jacket, Anna a navy jumper, and perhaps a yellow oilskin jacket.’

  He gave a look around to check they’d got that, and his team nodded. ‘The chopper did an infra-red sweep but found nothing. We have some possible sightings, but there have been trainees all round the island this morning, and it seems several of them have light blue jackets. We’ve got three teams of ten, so that’ll help us cover the ground. We’ll begin the search at the ends of the road, with teams sweeping northwards and southwards, and a team in the central area.’ He looked at the locals. ‘Are there any of you who live at the east end? We can put five of you with each team.’

  Several of the crofters in boiler suits and boots stepped forward. Jon nodded to Alain and Nils to join them.

  ‘Take the ropes and investigate the cliffs. Keep in contact.’ He gave a glance out at the sea, where the mist was moving steadily closer, but didn’t comment. The parties clambered into the shuttle bus and local cars, and set off in procession along the road. He turned to my team. ‘You search the central section of the island.’ He looked around at the locals. ‘Five of you, and Cass.’

  ‘I’ll go with that team too,’ a voice said from the shadow by the phone box. Oliver stepped out into the light. His face was drawn, his mouth pulled down at the corners and his eyes reddened, as if he’d been crying.

  I could see from Jon’s face that he wasn’t sure that was a good idea. They hoped, of course, that they would find Laura tucked under a peat bank with a turned ankle and mild hypothermia, and Anna staying to look after her, but they had also to be realistic. If it had only been a broken ankle, if Anna was an innocent tourist, she’d have phoned or come for help by now. Finding his sister’s body might be the shock that pushed Oliver over the edge. ‘I think, sir, that you should remain here, so that you can get any news as soon as it comes in. This will be the command centre.’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘I want to come with you. I want to make sure we look everywhere.’

  ‘We’ll do that, sir.’ Jon put a hand on his arm and nodded to one of the women hovering in the hall doorway, the woman with the Viking house under her lawn, on duty again for the evening dance. ‘You have a cup of tea, and wait for news.’

  Oliver’s shoulders sagged. He allowed the woman to lead him into the hall, talking soothingly. ‘They ken fine what they’re doing. Now you just come in and think of what you’ll say to your sister when she arrives, giving you a fright like this …’

  Once he was safely away, Jon took his radio out. ‘Shetland Coastguard, this is Baltasound Base.’

  ‘Shetland Coastguard, receiving you. Go to channel 67, over.’

  Jon changed channels. ‘Shetland Coastguard, we’re heading out to search. The team personnel are—’ His eyes went over them and he reeled off a list of numbers, followed by the number of locals. ‘Over.’

  The radio crackled. ‘Shetland Coastguard. Roger. Message received. Attempt contact every thirty minutes.’

  ‘Will do. Baltasound Base out.’

  Jon went back to our briefing. ‘Your group, take the bus up to the airstrip, go straight north past the Fiddler’s Crus, up to the chambered cairn on Vord Hill, then down to Funzie Girt, the Neolithic wall. Check both sides of it, then once you reach the sea sweep back over, heading due south to the school road.’

  We bumped up the road and along the airstrip in the minibus, then clambered out at the end of it and assembled into a line, the four coastguard men spread out with two locals between each pair. The visibility was still reasonable, though the white cloud lay heavy along the tops of the hills.

  ‘We’ll close up if we need to,’ our leader said, ‘but to search thoroughly we need to keep no more than twenty metres apart anyway.’

  We spread out, and suddenly the hill seemed much wider. What could this thin strip of people manage against this broad moor, riddled with burn-gullies and heathery knowes, where even the lowest crumbled peat bank could hide someone lying beside it? I’d never measured before how small a human body was, compared to this rough wilderness. We tramped steadily on in our line, eyes flicking from the figure at each side back to the ground at our feet: the knee-high tussocks of pink-tinted heather, the trickles of burn, the spread of marshy ground, lime-yellow with moss, the grey stones jutting up, the black wedges of exposed peat. There was no time to pick a long way around the marshy places. If I could jump from one tussock of grass to another, I did; if not, I waded through. Soon I felt the first cold water oozing through my socks.

  Tramp on, on, looking and looking. From time to time the radio crackled, reporting the position of the other parties. The air was cold on my cheek. We came to the Fiddler’s Crus, where criminals used to be sentenced. The white stone was the judge’s seat. The circles were clear enough, three low walls overgrown with turf, with the stones jutting through like teeth. We went around each one, but there was nobody there, so we climbed on, up to the ruined chambered cairn on Vord Hill, then down to Funzie Girt, the Finns’ magical wall, a great dyke with the top foot made of fells. Three of the locals went to the other side of it; the rest of us remained on this side and walked along it. We paused for a breather when we reached the sea, then worked east again, along a jagged section of steep banks, until we met up with the first group. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to find we’d only been walking for an hour.

  As we set out homewards, the mist closed in, rolling across the sea and filling the bay with cobweb grey, so that Sørlandet’s masts were blotted out, then her hull, and then it spread to the pebble shore. The summer noises of soft wind and terns chittering were blotted out; the green of the hills around us faded to white, and the temperature dropped abruptly from a summer evening to autumn chill, with moisture clinging to our cheeks and lashes.

  ‘Gather round,’ our leader said. We clustered around him. ‘Keep within sight of each other, and close in if the mist thickens. For now, not more than ten metres apart. We won’t cover as broad a sweep of ground, but we won’t lose each other either.’ He fished in his pocket and brought out a bag of plastic pea-whistles. ‘Have one of these each. Blow it if you lose touch with either of the people on each side of you.’

  He fished in his pocket again and brought out three hand-held compasses. He gave one to me. ‘Cass, you take the right-hand end of the line, and Brian, you take the left hand. I’ll go in the middle. Keep us heading south-south east – 157 degrees.’ He raised his head to speak generally. ‘We’ll come down the side of Busta Hill, cross the burn – the left-hand end, you’ll be crossing two burns – and come up the Muckle Scord. We’ll pause and gather at the top of it, then spread again to come down the side of it to Skutes Water, and the school road.’

  We spread out into our line and set off. I was having to force my tired legs to keep moving. We came briskly down the hill. I had one eye on the compass needle, the other on the neon figures to my left. The mist cleared as we reached
the cleft of the valley and the burn running down to the loch, a grey pool in the distance. I scooped up some of the peaty burn water to drink as we passed, rubbed my wet hand over my face, and trudged on. Uphill now, feet thudding down in the heather or speeding up slightly as they found a sheep track. As we climbed the steep slope, the mist thickened. It was disorientating; you couldn’t tell what size things were as they loomed up in the distance. What I took to be a pony grazing became smaller as we got closer, and shrank to the end of a stone wall, less than my hip height. Now I could see only my nearest three searchers, then two. All along, the line was tightening up. I moved in closer, five metres, to keep in touch with my left-hand neighbour, and trudged on.

  We paused at the ridge of the hill. I leant over, bracing my hands on my thighs, and tried to steady my breathing. The grass was too chilled to sit down on, and I feared that if I sat, I’d never rise. Our leader counted us. ‘Sixteen. Good.’ He fished in his pocket and passed round a handful of bite-sized fruit bars. ‘Last stretch, folk, just one mile more, and downhill too, to make it easy for us. Keep south-south east till we reach the Haltadans and Skutes Water, Cass and Brian, then we follow the burn east to the school.’ He gave an anxious look into the whiteness. ‘If anyone gets separated, keep going downhill, blowing your whistle. We’ll gather again at the burn.’ He let us all look at the map again to fix this last piece in our heads, then we spread out and set off. My compass hand was growing numb in the mist-chilled wind; I tucked it as far into my sleeve as it would go and stumbled downhill, keeping the compass needle steady.

  Suddenly the wind intensified, the mist swirled and blotted everything out. The neon vest beside me disappeared. I heard a whistle from my left and pulled my own out to answer, a good, sharp blast, then paused to think. It was no good me trying to walk towards the sound; in mist, sound played tricks on you. I stood still and listened. I could hear footsteps, but they seemed to be behind me – no, to my right. I turned my head to stare in that direction, but there was nothing, and unless I’d turned – and I was sure that I hadn’t – then my next person was to my left. I raised the compass. South-south east. I faced that way and turned my head over my left shoulder. Nothing; and the noise of the whistle had faded into the whiteness too. I was on my own.