It was Magnie’s best story and he told it well, from the midsummer-eve opening by that green hillock, when a local fiddler was asked by a small, brightly clad man if he’d come and play at a wedding, through the description of the trowie celebrations to the man awakening by the knowe again, to find the landscape changed around him, old houses gone and new ones grown. ‘And he went back, that man, to his ain hoose, and the folk there stared at him, until the auld man by the fire minded tales o’ his own grandfather, who’d disappeared one night and never been seen again, and that was this very man.’
‘And what happened to him then?’ Sandra asked.
Magnie’s rare smile wrinkled up his weathered face. ‘You’re thinking he mebbe withered up in front of their eyes? Na, na. Well, they asked him to bide, he was their own kin, but he never settled. There was naebody he kent, you see. In the end he spent day after day ida kirkyard, joost lookin’ at the graves. Then, when midsummer came round again, he said he’d had enough. The trows would be glad o’ a good fiddler, he said, and midsummer eve they’d be out and about, if ever they were. He’d go up to the knowe and ask to be taken in. So that night up he went and that was the last they ever saw o’ him. But sometimes you’ll hear – and I’m heard it myself – you’ll hear a strain o’ fiddle music coming out of that very mound, or see lights moving around it, and I’m seen that too.’
He left a nicely judged pause, then turned to Peter. ‘O’ course you’re fairly right, it’s a cairn, as you say, mid-Neothlithic, maybe three and a half thousand years old.’ I didn’t bother being surprised at his knowledge; what a Shetlander didn’t know about his home turf wasn’t worth knowing.
‘But what is it?’ Anders persisted.
‘It’s a Neolithic burial chamber,’ Peter said, ‘not very big, because they did sky burials first, you know, exposing the bodies for the birds to pick, then once or twice a year there would be a big ceremony to take the bones into the house of the ancestors. What d’y say, Sand, shall we take a walk up there tomorrow? A nice stroll, to take the fidgets out of our legs.’
‘It’s further than it looks,’ I warned them. ‘You can’t go straight from here; you’d need to walk along the road, here, five miles or so –’ I turned the chart towards them. ‘Here, you’d go north from Brae, then strike out into the hills, towards the coast. If I remember right, there’s a house here –’ I indicated just below the trowie mound hill ‘– and it’ll have a track to it, from the head of the voe, here. Then you’d go straight up the hill to the trowie mound.’
‘A good way,’ Peter agreed. ‘A ten-mile walk. What d’y say, Sand, shall we take the tent? Camp up beside this cairn and give it a good explore. Can you get inside, d’y know, Cass?’
‘I have a vague memory,’ I admitted, ‘that you can. The boy from that house, just below it, well, he was at school with me, here in Brae, three, four years older, and I seem to remember him bringing in a carrier bag with a skull, and trying to scare us with it.’
‘A skull?’ Peter almost shouted.
‘He said it was full of bones,’ I said. ‘The other boys thought it sounded cool, but I don’t know if any of them could ever be bothered walking all that way out there to look.’
‘You mean,’ Peter said, his voice quivering, ‘that it hadn’t been excavated? That the bones of the people buried in it were still there?’
‘After five thousand years?’ I said. ‘Surely no.’
‘They could easily be,’ Sandra said. ‘We went to this amazing place in Orkney, the tomb of the eagles, and that had loads of skulls excavated from it. They could tell you all about the people – a young girl, and a man who’d had a broken arm, and a grandmother with arthritis.’
‘It could have been a sheep skull, though,’ I said, not wanting to get them too excited on the basis of my ignorance. ‘I really don’t know, and I bet Brian – that’s the boy whose house it was – I bet he didn’t know either. His mum moved away from there when he started school, they just used it as a holiday home.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Peter said, looking at Sandra. ‘We could get provisions in the morning, then head off – a picnic stop once we’re off the road – explore in the afternoon, and be home here before dusk.’
‘Okay, pet,’ she said.
2
Da stane at lies no’ in your gait braks no’ your toes.
(Old Shetland proverb: a warning not to interfere with things that are none of your business.)
Chapter Four
Tuesday 31 July
Tide times for Brae:
Low Water 02.06 0.5m
High Water 08.25 1.9m
Low Water 14.23 0.7m
High Water 20.35 2.1m
Moon waxing gibbous
The sheep-workers began early the next morning. I was woken by a fusillade of beeeh-ing from the hill up above me, and when I poked my head out of the hatch into the warm sun, sure enough, there was the cluster of pick-ups, a flock of sheep huddled together in the cro, with men in neon-orange overalls or navy boiler suits shoving between them, and the smell of Jeyes Fluid tainting the air. There was a quad in among it too, swooping around the hill, driving the loose ewes towards where the dogs could pick them up. The driver was slight and black-headed, in a dark blouson that inflated with the wind: Norman, the jet-skier from yesterday. I hoped he’d be up there all day, and give us peace.
It was another perfect sailing day, with a light, warm breeze from the south and the sun dazzling through the cabin windows. The tide was not far off the top of the slip; almost full moon. I hauled my jeans on over my night T-shirt, picked up my washing gear, and headed off round to the showers. Sandra was already there, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. ‘Nice morning,’ she said.
‘Just what the forecast promised,’ I agreed, and headed for the shower. I’d only just got my clothes off when the outer door opened again, and I heard Madge’s voice: ‘Hello, there. Are you the lady from the Rustler?’
More questions. I wondered if Magnie had been right, and they were undercover police. All three of us ending up in the showers together seemed a bit of a coincidence; no, more than that. Given that the pontoon quivered to each walker, you knew pretty well who was where, when, and you wouldn’t choose to go for the one shower cubicle when you knew there were two people already in the changing rooms.
‘Sandra Wearmouth,’ Sandra replied. ‘We’re from Newcastle. And you?’
‘Madge. We’ve just come up from Orkney.’
No point of origin again. I waited for a moment, but there was silence, a chinking sound as if Madge was laying out bottles, then her voice again, ‘Are you going far today?’
‘The boat’s staying in the marina,’ Sandra said, ‘but we were thinking of taking a walk up into the hills. My husband’s spotted a bit of archaeology he needs to investigate.’
‘Archaeology,’ Madge echoed, sounding startled, then she laughed. ‘Mine’s talking about testing his fish-finder. Me, I just make sure I’ve got my sun-tan cream and a good book.’
‘The best way,’ Sandra agreed. ‘Well, see you later –’ and the door opened and closed again. There was a short silence, then Madge said ‘Fuck,’ softly and clearly. There was a sound as if she was rummaging in her bag.
This was beginning to get awkward. I dropped my shampoo bottle noisily on the floor and pushed the button on the shower. The hot water gushed out. I soaped myself thoroughly, and even washed my hair, although it being capsize drill day meant it’d get wet again.
When I dripped out, towel wrapped round me, Madge was just taking her top off, jade green again, with a sky-blue velour suit laid ready on the slatted bench. I said, ‘Morning’, and was going to sidle past without looking, in the tactful way one does in communal changing rooms, but she turned with the air of one ready to chat. ‘Good morning, Cass. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’
‘Superb,’ I agreed.
‘Are you teaching here all day, then?’
‘Till five,’ I said. ‘How about you
? Are you heading off again?’
She gave a vague shrug. ‘David was talking about going further north, but we’re not in a hurry.’ She reached her left hand out for her purse. There was something wrong about the gesture, but I couldn’t analyse exactly what. ‘Do I need a coin to operate these showers?’
‘No, just push the button,’ I said. I expected her to go straight in, but she was still lingering, folding her top un-necessarily precisely, given that it was probably going straight in the wash.
‘It’s an interesting place here. Anything we need to explore while we’re in the area? You know, ancient chapels, or old burial sites?’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve got one of those,’ I conceded. Her pebble-grey eyes were suddenly shrewd. I turned my back towards the trowie mound and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘The church on the other side of the voe, the graves in the kirkyard there go back to sixteen-something, so I’ve been told.’
Her eyes went cold, and sharpened with mistrust. ‘That sounds interesting. We could stroll over there this morning. Anything else?’
I turned my back and began drying my hair. ‘Not that I know of.’ I could feel her eyes boring into my spine, but I focused on teasing out the wet strands, and after a few seconds she went into the shower.
When I came out I saw that David and Peter were already in conversation on the square pier in front of the clubhouse. David had the Bénéteau over, and was fuelling up, head lifted above the heavy plastic hose. Peter had one arm swept forward, pointing up towards the hill where the trowie mound was. David was nodding, eyes flicking from the hose to Peter’s face. I puzzled about it all the way back round the marina. Why were David and Madge so keen on keeping tabs on us all? Were they really police?
Peter and Sandra set off just as I was setting up the whiteboard to demonstrate today’s wind direction and no-go areas. Each had hiking boots and a little rucksack.
‘Have fun,’ I called as they passed.
‘We will,’ Peter said.
Sandra rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘See you later.’
They were just going out of the marina when Alex arrived, skidding around them on his bicycle, blond hair flying. He slid down to me in a slither of gravel and got off the bike by the simple method of dropping it. ‘Hey, Cass. Was that two the ones on the motorboat, then?’
‘No, the sailing boat,’ I said.
He gave them another long look, then turned to consider the Rustler. ‘Bet you could go to America in that.’
‘Bet you could,’ I agreed.
His lavender-blue eyes focused on me again. ‘Who’s in the motorboat, then?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Suddenly, surprisingly, he looked anxious. ‘Yes you do. You were in there, talking to them.’
‘Just a cup of coffee,’ I conceded.
‘Well, then, who are they?’
‘Just folk,’ I said. ‘They’ve come up from Orkney.’
His face swept itself clean, became innocently guileless. ‘See, I ken them. I’m seen them before, anyroad, when I was down at Brian’s. You ken Brian, my dad’s pal, that he worked with when he was south. They were at the school together. He’s up –’ He gestured up at the group of men clustered around the pen of sheep. ‘Well, we were haeing a holiday down there, where he lives, and that’s where I saw them.’ A pause to make up detail. ‘I mind the man.’
That would have been plausible enough if he hadn’t just asked who Peter and Sandra were. I remembered how his big brother had stared at the motorboat yesterday evening, and wondered if it was Norman who wanted to know.
‘I’ll even mind his name, if I think about it,’ Alex said. ‘It began with a B …’ He was watching my face intently, tacked quickly. ‘No, no, an M.’
‘Good guess,’ I agreed.
‘Morrison,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not quite right. Mackay.’ He waited for a second for me to correct him, then shook his head. ‘It’ll come back to me.’
‘Tell me if it does,’ I said. He kept staring at me. ‘If you go and rig your boat now, before the others arrive, you can get one of the new sails.’
Diverted, he ran off towards the boat shed. Now why on earth, I wondered, would Norman set Alex to find out about these two strangers? It was possible of course that they were police, and he knew it; maybe he’d seen them in uniform. I wouldn’t put it past Norman to be involved in something dodgy: drugs, for example.
I remembered the feeling I’d had this morning that there was something wrong about Madge’s reaching for her purse. I tried to see it again in my mind’s eye; the plump hand, ringless now, moving across the white basin. Was it just the lack of rings that had made it look different? Yes, but that wouldn’t nag at my memory. She’d taken her wedding ring off too – was that significant? Yes, that was what it was. Her hand was evenly tanned, and there was no sign of rings on any of the fingers, not even a white band or a dent where her wedding ring would normally have been, which meant, I reasoned, that she didn’t normally wear it.
Which, I supposed, meant that they were only pretending to be married. I remembered Magnie speculating about her age, that she was younger than she looked: a younger colleague and an older one, trying to pass for a middle-aged couple. What I wondered was what had brought them here to Brae.
We got a lot done by teatime. Anders had work to go to, and Rat decided to spend the day sleeping in a patch of sun in Khalida’s cockpit, but Magnie joined me in the rescue boat for a companionable day. We got the bairns organised into pairs and played follow-my-leader, with the rescue boat drawing them in zig-zags up towards Linga, then sailing goose-winged back towards the shore. Once they’d done that twice we drew the rescue boat back a bit and rocked gently, watching them and giving advice as each passed us. The sun was warm on the rubber decks; I leant back on my elbow and felt the rubber give squashily.
‘Must pump this boat up a bit.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt,’ Magnie agreed. He passed me over the pump and watched the bairns, eyes narrowed, as I set to work. ‘Alex, Graham, you’re pinching. Come off the wind a bit and you’ll go faster.’
‘Feels faster tilted,’ Alex called as he skidded by.
Magnie shrugged as he flapped his way around the bouy. ‘That’s Olaf o’ Scarvataing’s boy, isn’t it?’
I tried to remember the name of Olaf’s house. ‘Olaf Johnston, who was at school with me.’
‘Aye, Olaf o’ Scarvataing. He married a sooth lass, and I doot he didn’t treat her very well, for the word was it would have been divorce if she’d no’ been religious. They came back up here to mend matters, but he’d need to change a bit. He would never be told either, nor his father before him – he was at the school wi’ me, Steven. Ah, well, we’ll keep telling this boy and maybe he’ll change the family tradition.’
‘His older boy is being a total pain,’ I said. ‘Someone’s given him one of those jet-skis. He was weaving in around the dinghies, splashing everyone.’
‘That makes a change,’ Magnie said, ‘from charging about the hills on that quad o’ his.’
‘I saw him helping this morning,’ I said.
‘Helping?’ Magnie echoed scornfully. ‘No he! Scattering the sheep to the four winds, more like, and getting them that wild the dogs can do nothing with them. And if it’s no’ the quad, then he’s out wi’ a shotgun.’
‘There’s no shortage of rabbits,’ I said soothingly. I enjoyed watching them, first thing in the morning, grey humps with alert ears, nibbling the grass in the early sun.
Magnie snorted. ‘Rabbits! If it moves, he’s blasting off at it. I heard him yesterday evening, up by the trowie mound.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘He was in a bit o’ bother at the school too, wi’ things going missing, although there was nothing proved – you ken how careful they have to be these days. The other bairns kent fine it was him.’
I remembered that I’d wondered earlier if he was involved in something dodgy. ‘Any word of him being involved in drugs?’
�
�He could be,’ Magnie said. ‘There’s an awful lock o’ this young eens are. I’ll no’ take his character away though. I’m no’ heard that he is, just that the mothers are no’ keen on their lasses being onywye near him.’ He leaned over the edge of the rescue boat and roared loud enough to make me jump. ‘Boy! Wid du stop using these boats to play dodgems wi’!’ Alex tacked hastily away from Graham’s stern.
‘It couldn’t have been him shooting yesterday,’ I said. ‘He was hassling us with his jet-ski all evening.’
‘He goes along to the old Nicolson house below the trowie mound.’ Magnie sat upright again and glanced over to the marina. ‘You’d better get that whistle going. There’s someeen coming out – it’ll be that motorboat.’
The unmarked white nose was peeping round the rock corner of the marina. I signalled the bairns to cluster around the rescue boat, and David steered in a wide circle past us at a cautious pace. Madge waved from the cockpit. I watched where they went: to the right, out through the Rona and towards the Atlantic. The sea road was open to them now: Norway, Scotland, Faroe, America.
A thump behind us warned me the bairns were getting restive. I trailed them back inside the marina by scattering balls from the rescue boat for them to pick up, with the prize of two nearly-out-of-date Mars Bars from the boating club bar for the crew which picked up the most. The water had gone far enough down the slip to show the rummle of mud and green algae after the concrete ended, so we left the Picos bobbing from the pontoon, and ate our picnics sitting in the sun. After lunch we had another session going around buoys, and finished with capsize drill in the marina, with one dinghy tethered to a long line. That was the highlight of their day, in spite of the shrieks of horror as they felt the cold of the water. I timed them getting the boat sailing from upside down, and Alex won that one by twenty seconds. Then I chased them off home, damp and laughing, peeled myself out of my wetsuit, and headed over to Khalida.
The Trowie Mound Murders Page 4