The Trowie Mound Murders

by Marsali Taylor

  It was Olaf Johnston, looming out of the bright evening. As his broad shoulders filled the doorway, the light blanked out, turning him into a dark, menacing shape. I’d always been a bit wary of him at school; he and Brian were too swaggering, too almost-leaving full of themselves. I wriggled out backwards, feeling caught at a disadvantage, and turned to face him as I rose. ‘Hi.’

  He came closer in to me than I liked, not a hand’s length away, and he’d grown taller than I remembered, so that my head barely reached his shoulders, and I had to tilt my head back to look at him. He was looking me up and down like a killer whale eyeing up a plump seal. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making me retreat.

  ‘Noo dan,’ he replied in a tone that was on the neutral side of friendly. ‘Is this you fixing up the bairns’ dinghies?’

  ‘Just a few odd repairs,’ I said. I lifted the rope to show him. It was an old halyard, gritty with cement dust from the floor, but sound enough. ‘I don’t ken what the bairns do to their painters. Use them for chewing gum, I think.’

  He smiled at that, a sideways smile which made him look like a Viking planning a raid on a rich monastry. Norman hadn’t got his colouring from his dad; Olaf was the traditional Norse-descent variety of Shetland man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a ruddy outdoor complexion and a bushy head of hair coloured somewhere between fair and red. His eyes were the same narrowed grey-green as Norman’s, though, and he had the same hooked nose. He reeked of Lynx, and was wearing an all-over Fair Isle like Magnie’s, hoops of blue pattern on a white ground. He and Brian had always worn all-overs to school, in spite of them being well out of fashion by then, and totally impractical in the sauna-heat classrooms, and they’d both spoken the broadest possible dialect. It was part of their hard-crofter image. His jeans looked straight from the wash, and he was wearing black shoes rather than rubber boots or trainers. That was reassuring; he looked more like someone on his way to an evening class or a five-hundred night than someone who was going to give me grief about being mean to his bairns.

  He took the rope from me and began coiling it. ‘That’s a fine piece, should do you several painters. Alex is fairly enjoying the classes.’

  ‘He’s a natural,’ I said. ‘I can’t remember you sailing when we were at school, but he’s definitely got it in the blood.’

  Olaf shook his head. ‘Me late father was the one for sailing. I crewed in our Shetland model for a bit, before the class collapsed here at Brae, but I’m no’ done much since, just crewing for Peter o’ Wast Point. That was a fine race the other night. We thought we’d caught you until you got the spinnaker up.’

  ‘I enjoy working the kite,’ I agreed. He handed me the rope back, and I took it out into the evening sunshine, slanting down between the yacht masts and catching the dust on the water lapping at the top of the slip. A boat length was plenty for a painter. I measured it against the nearest Pico; yes, I’d get three from it. All the time I was waiting to hear what Olaf had come about. The silence stretched uneasily out as I laid the rope in a triple line along the tarmac.

  He broke it at last. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m come about. I was wondering if you were free on Saturday, you ken, Voe Show day.’

  It was the last thing I’d expected. The local agricultural show was a big day out, with competitions for every kind of farm and domestic animal, garden flowers and produce, knitting, photography, and craft work, as well as a griddle frying fish and minute steak, and teas, sandwiches, and fancies in the hall. Anders and I were planning to be there, along with everyone else in the show catchment area.

  ‘I was certainly thinking to go,’ I said.

  ‘Kirsten’s working with the Lifeboat stall,’ Olaf said. It took me a moment to remember that Kirsten was his wife, the dark woman who’d refused communion. ‘You ken, it’s in aid of the Aith Lifeboat, and I thought you might be willing to spell her for a bit, if you were going to be there. It’s a long day, she’ll have to set the stall up for nine o’clock, so that folk have something to look at while the judging’s going on, and then it doesn’t close till four in the afternoon. She’d be blyde of a hand, and I thought, well, I was coming down the marina anyway, and it would be worth trying to see if you’d maybe help, with your interest in boats.’

  They are not good people for you to associate with. It wasn’t done to wonder about other people’s sins, but I wondered now why Kirsten had refused communion, yet still gone up for a blessing. What had she on her conscience? Whatever it was, I’d have betted my last anchor rope on Olaf having coerced her into it. It would have been divorce if she’d no’ been religious …

  ‘That would be no bother,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if I’d manage the whole day, but I could easy give a hand for a couple of hours. When would she like me there for?’

  ‘Oh, now, I forgot to ask that.’ His voice made it a dead give-away. He saw me hearing that, and covered smoothly. ‘I’ll get her to come down and arrange that – or do you have a mobile?’

  ‘I do,’ I said, ‘but I can never remember the number offhand.’ I wasn’t going to give my number to Norman’s family. I ken how you got that scar – ‘I’ll be seeing Alex tomorrow. Just tell Kirsten to tell him what time she wants me.’

  ‘That’s fine of you,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Kirsten that.’ He indicated the rope I’d laid out with one broad hand. ‘Are you going to cut that? I have some whipping twine in the pick-up. I’ll gie you a hand.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  We settled together on the bench outside the changing rooms. All the time I was conscious of his eyes on me. W hatever he had come to say, it wasn’t said yet. I cut the rope in three and swittled it in the sea, so that it smelt of salt rather than of dust, then we whipped the ends. ‘It’s a few years since we shared a techy bench at the school,’ Olaf said.

  His tone made me uneasy all over again. We’d never been mates, and we’d never shared a workbench.

  ‘You were a bit older than I was,’ I said. ‘You were left by the time I got to woodwork stage.’ I’d enjoyed technical; it gave me a chance to make bits for the boat. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it with Olaf and Brian swaggering about the classroom.

  ‘I mind you fine,’ Olaf said. ‘Cool Cass, that’s what we called you between ourselves, Brian and I.’ He gave an abrupt laugh that seemed to have nothing to do with merriment. ‘We got Inga screaming wi’ that trick wi’ the bones from the trowie mound, but no’ you. You didna turn a hair.’

  ‘I’d seen plenty of sheep skulls out on the hill,’ I said.

  He grinned, like a Viking about to throw his favourite enemy to the wolfhounds.

  ‘Well, now, I don’t know that I’d say for sure it was human bones. Brian said he’d got them from the trowie mound, right enough, but who’s to say whether he did?’ The broad-nailed fingers stilled on the piece of rope. ‘He was aye a bit odd about that place. When he was peerie it was his secret hide-out. He wasna keen on sharing it wi’ me, even. He took me inside just the once, then rustled me out quick, before I had the chance to get a right look.’

  ‘What was it like?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Joost a space inside a built wall, du kens, no’ dat different from inside our lambie hoose. I couldna see the attraction o’ it.’

  ‘I expect the archeologists would get all excited about it,’ I said.

  ‘I daresay they would,’ Olaf said, ‘but it’s on Brian’s land – he owns it, you ken, it’s been de-crofted – and he’d never let them lay a finger on it. I mind them trying, oh, twartree years back, when he was home over the summer. That Val Turner and her team were keen to put their noses inside, and he wouldn’t have them near the place. He even filled in the tunnel we’d got in – we slid through a gap under one of the big stones, a rabbit hole that went right through.’

  The kitten’s burrow. I gave a quick look across at the Mirror, where Cat and Rat had oozed out again, and were balancing along a spar playing follow-my-leader.

  Olaf changed tac
k suddenly, sitting up straighter, as if this was what he’d really come about. ‘I was vexed to hear Norman had been annoying you wi’ the jet-ski. They’re all the rage south, you ken. When we were on holiday down aside Brian they were everywhere, and the bairns were just wild to try it, so when we got home I got them one for the voe here.’

  ‘I’m just worried about the safety of it,’ I said. ‘You ken what bairns are. You can tell them to bide wi’ the boat till you’re blue in the face, but there’s always one who lets go of the sheet, or gets thrown clear, and then you have a head on its own in the water, and it’s not always easy to see, especially if you’re going at any speed.’

  ‘I’m told him he’s to keep away from the dinghies in future.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. I remembered Norman’s interest in the motor boat, and thought I’d try a bit of fishing on my own account. ‘It’s always a problem, with strange boats coming in and out – far too many people seem to have heard of Brae marina, these days. It’s been like Piccadilly Circus.’ I tried a guileless look. ‘Oh, I’m forgetting – that last lot were friends of yours, were they no’?’

  The hand winding cord around the cut rope end jerked, then stilled. He gave me a slanted look, like a cormorant on a mussel bouy deciding whether to dive for cover. ‘That last lot?’

  ‘The white motorboat, David and Madge,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Norman said you knew them. They were from … no, I can’t remember. The Clyde, maybe?’

  ‘I mind a flash white motorboat,’ he said slowly, his hand beginning to make careful loops again, ‘but I don’t think I saw the folk aboard.’ He gave me another quick sideways look. ‘Where did we ken them from, did Norman say?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t even remember what he said – no, I don’t think he said anything specific. He just gave that impression.’

  Olaf’s face went blank; I could see he was calculating something, but I couldn’t tell what. He sat frowning at the piece of rope in his hands for a moment, then the worried parent took over from the prosperous businessman. ‘Boys,’ he said. ‘I ken we were just as bad at their age, but there weren’t the same temptations. We went for the drink. Oh, yea, there was drugs around, but it was a soothmoother thing to do, so we paid no heed to it. Nowadays wi’ the ideas this internet gives them, they get into –’ He broke off at that, then gave me a surprisingly charming smile. ‘But you’ll ken more about that, being still in the singles scene. Us old married men don’t know the half of it.’

  I wasn’t going to be smarmed by Olaf Johnson. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went to a disco,’ I said.

  ‘How do you manage, money wise? You’ll no’ earn much at the boating club here.’

  ‘I manage,’ I said. ‘I work for my keep, mostly.’

  ‘You should do better for yourself than that. Life’s what you make it.’ He gave me that considering, predatory look again. ‘I could put you in the way of earning.’

  I wasn’t going to earn anything through Olaf Johnson. ‘I’m fine ee now.’ I went back to the motorboat, ignoring the voice that said My ship, Cass – ‘Do you think that boat might be mixed up in drugs, then?’

  He shook his head, more in resignation than in rebuttal. ‘I do mind the motorboat,’ he repeated. ‘They arrived fairly late, didn’t they, then left again first thing.’

  ‘They didn’t bide long,’ I agreed. I waited a moment, but he didn’t say any more, just looked gloomily out over the ruffled grey water. I tied my last half hitch and stood up. ‘That’s good, that’s three boats we’ll be able to tow when the wind dies away without the rope breaking on us.’

  ‘Or when they cowp right over near the shore,’ Olaf agreed, ‘and break the mast.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ I said fervently. ‘The price of spares for these things …’

  He laughed at that, but still in a preoccupied way.

  ‘Thanks for the help,’ I said.

  ‘You’re very welcome. I’ll tell Kirsten to send word with Alex then. See you.’ He spun around and swung into his pick-up, slamming the door behind him, and fumbling for his mobile. I could have told him there was no signal right here. The heavy pick-up scattered gravel from its thick tyres as it went up the hill down to the hard standing. I watched it curve round onto the main road and stop again on the verge. His hand went up to his ear.

  He could, of course, be phoning Kirsten with the good news that I’d help her out, but I doubted that. I wondered if there was any way that Gavin could trace his calls.

  Nowadays wi’ the ideas this internet gives them, they get into – He’d broken off there and started talking about the ‘singles scene’, but I wasn’t sure that was really what he’d meant. Norman had been curious about the motor-boat, setting Alex on to ask me questions. I remembered how he’d spoken to me: I ken how you got that scar. Was he stupid enough, or confident enough, to try those tactics on international smugglers?

  5

  Hit’s no’ fir da kyunnen’s god ta be ower cosh wi’ whitterets.

  (Old Shetland proverb: It’s not to the rabbit’s good to be too friendly with weasels.)

  Chapter Twelve

  It was not quite nine o’clock. The sun was still bright on the west-facing hills, but the mist was beginning to creep in, long tendrils that fingered their way over Scallafield, over Grobsness. Even though it was the promise of another good day, I had a sailor’s uneasiness with mist. The first ghost of the full moon was silvery over the hills, and the tide was already up to the top of the slip. I rigged the Mirrors for tomorrow, then went up to the bar to yarn a bit, but I couldn’t settle. I thought about phoning one or other of my parents, but Dad would be busily wining and dining all his Edinburgh contacts to make sure permission for his firm’s proposed wind farm passed smoothly through the Scottish Parliament, and Maman would be in the thick of rehearsals I left a good-luck message on her mobile, then went back to Khalida, wriggled into my bunk, and lay on my stomach with my chin pillowed on my arms, thinking.

  I knew I was doing the right thing. My parents had tried to get me a good education, and between hurt at Dad leaving me for the Gulf, and stubborn homesickness with Maman in Poitiers, I’d thrown that back at them, and run away to sea. I’d spent the last fourteen years in a hand-to-mouth roving life, making friends with people I’d not see again for two years, ten, never. It was time I settled down, but to get on the promotion ladder at sea these days you needed a commercial ticket. I’d swallowed my pride to ask Dad to fund me through college. After that, I could go to sea again. The course began in September, ended in June. Ten months, and it wouldn’t all be in a classroom. There would be hands-on work. I could do ten months. I could still live aboard Khalida, only in Shetland’s ancient capital of Scalloway, moored right alongside the North Atlantic Fisheries College.

  Inside, though, I was howling with protest. I’d be shut in a classroom, on shore, with the hard ground under my feet day after day. I’d not be able to hoist Khalida’s sails and just go, footloose Cass. I’d be surrounded by strangers who would look at my scar and wonder, until they found someone who’d tell them the story of how I’d killed my lover out in the Atlantic –

  The night was still, but the echo of that baby’s wail shuddered in my ear. The selkie wife who’d committed herself to a life ashore, and couldn’t keep faith with her promises … I lay as the sky darkened to blue, then grey, and the orange of the street lights blinked on and slanted a thin shadow across the chart table. Cat and Rat did a last mad chase along the starboard fiddles, up to the binoculars holder with a leap and scrabble that did my varnish no good, scampered down the steps that covered the engine, and came up to curl one each side of my neck. Cat went straight to sleep, his lion-sized purr vibrating through his little round belly, but Rat was lightly poised, waiting for Anders to finish his intergalactic war and come home.

  He swung lightly aboard at last, barely rocking Khalida in her berth, and slid through the forrard hatch. Rat oozed away, leaving a cold airspace. I heard Anders und
ressing, getting into his sleeping bag, then there was silence again, but I could hear that he wasn’t sleeping either. I humped myself out of my berth, like a hermit crab leaving its shell, hauled my jeans on over my night T-shirt, and put the kettle on. If he was sleeping, I wouldn’t wake him. If he wanted to talk, he could join me.

  The kettle was just starting to boil when he came through, in jeans and a checked workman’s shirt, and sat down in his usual corner, fair head against the wooden bulkhead, the planes of his cheekbones lit queerly by the gas flames. ‘I can’t sleep either,’ he said.

  I put the mugs of drinking chocolate on the table and sat down opposite him, but facing sideways, across the boat, with my right elbow on the table, my cheek on my hand. ‘That boy the other day, Norman …’ I said.

  His eyes flicked across at me, then away again. ‘“I know how you got that scar,”’ he quoted. I could smell the beer on his breath. ‘I’d have knocked him down if it would have made him be quiet.’

  I turned my face to him. The cabin was in shadow now, lit only by the orange of the streetlights falling slantways through one corner of the long windows; his face was a pale blur. The dimness made it easier to talk. ‘Everybody knows the story. It’s the first thing they ask, once I’m out of earshot: What on earth did she do to her face?’

  ‘No,’ Anders insisted. His voice was loud against the soft creakings of a boat on the water. He repeated it softly. ‘No. You must not think of it like that, Cass. They do not say that, truly they do not.’ He chuckled. ‘I was in my father’s yard, remember, when you brought Khalida in, that first time. They said, Johan and Lars –’ He switched into Norwegian, with Johan’s north Trondheim accent, ‘Did she really sail that little boat, single-handed, all the way from the Med?’ And Lars said – he went into housing estate Bergen – ‘she must be mad.’