The Trowie Mound Murders

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘Yeah.’

  I could feel his eyes on me as I lit the gas, put the kettle on, brought out the mugs, teabags, and milk, and gave the hardened sugar an experimental dunt with a teaspoon.

  ‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘Living aboard like this. You have everything you need. Nobody bothers you. You can just take off and go.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss the widescreen telly and full-speed broadband?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m no’ sure I would. I watch stuff but I never really get into it. Games, I like games. I like the stuff where people play tricks on people.’ His eyes travelled up the mast. ‘How far’ve you sailed in this?’

  ‘I bought her in the Med and sailed her to Norway, but that was coast-hopping. The crossing from Bergen to here was the longest ocean-crossing I’ve done in her.’

  ‘Cool,’ he repeated.

  I handed him his mug, and clambered out into the cockpit beside him. ‘Your wee brother had the makings of a good sailor,’ I said.

  ‘He liked it,’ Norman said. He jutted his lower lip, determined not to show feelings. ‘He wouldn’t miss it whatever.’

  ‘You usually ran him along,’ I said. Inga’s lasses, taking Peerie Charlie’s hand to lead him back to Mam. I’d always wanted a brother. I’d have looked after him. He’d have looked up to me, the way Peerie Charlie looked up to Vaila and Dawn – the way Alex had looked up to Norman. If Norman had asked him to do something, however dodgy, Alex would have done his best.

  He gave a ‘whatever’ jerk of one shoulder.

  ‘How’s your mother now?’ I asked.

  He would have learned to disregard anything his mother said from the way his father ignored it. He shrugged again. ‘She’s doped to the eyeballs. Cerys is with her. The pigs have dad down at the nick.’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘They say he’s mixed up in art theft. Up at the trowie mound.’

  For his father, the law wasn’t important. The pigs, the nick. You did what you wanted, made money the way that seemed best to you. If the chance came up to make big money, money that would mean you didn’t have to kow-tow to anyone else, then why not? I could hear Olaf’s schoolboy voice as he pocketed another pencil, or helped himself to a video from the library: ‘Why no’? They’ve got loads.’

  Olaf’s son shifted in his seat again, and took a breath. His voice was too casual. ‘Didn’t you get stuck up there? Yesterday?’

  This was what I knew he’d come to ask, while I was alone here in the twilight, with everybody else at the dance in Voe: Did you see me?

  ‘When the shootings were,’ Norman pursued. ‘You got rescued by the helicopter. Everyone was talking about it, at the show.’

  I knew they would. My record of never having needed to call out the lifeboat was ruined. I didn’t have thoughts to waste on regretting it.

  ‘I was on the cliff, on a ledge below the grass in front of the trowie mound.’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I heard it all, but I didn’t see anything. I couldn’t identify the killer. I told the police that.’

  I sensed rather than heard the relieved breath. He leaned back against Khalida’s guard rail. I waited in silence. He looked so vulnerable, with the gold earring dangling towards his thin cheek, and his grey-green eyes, Kirsten’s eyes, narrowed in doubt. Perhaps I was making too much of his resemblance to Olaf. Perhaps the conscience, the principles that Kirsten would have tried to instill into her sons was struggling to free itself. Eventually he set his cup down and turned to face me again. I saw that he hadn’t believed me; that he wasn’t just going to go away and forget me. His voice had lost its aggressive edge and become tentative, young.

  ‘I was wondering, see, if you ever get used to having killed someone. If you ever forget.’

  ‘No,’ I said simply.

  He jerked backwards at that, as if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but now wasn’t the time for kindly lies. They wouldn’t help him, or me.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do to make it better,’ I expanded. ‘You can’t say sorry, and bring them back to life. You can’t change what you did that killed them. If you could, you would, ten times over, but it’s too late.’

  Norman had wanted money. I know how you got that scar – The rumour was that I’d been well paid for the film job, because everyone knew there was big money in film, but Anders had warned him away from me. Then he’d seen the shadowy figures his dad had dealings with. There was money there all right, if you could find a way to touch it.

  ‘It was my fault Alex died.’ He said it aggressively, as if I’d disagree. ‘I set him to spy on them, the couple with the flashy new motorboat. If I’d not done that, they wouldn’t have killed him.’

  The police would have told Kirsten that they were looking for someone else in connection with Alex’s death, that they weren’t satisfied it was an accident. Norman must have understood what he’d done as soon as he heard the news. He’d have phoned the couple to make them wait, saying he was his father perhaps, and gone out like a fury, bouncing the pick-up over the rough hill to meet up with his brother’s killers, and exorcise his guilt and anger with revenge. A young person’s fury –

  I nodded. ‘He wouldn’t have been up at the mound if he’d not been spying for you. But it was them who killed him, not you.’

  ‘It was my fault,’ he repeated. He turned the anger on me. ‘Do you tell yourself it was the water killed your man?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. Across at the caravan site, the man under the motorbike gave up chinking and stood up. He stretched, looking out across the marina, then went into his mobile home. A rectangle of pale gold light marked the doorway. ‘It was what I did that killed him. I didn’t mean it to, but I was responsible for his death.’

  Olaf had been worried about what his son was doing. Young eens these days, you never know what they’ll be up to … He knew Sandra, David, and Madge weren’t to be messed about with. Quietly, I leaned back and draped my left arm over the guard rail, by the horseshoe bouy. I kept my gaze on his as my hand stole down to the whistle that hung from it, a snail-shape of hard plastic wound round by cord. Behind the bouy, my fingers untwisted the cord and turned the whistle so that one movement would have it to my lips. He’d already said too much to let me go.

  ‘Did you get their mobile number from your dad’s phone?’

  He slanted a startled look at me, then looked away, mouth twitching. ‘Yeah,’ he conceded, ‘but I phoned from a mate’s phone. I asked for money not to shop them to the pigs.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been happy with that.’

  ‘My dad got on to me.’ He took a deep breath, as if he’d decided something. ‘Then, when I heard about Alex, I nicked Dad’s phone. I texted to say I had to meet them, up on the mound. Then I switched it off so’s they couldn’t phone back and find out it wasn’t him. I took the pick-up up there, and Dad’s gun.’ He looked sharply at me. ‘You’re not surprised. You knew it was me.’

  ‘Not then,’ I said. ‘I worked it out later. The people in the yacht were dead, and Brian and the cottage had nothing to do with it. Cerys is too self-centred, and she couldn’t drive a pick-up up that hill. Your dad was at the house with your mam, after they’d heard Alex was dead. That left you to avenge his death.’

  He sat up straighter, so that he was taller than me, and broader. ‘You told your policeman pal this yet?’ I’d heard Olaf sound like this too, in the playground. I hadn’t been frightened of him then, and I wasn’t going to be intimidated by his son now.

  ‘They killed your wee brother,’ I said. ‘Alex. He’s dead, and now they’re dead too. Can’t it stop there?’

  He shook his head, and leant towards me. I swung my arm round, quick as thought, and put the whistle to my mouth. It was one of those ear-splitters with a pea inside, and I gave it all the breath I’d got. He flinched, and before he began moving towards me I dropped the whistle and sprang to my feet, vaulting over Khalida’s guard rail. Instead of going up the walkway as he’d expected, I took a running dive from th
e pontoon-end straight into the calm inner pool of the marina, a racing dive that turned into a fast crawl which had me halfway across the fifty metres of water before he’d registered what I was doing.

  The water closed over my head like an ice-cold shower. My clothes held out the water briefly, then it came through them. I wouldn’t be able to stay in here very long, but I’d banked on the natural reluctance of a dressed person to leap straight into cold, deep water. The gamble had paid off. There was no second splash.

  I came up in the middle of the pool and brushed the water from my eyes. Norman was standing in Khalida’s cockpit, staring after me. I saw him realising that I had the advantage of him now. If he came after me by water, I’d be ashore, up the slip and in the clubhouse with the door locked before he reached the dinghy pontoon. If he came around by land, I’d be back on Khalida with my single rope cast off before he got back to me. I sculled slowly on my back to the end of the dinghy pontoon, and waited.

  Then the blue dusk split open with light, a blaring white searchlight from the open caravan door that caught Norman first, then swung back to me. The cavalry were here, as we’d agreed, fifty yards away, with a grandstand view of everything that happened on Khalida. I wondered if there was a police marksman in the caravan. I turned and began to swim for the slip, around the dinghy pontoon, ignoring the shouting and running feet, until I realised that under the shouting and the banging was a sound I knew, the clunk, clunk of Khalida’s engine. I lifted my head and looked.

  He’d thought fast, Norman. They were coming for him by land, so he’d go by sea. Khalida’s was a simple engine, he’d have used a dozen like it. By the time the police had got down the pontoon, he was backing out of the berth. He didn’t waste time turning her, just kept her going stern forwards towards the rocky entrance.

  My thought for haste had helped him, the single rope and the key in the engine; now his haste helped me. He was looking ahead at the entrance, ignoring the shouting behind him. Khalida never got up to full speed straight away, so her progress must have felt painfully slow. His hands were clenched on the tiller, his eyes fixed to the narrow gap between the rocks as if he was willing her forwards. I hoped he’d remember Gibbie’s Baa, the single rock awkwardly placed just outside.

  I struck out towards my boat and stretched up to catch two of the uprights that held her guard-rails as she passed me. Her bow was higher out of the water than I’d realised. I hauled myself up so that my elbows were on her deck, then reached further with one hand and grabbed the forrard cleat. My other hand caught the rounded anchor-pipe cover, and that gave me enough purchase to get one knee aboard. The wash and sway as she turned gave me the impetus to get my other leg aboard. I ducked my body under the wires and slid rapidly forward to huddle behind the rounded front of her cabin. He’d have seen me if he’d taken a proper look forward, but I was banking on his either looking far ahead, to the sea horizon, or over his shoulder at the pursuit. Furthermore, he’d shoved the gear lever forwards to full throttle, and below the water the propeller wash was hammering full on her rudder, forcing her to turn to port. He was struggling to keep her on course, and I thought for a moment I was going to have to leap up, because we had to be almost on Gibbie’s Baa. Then he managed to get control of her, and turn her seawards. Now was my danger moment, as he looked forwards. I lay still, crouched in the curve of salt-washed fibreglass.

  The shouting in the marina had stopped. Now, roaring out over the thunk, thunk of Khalida’s engine, was the sound of the RIB. Glory be, the cavalry was still on its way. I wondered if Gavin himself had been inside the biker’s caravan.

  Norman heard it too.

  Khalida swerved again as he turned to look. I took the moment when the RIB’s nose edged out of the marina to lift the forehatch and swing down into the darkness of Anders’ bunk.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Blessed respite. Within the forepeak, behind the blue and yellow curtain, I felt safe again. Rat squirmed out of Anders’ sleeping-bag and inspected me, whiskers twitching at the cold. I hauled my wet T-shirt over my head and fumbled in Anders’ kitbag for another, and a fleece. Cold meant you made stupid mistakes. Anders’ clothes smelt of Imperial Leather soap and engine oil. Dear Anders, safe in the Gilbert Bain Hospital with the brisk doctor looking after him. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I promised myself. His jeans would be no good on me. I felt for a pair of sailing thermals, edged my canvas shoes off, eased my clinging jeans down and pulled the long johns on. The dry warmth enclosed me like a blanket.

  Khalida was still bucking her way seawards, the engine revving and clunking, the tiller fighting against Norman’s hold. She knew she was being taken hostage. It was only then that it occurred to me I’d given him a more valuable hostage, when the police came. My first instinct to go out and tackle him was over-ridden by sense. The RIB would catch up with us in a matter of minutes.

  I risked a glance out, in the crack between the curtain and the bulkhead. He was looking behind him at the approaching RIB, then he turned to face forwards again, frowning. He glanced to his left, and I saw the thought as clear as a tide-wave: if he ran Khalida ashore, he could leap clear and run, take the first car with keys in the ignition, and make his getaway. He wasn’t thinking of after: the known number-plate, the need of ID to get off the island, whether by ferry or plane. His immediate impulse was flight.

  The shore outline behind his head wheeled, the Co-op, the Building Centre, the boating club, and settled with the standing stone clear behind his shoulder. He was heading across to the hall and the streets of council houses behind it. Below the hall was a pebble beach, with seaweed-covered rocks at low tide. If he ran Khalida ashore at this speed he would take the keel right off her.

  I could hear the RIB approaching. Norman didn’t look around. His gaze was fastened on the shore, teeth gripping his underlip. He bent down and touched the gear-lever, reassuring himself that she was at her top speed. From the way the far hill was receding behind him, the shore must be less than five minutes away. The RIB wouldn’t go in front of her to be rammed. Khalida was twice its size. They’d go ashore – even in my anxiety, I hoped Gavin would remember to lift the engine so that the propeller didn’t touch bottom – and grab Norman as he came off.

  I took a deep breath. It was no good trying to be stealthy. The minute I came out into the cabin he’d see me. I took ten seconds to think the manoeuvre through, then slipped off the berth and stood upright, ready. I made a dash for it, left hand flinging the curtain aside, right foot over the hanging locker area, and through the cabin between the sofa on one side, the cooker and chart table on the other.

  Norman saw me as soon as the curtain moved. His mouth opened wide. He took a step back, then his mouth closed, and he squared himself, ready for a fight. His hands clenched on the tiller.

  That suited me. I came slowly forward, through the cabin. ‘You’re not going to get away, Norman.’ I kept my eyes steady on his. ‘There’s no need to run my boat ashore.’

  Then, swift as thought, I dropped down beside the cabin steps, my left hand grabbing the engine box cover which made the top step of the companionway, right hand reaching in to pull the lever that would stop the engine, left hand flicking the start lever so that he couldn’t just turn the key to make her go again.

  The thunk, thunk of the engine slowed. He made a grab forwards but the moment he let go of the tiller, Khalida swerved violently. He stumbled forward and had to grab at the guard rails to stop himself falling head-first down into the cabin. I held the lever until there was silence, then let it go. Then it was just the two of us aboard Khalida, with the sound of the waves against the hull. He raised his head and looked at me, and before he could move, I reached up and pulled the sliding hatch closed over my head.

  He rose like a fury, cursing me in a torrent of repeated ‘Fucking bitch –’, and shoved it aside. It was stiff enough to slow him down, and I’d left the engine step open, so by the time he’d come below to grab at me, I was already out of t
he forehatch and on deck ready to fend the RIB’s grey rubber off my white topsides. Norman didn’t try the hatch, but came back out into the cockpit. I retreated to the foredeck as two police officers clambered aboard to get hold of him.

  ‘A bit late,’ I commented to Gavin, who was watching critically from the RIB below me.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he retorted, ‘a very neat operation. You didn’t actually need to go with your boat. You could easily have watched from on shore.’

  ‘Someone had to stop the engine, to let you catch up.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t think about how a hostage could hamper us.’

  ‘Not till it was too late,’ I admitted.

  Behind me, the police officers had managed to quieten Norman down. They kept a hold of him as he climbed down into the RIB, the handcuffs making him clumsy. I left Gavin reciting the ‘suspect’s rights’, and got my engine re-started before we drifted ashore.

  Sunday 5 August

  Tide times for Brae:

  Low Water 05.40 0.3m

  High Water 12.06 2m

  Low Water 17.48 0.5m

  High Water Monday 00.10 2.2m

  Moon waning gibbous

  I went to see Anders the next morning. It was Sunday, so I’d had a lift organised in for Mass, but I went earlier, hoping some kind driver would pick me up. I was in luck; although the stillness of a community hangover lay over most of Brae and Voe, I got a crofter driving to check lambs from just past the boating club to Voe, then a Sullom Voe worker coming off-shift and heading for Lerwick.

  I got him to drop me off at the garage to buy grapes and a large bar of chocolate, Anders’ favourite Green and Black’s white, then I walked slowly up to the hospital. It was a sixties block, harled fawn, with white window-frames. It looked over the ‘sooth mooth’ – the south entrance to Lerwick, the Aberdeen ferry’s way in and out, hence the local name of ‘sooth moother’ for anyone who wasn’t a native. It was a spectacular view in sunshine: the high white cliffs of Noss, with its wheeling gannets constantly in motion around it, and the sea horizon (next stop, Norway; Anders would be looking out towards home). In front of Noss was the green hill of Bressay, the island that had sheltered the Viking fleet before the battle of Largs, the Dutch fishermen of the seventeenth century, the herring smacks of the nineteenth, the battleships of both world wars. Then there was the sound, with seals sunning themselves on the rocks, and closest of all, the south end of Lerwick itself: the Health Centre, the roundabout, the 21st century AD Tesco facing the grey stone tower of the 2nd century BC Clickimin Broch.