by Ann Cleeves
The worst time had been straight after she’d graduated. An inner-city public library where youths had gathered round the computers as if they were in an amusement arcade full of gaming machines. Where the reading-group members had demanded edgy contemporary fiction instead of the classics that Polly offered them. Her boss had been a loud woman who despised weakness and pretension and accused Polly of both. She’d had grey teeth and body odour and they’d disliked each other immediately.
It was Eleanor who’d seen the advertisement for the Sentiman job in the Guardian. You like all this strange stuff, Poll. Why don’t you go for it? Another reason to be grateful to her.
They were gathered in Sletts now, and Polly could feel the tension as pressure on her forehead and squeezing against her eyes. Mary Lomax was no longer camping out with them, but the three felt constrained, choosing every word carefully as if there was still someone listening in. The landline rang. For a moment they stared at it. Were they expecting another message from the dead Eleanor? Polly reached out and answered it. It was Caroline, her voice normal, almost cheery. Again it seemed strange to Polly that Caroline could be so cool and restrained when her best friend was dead. ‘Grusche wonders if you’d like to come to dinner here in Voxter? Get you all out of the house for a bit.’
Walking down the track towards the hall they found that they were chatting freely for the first time all day. About Willow and Perez, what odd police officers they were and nothing like the detectives you’d find in London, comparing notes on the interviews in Springfield House. And about Eleanor. Snatches of anecdote and pieced-together memories of the times they’d spent together. Even Ian seemed to be able to escape his anger for a moment. At one point in the conversation he stopped in the middle of the road. ‘The thing about Eleanor was that she could be so sodding annoying.’ Marcus and Polly gave a surprised laugh of agreement and they all continued on their way.
Walking past the houses, the old, apparently derelict croft and the new-build family home, Polly was tempted to say something about the little girl. I think Nell’s ghost lives in one of these. I saw her playing on the beach. Not a ghost at all. But in the end she stayed silent. It would have felt disrespectful to Eleanor’s memory, and she didn’t want to remind the others that the last hour they’d shared with their friend had been odd and a little embarrassing. She sneaked a look in through the windows as she went past, though. Still it was impossible to see anything through the mucky glass of the old house; she thought there might be a faint warm light in the corner of the room – the embers of a fire perhaps. And, looking at the chimney, there was a drift of smoke, the smell of peat. No other sign of life.
There was more washing on the line of the new house. Casual women’s clothes and a row of baby jumpsuits and tiny cardigans. Nothing that might belong to a girl aged about ten. A pushchair stood in the front porch. Polly lingered while the others walked on. It was still a fine day and the window was open. From inside the house came the sound of a radio playing country music, then of a baby crying and a woman’s soothing voice.
In the Malcolmsons’ kitchen there was the smell of meat cooking, and Polly was sure there’d be the awkwardness of reminding everyone that she was vegetarian and then a scramble while they found something she could eat. The inevitable omelette or lump of old cheese. But it seemed that Caroline and Lowrie had explained, and Grusche pulled out of the oven an open tart with leeks and mushrooms and home-grown chives, which she left to stand on top of the Rayburn while drinks were poured and the table was laid.
For a while during the meal Eleanor wasn’t mentioned at all. Ian and George were drinking steadily, both intent, Polly thought, on getting drunk. All she knew of George was that he’d once been a lightkeeper. Lowrie had talked of growing up with the ritual of his father disappearing for four weeks out of eight. ‘The Lighthouse Board flew him out to Muckle Flugga in the helicopter and sometimes the weather was so wild that he couldn’t get home.’
‘That must have been tough,’ she’d said. She and Lowrie were both only children, and her father had doted on her. She’d looked forward to him coming home each day from the factory where he was a supervisor, the sound of his key in the door. She couldn’t imagine having grown up without him.
‘Not at all.’ Lowrie had laughed. ‘My mother spoilt me rotten. And it wasn’t so unusual then. Lots of kids’ parents were at sea or worked on the rigs. It was almost easier when he was away. He’s found it hard to adjust to life with more than two other people. If he seems a bit odd just now, that’s the reason for it.’
Polly wondered if George had developed the habit of heavy drinking when he worked on the rock. There’d surely be no drink allowed in the lighthouse, so perhaps he’d made up for it when he was at home and that had formed a ritual too. Lowrie’s parents seemed a strange couple to her. Grusche was cultured. She knew about books and films and talked about her weekly treat – a trip to the matinee movie at the Mareel arts centre in Lerwick. ‘It’s not all blockbusters from the US, you know. We get our share of art house too. I can’t wait until I’m a pensioner and then I’ll get a free cup of tea at the afternoon viewings.’ George seemed entirely absorbed by the work of the croft and had no interest in any life away from the islands. It had always been Grusche who’d come to visit Lowrie when he’d been at university, dragging him off to plays and art exhibitions, exhausting him with her energy. Polly could only remember seeing George once. He’d been there for Lowrie’s graduation, uncomfortable in an old suit that didn’t quite fit, while Grusche had been splendid in a dress that she’d made herself. And as soon as the ceremony was over George had taken them all to a pub and stood a round of drinks for the whole crowd. Her own parents had stood awkwardly beside her; it had been the first time they’d been in a bar for years.
It was Grusche who first brought up the subject of Eleanor’s murder. ‘You’re very lucky to have Jimmy Perez working on the case. He’s a good man. I knew his girlfriend, Fran. She was a fine painter.’ The table fell silent and everyone looked at her. She seemed not to notice, though, and began to clear the plates. Then she paused. ‘Of course Jimmy will understand what pain you’re going through. Fran was murdered too.’
Then there was another silence until Grusche dished out the pudding, a fool made with rhubarb from the garden and Shetland cream, and Marcus shifted the mood by beginning one of his stories – this one about walking through the desert in the Yemen with an elderly American botanist.
Polly tuned out Marcus and watched the others instead. She’d heard the story before and she’d always been an observer. This felt like a traditional family meal, with George and Grusche as the parents. It occurred to Polly for the first time that most of her friends had been only children, in one way or another. Caroline had a much younger sister, and Eleanor had half-brothers whom she rarely saw, but Marcus and Ian had no siblings. Like her. We made our own family. She wondered what relevance that might have had to Eleanor’s murder.
Time moved on, but outside it was still light. Grusche made coffee and the men used that as an excuse to get out the whisky. They’d shifted seats so that they were all at one end of the table, the bottle between them. Polly caught Marcus’s eye and he winked at her. She wondered if he saw this tragedy as just another of his adventures, a story he’d tell to his customers when they’d made camp in the mountains somewhere and were sitting around the fire as darkness fell. A tale about the time he went north to celebrate a wedding and ended up as a suspect in a murder inquiry. Because she realized now that they were all suspects.
At the women’s end of the table Caroline was talking about their plans of moving to the islands.
‘You’re still thinking of that then,’ Grusche said. ‘I wondered if Eleanor’s murder might have put you off.’
‘There’s a lot more violence in London than there is here!’ Caroline’s voice was matter-of-fact and Polly wondered if Caroline was capable of grieving for Eleanor at all; if she herself was the only person who cared. Even
Lowrie, who had been so close to Eleanor at one time, now seemed engrossed in a conversation with his father. Of course Caroline worked with statistics and objective proof. Emotion seemed to have no place in her life in any situation. Caroline went on, ‘In fact, this has made me more determined that this is the right decision. When dreadful things happen it’s good to have a close community around you. Of course I have wonderful friends like Polly in London, but somehow that’s not quite the same.’
And so I’ll soon have lost all my companions. My surrogate family. Polly felt suddenly like crying. She loved Marcus and when she looked at him now, holding the men spellbound with another traveller’s tale, she was almost faint with longing, but that contact would never be the same as her relationship with her old girlfriends.
Perhaps Caroline realized that she’d been tactless because she said, ‘And of course Polly will visit. Every summer during the long days. She’ll have her own room in our new house in the islands.’
Polly smiled, but she’d already decided that she never again wanted to come back to Shetland.
‘So have you made any practical decisions?’ Grusche asked. ‘Do we have a time-frame here, for example?’
Polly thought Grusche was delighted at the notion of having her son home and was desperate for details, but didn’t like to seem too excited. She didn’t want to come across as a pushy mother-in-law.
‘We went into some estate agents while we were in Lerwick today.’ It sounded a bit like a confession, and Caroline looked over to Lowrie. Perhaps they’d decided to keep this news secret and she was hoping to get some tacit permission. But Lowrie was talking to Ian now and didn’t see her. Her voice was suddenly shrill with excitement. ‘There’s a house in Vidlin that looks absolutely perfect. Sheltered, and plenty of garden for horticulture; the possibility of buying a field next door. And compared to London, prices are cheap! We went to look at it on the way home this afternoon. Grusche, it’s gorgeous. I loved it.’
How can you be so happy? Polly thought. Eleanor’s dead.
‘So you’ll put in a bid then?’ Grusche looked at Polly to explain. ‘In Scotland that’s mostly how house-sales work. Sealed bids.’
‘No. Actually,’ Caroline took a deep breath, ‘they were happy to take an offer. And they accepted it. It’s been on the market for a while, so as long as we can sell our place reasonably quickly – and there’s a colleague of Lowrie’s who’s been coveting the house since we first moved in – we should be here by Christmas.’ She gave a little laugh, then put her hand over her mouth as if she realized at last that the excitement was inappropriate.
What is it that Caroline’s so eager to escape? Her work? London? Me? Polly felt the resentment burn and grow.
‘Oh, Caroline!’ Grusche gave a mock-pout. ‘You dreadful woman. What will I do now when I want to visit London for a fix of culture? Where will I stay?’
‘With me, of course,’ Polly said. ‘When Marcus is away on his travels I have the flat all to myself and it would be lovely to see you.’
Grusche clapped her hands. ‘So there we are. All settled.’ She called across the table to her husband. ‘Listen, George. Have you heard? Some good news at last, after these terrible days.’
Polly looked at Ian, expecting him to share her anger, but he looked up from his glass and seemed not to care that Eleanor had been forgotten in the conversation about the newly-weds’ move north.
When they walked back to Sletts the sun was on the horizon and the shadows were so long that they made the road almost dark. They didn’t speak. It was as if they’d felt the need to be entertaining companions in return for a fine dinner, and now they could mourn Eleanor again in the silence of the evening. The new house by the track was quiet, the curtains drawn, the washing all taken in. Marcus and Ian were strolling ahead, deep in conversation. Although they were very different personalities, it seemed that they’d become friends and Polly was pleased about that. It was too dark to tell if there was smoke coming from the chimney of the croft with the turf on the roof. Coming closer, Polly saw there was a faint light inside. From a candle or a lamp. She crossed the grass to look in through the window. The light caught a small figure dressed in white. A child dancing, spinning like a top – her feet clad in silk slippers – fixed to a spot. Then, as Polly watched, the girl ran from the room. The draught from the door seemed to blow out the candle and everything was dark again and she couldn’t believe what she’d seen.
Chapter Fifteen
George walked with his son’s friends out into the still night to see them off. It had been a good evening and he was mellow and full of fine food and drink. Grusche had always been a splendid cook and he was lucky that she’d agreed to wed him. Sometimes he thought it was the life of an islander that had attracted her, rather than him as a man, but maybe after all these years that didn’t matter. They made a good team and she’d brought their boy up to be a decent man. He saw the three English people to the road and stood for a moment at the gate, enjoying the peace and wondering why he felt this sense of unease.
It was good to be alone for a while after all that talk in the house about the woman who’d been killed. He couldn’t pretend to be sorry that Eleanor Longstaff was dead. Lowrie had married Caroline, who was straightforward and strong. A bit bossy like Grusche, but sometimes that wasn’t such a terrible trait in a woman. Sometimes women had more energy than men and encouraged them in new ventures and kept them focused on what was most important. George suspected that Lowrie still dreamed about Eleanor, and he thought that was a bad thing. Perhaps now she was gone the couple could move on. They could buy this new grand house in Vidlin and start thinking about starting a family of their own, without the dark woman from London intruding in their lives. If Peerie Lizzie should appear to them, it might mean that his first grandchild was on the way.
George had grown up in Meoness. From where he stood, leaning over the gate beyond the community hall, he could see the house at Utra where his father had been born. It was almost derelict now, though it still had its turf roof. But soon the walls would crumble and folk would use the stone to repair their dykes, and all memory of what had gone on there would be lost. He thought of his life as a boy in the islands. Most of his friends had left years before. Many had become merchant seamen and had travelled the world. George could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d left Shetland. Grusche wanted to plan a foreign holiday now that she’d retired from the school. With Lowrie back in Shetland to keep an eye on the croft when they were away, perhaps that might be possible. George thought he’d like to go to Canada to see where some of his relatives who’d joined the whaling ships had landed. Perhaps there were other Malcolmsons on the far side of the world, who still remembered Utra when lots of people lived there.
He turned and walked back towards the house. There was a little moonlight to show the path, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it was dark. He knew every inch of his land and could have made his way around it blindfold. Through the kitchen window he saw that Lowrie was clearing the dishes. Caroline was at the sink, washing up. They must have persuaded Grusche that she’d worked hard enough, because she was sitting in a chair by the Rayburn, knitting. Three people in the room. It occurred to him that, since Lowrie’s marriage, there were now four in the family and that perhaps he himself had become the outsider.
Chapter Sixteen
Sandy wasn’t sleeping. It wasn’t the light night. He’d grown up in the islands and was used to the simmer dim. He was kept awake by laughter and talking just outside. His room was at the back of the house, small, the only one without its own bathroom. When he’d shown him round Charles had been apologetic. ‘It’s the only single in the house and there’s usually a child in here. There’s a door through to the adjoining room; it’s a kind of family suite.’ Sandy had taken it anyway and had given the better rooms to Willow and Jimmy. But it looked out on the courtyard and towards the bar, and tonight the noise seemed to go on well past normal closing time, the smoker
s all gathering in the yard chatting.
In the end he got up and dressed. He fancied winding down a bit, a couple of pints with people who spoke the same language as him. Jimmy Perez was a Shetlander, but since Fran’s death he’d been distant and no fun at all. Sandy made his way through the quiet house. There was still a light in the hotel office. He saw it under the door. But there was no sound from inside. Outside the air was still, but cold. He let himself into the courtyard and could hear rowdy laughter, someone singing the end of a song.
When he walked into the bar there was a moment of silence. Even those who didn’t recognize him would know now who he was and what he was doing there. Only three people were making the noise: a group of men in their late twenties who were kind of familiar. He ordered a pint. Draught Belhaven, not the island’s bottled beer. Billy nodded, but didn’t speak. Now Sandy recognized the drinkers as boys from the ferry. The most sober held up his hands.
‘Did we wake you? It’s Frankie’s birthday and we were just having a few drinks. To celebrate, you know how it is. Sorry, pal.’ He held out his hand. ‘Davy Stout.’
‘Will you be fit to take out the ferry early tomorrow? My boss’ll be out on the first boat.’ Sandy grinned to take the sting out of the words. No point coming in and throwing his weight around.
‘We’re all on the late shift and we’ll be fine by then.’ But Sandy’s presence seemed to have made the group more subdued. Billy came out from the bar to collect the last glasses and wipe the tables. He looked at his watch. He expected them to be leaving once they’d finished their drinks.
‘You’re here investigating that holidaymaker’s death,’ Stout said.