Red Bones

by Ann Cleeves

  By now he’d reached the practice trench where his mother had found the skull. He peered inside. What was he expecting? More bones, growing out of the ground, an elbow maybe, bent like a huge potato tuber? Or a row of toes? Of course there was nothing, except the earth scraped flat by his mother’s trowel.

  He sauntered on to the deeper trench where the medieval house had stood, where the silver coins had lain hidden for hundreds of years. He knew he was putting off his return to Utra. He couldn’t face the stoic good cheer of his father or his mother’s restless energy. He had a hazy recollection of television documentaries. What if he found a whole heap of coins, gold and silver, jewellery maybe? He had a picture of a pile of rubies and emeralds glinting in the morning sunshine. Wo uldn’t that be considered treasure trove? Wouldn’t it make enough money so his parents could take a holiday, so they wouldn’t have to work quite so hard to keep up with the Cloustons and the other fishing families? He checked himself: he was making up fairy tales in his head again. As a child he’d been told stories of the trows who hoarded shiny, glittering objects, but it would never happen in real life.

  But as he approached the rectangular hole in the ground, for a moment it seemed as if the childish fantasy was being played out in real life. The sunlight was reflected from an object within it, a dull gleam that might be buried treasure.

  He looked down, excited although he knew how foolish he was being, and saw Hattie James lying at the base of the trench. She was on her back and she stared up at him. Her face was marble white in the shadow. She was dressed in black and the image had the washed-out look of a photographic negative. Even the blood looked black – and there was a lot of blood. It had spurted into wave-shaped patterns on the bank of the trench and seeped into the soil. It was on her hands and her sleeves and on the big brutal knife with which, it seemed to Sandy, she’d slit her wrists. The cuts weren’t made across the wrists, but were deep, lengthways slashes, almost up to her inner elbow. The sunlight continued to reflect from the knife blade and made a mockery of the earlier image he’d formed in his head.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, the sight and shape of it were swimming in front of him. He realized he was about to faint and leaned forward, forcing himself to stay conscious. He turned away, then had to look back to check it wasn’t some awful nightmare. He couldn’t phone Perez until he was certain. Then he went back to the house to call the inspector’s mobile.

  Perez answered immediately, but when Sandy explained in a stuttering sort of way what he’d found, there was a complete silence.

  ‘Jimmy, are you there?’ Sandy felt the panic taking over. He couldn’t deal with this on his own.

  And when Perez did reply his voice was so strange that Sandy could hardly recognize it.

  ‘I was at Setter last night,’ Perez said. ‘I looked across the site, but not in the trenches. I should have found her.’

  ‘There would be nothing you could do.’

  ‘I persuaded myself that she’d gone out on the ferry,’ Perez said. ‘I should have been more careful, brought people out to do a proper search. She shouldn’t have had to be there on her own all night.’

  ‘She would have been dead by then,’ Sandy said, and again: ‘There would be nothing you could do.’ It seemed odd to him that he had to reassure his boss. Usually Perez knew what to do in every situation; he was the calm one in the office, never flustered and never emotional. ‘Will you come over? Or is there someone I should call?’

  ‘You’ll need to get a doctor to pronounce her dead.’

  ‘Oh, she’s dead,’ Sandy said. ‘I’m quite sure of that.’

  ‘All the same,’ Perez said. ‘We need it official. You know how it works.’

  ‘I’ll get Brian Marshall. He’ll be discreet.’

  ‘I’m on my way then.’ Just from the way the inspector spoke those words Sandy knew Perez was blaming himself for Hattie’s death and he always would. He wished Perez didn’t have to see the white face in the shadow of the trench, the long, deep cuts to the white inner arms, the blood that looked like tar. He would like to protect his boss from that sight.

  While they waited for the doctor to arrive, they stood by the edge of the pit that Sandy now thought of as Hattie’s grave. Perez was in control again, quite professional.

  ‘I recognize the knife,’ he said.

  ‘Does it belong to the girl?’ Sandy had assumed that it did. Surely if you were going to kill yourself you would use an implement familiar to you. You wouldn’t drag a stranger into your suicide by using someone else’s knife.

  ‘No, it’s Berglund’s.’

  ‘He must have left it here on the site,’ Sandy said. ‘They put all the equipment in the shed close to the house overnight.’

  ‘For the time being we treat this as a suspicious death,’ Perez said. ‘Keep everyone out. And I want the knife fingerprinted.’

  ‘But she killed herself.’ Sandy thought that was obvious: the posed position, the slit wrists. This was an overwrought lassie with a vivid imagination and a taste for the dramatic.

  ‘We treat it as suspicious death.’ This time Perez’s voice was loud and firm. Sandy thought it was the guilt getting to him. Hattie had asked the inspector for help and now he felt he’d let her down. Sandy couldn’t think of anything to say to make things better.

  Perez looked up at him. ‘How would she know to cut herself in that particular way? Most suicides fail because they make tentative slashes across the wrists.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sandy said, almost losing his patience. ‘She was a bright lass. She’d look it up. There are probably sites on the internet.’

  There was a moment of silence then Perez turned away from the trench. ‘Your father was here last night,’ he said. ‘He was at Setter. That was one of the reasons I didn’t stick around. He looked upset.’

  Sandy didn’t answer that either. He knew his father would never hurt anyone and that Perez was feeling so bad about the girl’s suicide that he was looking for someone else to blame.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Fiscal was wearing a soft suede jacket and a cashmere sweater in pale green. She’d put on wellingtons before coming on to the archaeological site, folding her trousers carefully into them so they wouldn’t be creased when she came to take off the boots. The three of them looked down at the girl in the trench. Perez could hardly think straight; ideas and pictures were dancing round his head. He struggled to hold himself together in front of the Fiscal. He’d had to notify her formally of another suspicious death, but he wished he’d had more time before she turned up. He hadn’t thought she’d be here on the first ferry.

  ‘Have we had a doctor to declare life extinct?’ the Fiscal asked. She carried a hardback notebook and a slim silver ballpoint. Throughout the discussion she was making notes.

  ‘Aye.’ Sandy got in first in his eagerness to gain her approval. ‘Brian Marshall came along earlier.’

  ‘Did he hazard an opinion as to cause of death?’

  ‘Everything consistent with suicide.’ Sandy again.

  ‘But he said there’d need to be a p-m. before we could come to a real decision.’ Perez almost felt that he was defending Hattie. This grotesque show, so tasteless and flamboyant, didn’t seem her style at all.

  ‘I don’t suppose he could tell us anything about the time of death?’

  ‘Nothing that helps,’ Perez said. ‘We know she was last seen at about four o’clock. I’d arranged to meet Hattie at six in the Bod and she didn’t turn up. That could mean she was already dead by then, but not necessarily. Sophie was working here until about four-thirty and claims not to have seen her.’

  ‘Where was she seen at four o’clock?’

  ‘On the footpath close to the shore.’ Perez was finding it easier to think straight now. If he could just focus on the facts he might see this through without making an idiot of himself. ‘I phoned round all the Lindby folk last night. Anna Clouston saw her making her way back towards the Bod
. Hattie and her boss had been walking along the beach before that. He was congratulating her on making a significant find at the Setter dig, but he also told her that her assistant had resigned. She’d found Hattie difficult to work with and she’d decided to ditch archaeology anyway. I have the impression Sophie doesn’t need to work for a living and this wasn’t much more than a passing fad.’

  ‘So the assumption is that the woman killed herself after some sort of disagreement with her boss.’

  ‘I don’t think there was a disagreement. Berglund passed on the news of Sophie’s resignation. Hattie didn’t seem too unhappy about working the site alone.’

  ‘All the same . . .’ the Fiscal broke off and looked up from her notebook for a moment. ‘You say she had a history of mental illness?’

  ‘According to the mother when I spoke to her last night.’

  ‘There must have been an implied criticism in Sophie’s decision to leave, don’t you think? Sophie obviously didn’t enjoy working with Hattie. That would have been hurtful to a sensitive young woman.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Perez hoped she could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t agree.

  ‘Any previous suicide attempts?’

  ‘We didn’t go into that sort of detail. But she did say she’d been treated as an in patient in a psychiatric hospital and the mother was obviously worried about her.’ Though not worried enough to come to Shetland to see for herself. ‘Her colleagues both say that since Mima’s death she’s become more isolated and withdrawn. Even her success at the dig doesn’t seem to have raised her mood very much. They’d found some silver coins to validate her theory about the building. Everyone expected her to be very excited. She was – she talked to me about her plans for the future of the project – but she still seemed troubled. Mima Wilson’s death seems to have affected her deeply.’

  ‘You’d met her, then. Couldn’t the resignation of her colleague have pushed her over the edge?’

  ‘Unlikely, I’d have thought. She seemed very self-contained to me. I had the impression that she preferred to be alone. Her boss didn’t seem to think that Sophie’s wanting to leave had upset her very much.’

  The Fiscal seemed to come to a decision. ‘We need to talk to the mother before we commit ourselves on this. If the girl has attempted suicide before, we don’t want to turn this into a full-blown murder inquiry. That’ll mean bringing the team in from Inverness.’

  Which had implications for budget, not to mention the Shetland tourist trade. The Fiscal wouldn’t make herself popular with the politicians if she called it as murder and it turned out to be something less dramatic. And at the moment she was very keen to keep in with the politicians.

  ‘I’m worried about the coincidence,’ he said. ‘Two sudden deaths, one explained as an accident, another as a suicide. I can’t accept it.’

  ‘That had crossed my mind too.’ Gently sarcastic. I’m not a fool, Jimmy. Her voice hardened. ‘But I won’t be drawn into conspiracy theories. She was a depressive young woman. This looks like a classic adolescent suicide.’

  ‘She was twenty-three,’ Perez said. ‘Hardly an adolescent.’

  The Fiscal stretched. It was as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Yes, the most likely cause of death is suicide and that’s how we’ll play it for now. Is the mother coming into Shetland?’

  Perez paused, remembering the phone call he’d made to Gwen James earlier, the silence on the other end of the line, broken eventually by a single sob. ‘Not immediately. She says she can’t face it. Not yet. I have the feeling that she would hate to break down in public and that she’ll be hiding out in her own home for a while.’ How did he know that? He wasn’t sure but he thought it was true.

  The Fiscal frowned. ‘We need some background on the girl’s medical history. You’ll have to talk to her, Jimmy.’

  Again Perez remembered the earlier call. ‘I’m not sure that’s a conversation we could have on the phone.’

  The Fiscal considered for a moment. Perez thought she was weighing up the cost of a trip south against the value of providing good customer service to a politician. ‘Get yourself to London to talk to her, then. Get this afternoon’s plane south. Give me a ring when you get back.’

  Sandy shuffled his feet, making the shingle scrunch and shift. Perez knew what was going on in the Whalsay man’s head. Take me too. He wasn’t sure if Sandy had ever been to London; perhaps once on a school trip. He pictured him wandering around the streets, staring up at the buildings he’d only ever seen in films or the television news. Sandy looked up at Perez and caught his eye. Pleading. Perez read the expression exactly. He’d sensed the tension in Utra. Sandy was desperate to escape, even if only for a couple of days. But there was no way he could justify both of them being away from Shetland.

  Perez took a risk, knew he would probably come to regret it later. It was as much about showing Rhona Laing that he wouldn’t be bossed around as giving Sandy a chance.

  ‘I wonder if this is a job Sandy could do. It would be fine experience for him.’

  Fran was in London. If Perez went himself he’d have the opportunity to spend the night with her. But she’d want to introduce him to her friends. He knew how it would be. Some trendy wine bar, loud voices discussing topics about which he had no knowledge and no opinion. He’d show her up. So this was about cowardice too.

  Rhona Laing raised her eyebrows. ‘This is a sensitive job, Jimmy. The woman’s a politician.’ Sandy wasn’t exactly famous for his tact or discretion. Or his brains.

  ‘I think he’s ready for it. We’ll talk it through before he goes. And I want to be here.’

  She shrugged. ‘Your call.’ Leaving him in no doubt that he’d be the one to get the blame if Sandy screwed up.

  Perez caught Sandy’s eye again and saw pure terror. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all. He’d imagined going along with Perez for the ride, a night in a London hotel on expenses, a bit of sightseeing, not being left with full responsibility for the interview, not having the wrath of the Fiscal on him if he made a mess of things. ‘Go and get your bag packed. I’ll call in to Utra when I’ve done here and we’ll discuss the approach you should take.’

  Sandy scuttled away.

  Perez walked with the Fiscal to her car. ‘I really don’t think that was one of your most sensible decisions,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m not sure he’ll even get as far as London without a minder.’

  ‘I think I’ve under-estimated him in the past. He’s shown a lot of sensitivity on this inquiry. Besides, Gwen James will be good at handling questions from sophisticated interviewers. She does it all the time in the Commons and with the media. I hope Sandy’s simplicity will get under her guard.’

  The Fiscal looked at him as if she didn’t believe a word, as if Perez were mentally ill himself, but said nothing.

  News of Hattie’s death had got out around the community, as Perez had known it would. A small group of onlookers had gathered at the gate, drawn by the drama rather than by any sense of involvement with the dead woman. She was one of the lasses working on the dig; that was all. Even Evelyn only thought of her as part of the project. Mima was probably the only person on the island to have really known her.

  When the Fiscal drove off the people started to drift away and Perez saw Sophie on the edge of the group.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He could see that she’d been crying. She wasn’t the sort to cry easily and he was surprised by the display of emotion. He watched the other people walk back to the road. Most of the islanders had cars there. Jackie Clouston scurried back on foot to her mansion on the hill. Had she left Andrew alone to check what was going on?

  Sophie sat on the grass beside the track. She was wearing combat trousers and a university sweatshirt, walkers’ sandals. Her toes were wide and brown. ‘I feel dreadful. There I was slagging her off yesterday, and all the time she was planning to kill herself.’

  ‘You had no idea anything like that was in her mind?’ He sat beside her.
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br />   There was a pause. Perez thought she was preparing to say something significant, but she seemed to decide against confiding in him and only shook her head. ‘I never knew what she was thinking at all.’

  ‘You won’t be able to work here. Not for a while at least.’ He still thought the Setter land should be treated as a crime scene. ‘When were you planning to leave?’

  ‘I thought I’d stay until after Mima’s funeral,’ Sophie said. ‘I decided when I heard what had happened. Hattie would like me to be there for that.’

  In Utra Sandy was in a state of terminal panic. Joseph was nowhere to be seen. His mother was ironing a shirt for him and there was a pile of underpants on the kitchen table. Evelyn was obviously proud that her son had been chosen for the mission but was ratcheting up the anxiety. Edinburgh she could understand. Michael had been to college there and lived there. It represented sophistication. London was a different world, alien and violent. A place of hooded gangs and foreigners.

  ‘You’ll only be away a night.’ Perez took a seat.

  ‘Where will I stay?’

  ‘I’ll get Morag to book somewhere for you. And I’ve fixed up for you to meet Hattie’s mother in her home. It’s in Islington. Not far from the Underground. I’ll show you a map. She’s been told about her daughter’s death. Don’t worry, man. This time tomorrow you’ll be on your way back into Sumburgh.’

  I’m not sure I can do this. He didn’t have to speak the words. Perez knew what he was thinking.

  Evelyn finished ironing the shirt and hung it on a hanger on the door. She folded up the ironing board and propped it against the wall. Then she left the room with the underpants in one hand and the hanger in the other. They could hear her banging around in Sandy’s bedroom. She obviously considered him incapable of packing for himself.