by Ann Cleeves
'No: he said. 'I know just what you mean. Who else was in the car?'
She named the student and the nurse.
'And the fourth person?'
'Robert Isbister.' She didn't need to say anything else. Everyone in Shetland knew Robert. His family had made a shedload of money when the oil first came ashore. .His father had been a builder, ended up with most of the construction contracts, still owned the biggest building firm in the place. Robert had a pelagic fishing boat - the Wandering Spirit - which went out of Whalsay. Tales of the boat were told in every bar on the island. When he'd first bought it he'd brought it into Lerwick and thrown it open for people to look round.
The cabins had leather seats and televisions with Sky TV. In the summer he took groups of his friends to Norway. There were wild parties as they sailed up the fjords.
'Robert wasn't Catherine's boyfriend?' he asked. 'No: she said, too quickly.
'Only, I've heard he has a taste for younger lasses.' She knew better than to answer.
'Maybe you fancy him yourself?' His voice was joky and she could tell he didn't mean it, but still she felt herself blushing.
'Don't be daft,' she said. 'You don't know what my mother's like. She'd kill me.'
'You really can't remember anything about the car or the driver?'
She shook her head.
'Catherine was supposed to be at a party the night before she went missing. Were you there too?'
'I've told you.' Her voice was bitter. 'I'm not allowed at parties.'
'Did you know anything about it?'
'I wasn't invited. People have stopped bothering to ask me. They know I'll not be going.'
'Didn't anyone mention it at school today?'
'Not to me.'
He sat looking into the fire. 'Is there anything else you think I should know?'
She didn't answer immediately, but he waited.
'That night we came back from Lerwick,' she said.
'Early New Year's Day.'
'Yes.'
'We went up to see the old man. Magnus. We'd both been drinking and his light was on. It was a sort of dare, to knock on the door and wish him happy new year.'
Perez showed no surprise. Perhaps she'd been hoping to surprise him. 'Did you go in?'
'Yes, for a while.' She paused. 'He seemed obsessed with Catherine. He couldn't stop staring at her. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.'
Chapter Eleven
When he left the school at Ravenswick Perez set back towards Lerwick. He thought he might just fit in a visit to Robert Isbister before the plane arrived from Aberdeen. There'd been delays at the airport and the Loganair people weren't sure when it would get in. It seemed he'd spent all day driving backwards and forwards down the same bit of road, but he wanted to show the team from Inverness that he'd made some progress, that he hadn't just been sitting waiting for them to arrive.
Perez never quite knew what to make of Robert Isbister. He'd been spoiled, that was clear. His father was a good man, who had been surprised by his sudden affluence. He was generous to his friends and family in a discreet, almost embarrassed way. Robert worked hard enough at the fishing, but everyone knew he hadn't paid for that showy big boat by himself.
Michael Isbister would have given him the money. And then everyone knew too that Robert's parents hadn't much of a marriage. It can't have been easy growing up in that family, despite the wealth. It must have been hard knowing that everyone talking about them had a kind of smile on their face, which was half sneer and half sympathy.
Throughout his life, Robert would be compared to his father. It was lot to live up to. Perez knew something of what that was like. His father was skipper of the Fair Isle mail boat. Before any decision was made about life on the Isle he was consulted. But for Robert it was worse. Although he was a quiet and unassuming man, Michael Isbister was famous everywhere in the islands. He was a musician, an expert in the dialect words and traditional songs. He'd been on the Up Helly Aa committee since he was a young man. This year he'd been awarded the honour of being made Guizer Jarl. It meant a lot to him.
More than an honour from the Queen. He would lead the procession of the fire festival, appear on television, give radio interviews. For this year, at least, he would represent Shetland to the rest of the world. Robert would be in the Jarl's squad, dressed like a Viking, the same as his father. A sign that he hoped to follow in his father's footsteps. And everyone in Shetland would be watching to see if he measured up.
Robert wouldn't be at home this early in the evening. He might be out with the boat, but Perez didn't think so. When the inspector visited friends at Whalsay earlier in the week, the Wandering Spirit had still been there, dominating all the other vessels at the mooring. Perez drove through the town and out towards the docks. He pulled into a side street, parked and got out to a cold which took his breath away, the smell of fish and oil.
He hoped Robert would be on his own. He didn't want an audience of the man's cronies for this conversation.
As he pushed open the door to the bar, the warmth hit him. There was a coal fire, banked up hard. Only a small grate, but it was a small room, walls stained brown by tobacco and coal smoke. On the walls there were smeared photos of long-past Up Helly Aa squads, groups of men staring out, self-conscious but earnest. The academics might deride the tradition, but these men were deadly serious. They believed they represented the islands' culture, their way of life.
And in the corner of the gloomy bar sat Robert Isbister. His wild white hair seemed to light up the room.
He was pouring a bottle of Northern Light into a glass, concentrating as if he'd already had a few. He didn't notice Perez come into the room. Behind the bar a tiny, skinny woman sat on a high stool, reading a paperback book which she'd bent back at the spine and held in one hand as if it was a magazine. She forced her eyes from the print.
'Jimmy. It's early for you. What are you having?' You could tell she wasn't that thrilled to see him. He'd not be good for business.
'Coke please, May: He paused, looked at Robert.
'I'm driving:
Neither she nor Robert made any response.
Perez took his glass and sat at Robert's table. May returned to her book. She was lost immediately. Sarah had read like that. There could be a volcano under the house and she'd not notice. Robert looked up, nodded.
'Have you heard about the body they found at Ravenswick?' Perez said. No point in being subtle. Not with Robert.
'May said something when I came in: The words were slow, careful. Was that the beer or another sort of caution? Robert enjoyed a few pints with the lads but he didn't usually drink heavily this early on a week day.
'A friend of yours, I understand:
Robert set down the glass. 'Who was it?'
'A young lass. Catherine Ross. You did know her?'
The pause was a beat too long. 'I'd seen her about.'
'Only sixteen. A bit young even for you, Robert: It was a standing joke that Robert went for younger women. Perez thought it was because he'd never grown up. The big boat was to prove he was a man.
He continued. 'New Year's Eve. . :
'What about it?'
'After the market cross you went to a party:
'Aye. The Harvey girls' place in Dunrossness: 'You gave Catherine Ross a lift home. As far as the Ravenswick turn off.'
Robert turned his head so Perez was looking into the pale blue eyes. Bloodshot. Worried.
'I wasn't driving,' Robert said. 'I'm not that stupid:
'Who was?'
'I don't know his name. A young lad. Still at schoo1.'
'Friend of Catherine's?'
'I don't know. Maybe:
'Any idea where he comes from?'
'Somewhere in the south. Quendale? Scatness?
The family haven't been in Shetland long:
'You said you'd seen Catherine around. Where had you seen her?'
'Parties. Bars in town. You know how it is:
'She was the
sort of girl you'd notice then. The sort of girl you'd pick out in a crowd:
'Oh yes,' Robert said. 'You'd notice her. She didn't say much. She was always watching, weighing you up.
But you couldn't help noticing her! He picked up his glass, took a drink.
Suddenly he seemed more relaxed.
'How did she die?' he asked. 'Hypothermia, was that it? Too much to drink and passing out in the cold?'
'Did she drink a lot?'
Robert shrugged. 'They all drink too much, don't they, those young girls? What else is there for them to do in the winter?'
'It wasn't hypothermia: Perez said. 'It was murder!
Chapter Twelve
Magnus had thought the police would come back for him. He sat all evening waiting stiff and upright in his chair. Five times cars went past but none of them stopped. The blue and white tape still fluttered across the gap in the wall. The headlights caught it as they dipped down the hill. And Catherine was still there, lying under a tarpaulin. He hated to think of it. What would her body be like now? At least the ground would be frozen, he thought. There would be no decay. No animals or insects to tear into the flesh. Last time it had been summer. He knew how quickly a dead lamb began to rot when the sun was on it. The earth soon warmed.
The next car did stop. He waited for the knock on his door, but the men stood by the side of the road, their hands in their pockets, chatting, waiting for something to happen. Then there was a Transit van. It pulled right on to the grass to let other cars past. They manhandled a small generator out of the back and lifted it on to a trolley to pull it across the field. There were cables and two big lights on stands. They all disappeared over the hill and out of Magnus's line of vision. He could imagine what Catherine would look like, pale and frozen under those powerful white lights.
He looked at his mother's clock. Eight o'clock. The plane from Aberdeen would have landed by now. The team from Inverness would be driving north from Sumburgh. They had sent a special team last time, but they'd achieved no more than the local men.
There flashed into his mind the image of a little girl's face, clear as a photograph. Catriona. He said the word out loud because it came into his head. She had long hair, tangled by the wind, dark eyes narrowed in laughter as she ran up the hill. She'd opened the door without knocking and in one hand held a bunch of flowers picked from the garden. That would have been the last day he'd seen her.
He stood up, suddenly restless, and looked out of the window. The police were out of sight. He presumed they were nearer to the body. A patch of cloud shifted and he saw there was a full moon. His mother always said a full moon made him dafter than usual.
Its light formed a path on the still water. He realized he' hadn't eaten all day and wondered if that was what was making him feel confused. It would be that or the moon. In his mind he saw Catriona dancing on the road outside his house. It was a strange sort of jig with her hands held above her head, her arms curved like a ballet dancer's. He imagined that she tilted her head in his direction and gestured for him to follow her.
He knew that it must be his imagination. Even if she'd lived, Catriona would be a young woman now, older than Catherine. But he couldn't stay in the house. It was the moonlight on the water and waiting all day for the police to come back. It was listening to his mother saying ' Tell them nothing and the memory of the little girl.
He put on his boots, fumbling with the laces in his rush to be out. He had a woollen hat which his mother had knitted, and the big jacket she'd bought for him in Lerwick just before she'd died. It was as if she'd known she'd die soon, and she didn't trust him to buy his own clothes. She'd brought back a pile of underpants and socks from the same trip and he sometimes still wore those too.
Out of the house he climbed away from the track until he reached the Lerwick road. In the house by the chapel there was no light. There was a gap at the bed room window where the drawn curtains didn't quite meet, but he could see nothing through it, only a ghostly reflection of his face in the glass. Reluctantly he turned away and started off again on to the hill.
In the shadow of a dyke he stopped and looked back. The police hadn't seen him leave Hillhead. In the moonlight he saw them surprisingly clearly in the field where Catherine lay. The scene spread out below him and he could recognize individuals by the way they stood and the way they moved. They were blinded by the fierce white lights and their concentration on the small body covered by the tarpaulin shroud.
When they turned away from the crime scene it was to look out for headlights from the south. Soon the team would arrive from Sumburgh.
Magnus continued his climb. He walked slowly. He knew he had to pace himself. He'd had a winter of laziness since he'd last been up here. He felt the strain in his knee and a wheezing in his chest. The sunshine during the day had melted the snow in patches, so he could see the peat and the dead heather through it. He reached the top of the bank and ahead of him there was nothing but bare hillside.
They'd told him at school that once, Shetland had been covered with trees. He couldn't picture it. Now the only trees were in folks' gardens. He thought this must be what the moon must look like, if you were standing on it, not looking at it from the earth. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and looked behind him again.
The figures in the field looked less important from here. Beyond them he saw the silver ice on the voe and the houses of Ravenswick. If he had any sense he'd go back to his bed, but something kept him moving. Was this how Catriona had felt when she couldn't stop dancing?
He hadn't been sure he'd know the place, but now, approaching it even in this strange light, it was familiar.
He'd spent much of his youth up here, working with his uncle, his father's elder brother, who had run the croft.
Magnus had helped count the hill sheep, collect them into the cru for clipping and bring them down the hill ready for slaughter. And in the early summer, this was where they'd come to cast peats.
Hard work that had been, peeling back the turf from the bank and cutting into the dense dark earth. The digging had been back-breaking work and even worse was wheeling the peats down to the road in a barrow. Now, if they dug peat, and not so many did, they used a tractor and trailer. His uncle had been proud of him. He'd said Magnus was stronger and a better worker than his own sons. In those days Magnus had had a father and a mother, an uncle and cousins. Then, he'd had a sister. Now he had nobody.
He came to a small loch, where his cousins had come in the winter to shoot geese. You'd hear the birds flying in from the north, calling, a long line of them following each other so closely you could believe they were attached, like the ribbons on a kite tail, and the cousins would be out then with their guns.
Magnus had never been allowed a gun, but afterwards his mother would cook the goose and they'd all come together to eat it. Out on the freezing hillside, he had a picture of them gathered round the table in the Hillhead kitchen and it was so real he could smell the goose fat and feel the heat from the range on his face. Magnus wondered if he had an illness. All these day dreams reminded him of the scenes which play through your mind in a fever.
At the edge of the loch he stood for a moment to get his bearings. The ice was thick. In some places it was clear so he could see the grey water underneath. In others it was white and lumpy and looked a bit like the sweeties his mother had made with dried coconut, sugar and condensed milk. He wondered why it had happened like that, why the water hadn't frozen evenly. The thought distracted him for a moment and he worried away at the puzzle without coming to any conclusion.
His mouth was open in concentration.
Then the need for movement came on him again and he set off up the hill.
He had a map in his head. Like the treasure map in a story they'd read to him at school, though he'd never drawn it or written down directions.
What would the directions say? Walk west from the loch until you reach the Gillie bum. Follow the bum up the hill to the gully where the
land always slips after heavy rain.
And it was just as he pictured it. When the thaw came the burn would be full of peaty water. Now it was deep with soft snow. And he came to the peat bank and the mound of rocks which looked like a small landslide. It wasn't unusual for this to happen on the hill, especially after a dry summer followed by heavy rain.
The water seeped into the cracks in the dry earth and loosened it, sending rocks and soil and peat spilling down the bank. Even in the snow he recognized the place. At last he lost the urge to continue moving. He stood with his face to the sky and let the tears run down his cheeks.
He might have stayed there all night, but a distant explosion - a lifeboat maroon which seemed unusually loud in the still night - brought him to his senses. What would his mother say? Don't du be a baby Magnus. He made his way home because there was nothing else to do, crossing the steep peat banks crabwise, sure-footed despite the icy surface.
The constables were still standing guard over Catherine's body, but the other man was sitting in his car, waiting, his eyes closed. The plane from Aberdeen must have been delayed. The van which had brought the lights and the generator had gone. As Magnus watched, one of the constables unscrewed the top from a vacuum flask, poured out steaming liquid, handed it to his colleague. They'll be pals, Magnus thought. Working together like that, up all night, it would make you close. He felt a vague nostalgic longing which became almost unbearable. He wondered how it would be if he took his bottle of Grouse out to them and offered them a dram. They'd welcome that as it was so cold, and wouldn't they talk to him as they were drinking it, just to be polite?
If it hadn't been for the detective from Fair Isle, he might have gone out to them. But drinking on duty probably wasn't allowed. He thought the constables would turn him down with their boss watching. Then he remembered the police station and the room with the shiny walls. He'd probably be better drinking on his own. He'd find it hard not to tell them everything.
He was in the house, with a small glass of whisky in his hand, when a small convoy of cars turned up.