by Ann Cleeves
'I don't know. . ! How could she explain about the school bus and her mum calling out the police if she wasn't on it, because she'd always been paranoid but after Catherine's death she'd turned seriously weird? How could she explain all that without sounding like a six-year-old? 'It might be awkward!
'Please, babe. It's important! And then he seemed to guess the sort of problem she might have, which proved to Sally just how sensitive he was, how he wasn't at all the boorish lout everyone made him out to be. 'Just one drink and then I'll give you a lift home. You'll still be back ahead of the bus! And that was probably true, because the bus zigzagged all over the place to drop kids off and Archie, the driver, was about a hundred and four and drove so slowly sometimes she thought it'd be quicker to walk.
'OK: she said. 'Why not? One drink.'
They met in the back bar of one of the town centre hotels, not in the bar near the docks where he usually drank.
Upstairs in the dining room there was a funeral tea. Through the open door she saw a trestle table covered with a white cloth and plates of sandwiches curling at the edges, elderly people dressed in black. The voices were becoming loud and a little desperate. One of the women was weeping.
Robert was waiting. She was pleased. Her only visits to pubs had been with Catherine on occasional illicit visits to town. She wouldn't have had the nerve to go in by herself. Before setting out, she'd stopped to put on some slap, just a bit of powder to hide the spot which might be starting by the side of her nose, and some mascara. But all the same you must be able to tell that she'd come straight from school. She had her bag with all her books and files in.
She looked into the room. It was narrow as a corridor, wood-panelled, four grubby tables, a variety of unmatched chairs. You could smell lunchtime's fry-ups and cigarette smoke. He stood up as soon as he saw her.
'What'll you have?'
She thought of her mother, standing by the stove, stirring pans. X-ray eyes and X-ray nose for smelling alcohol.
'Diet Coke!
He nodded and went straight to the bar, without touching her. She supposed he was thinking of her, being discreet, but there was no one else in the room except a little grey man slumped asleep in the chair by the fire. Robert came back with the Coke and a whisky for himself. Then he did reach out and touch her hand. She grasped his, rubbed the fine gold hairs with her thumb.
'How're things?' he asked. He seemed anxious. Usually he walked into a bar as if he owned the place. That's what Sally loved most about him, that confidence. It sort of rubbed off on her. It cancelled out all the snide remarks from the kids at school about her being the teacher's girl. When she was with him she ought to feel she owned the place too.
'Strange,' she said. 'You heard about Catherine Ross?'
'Aye!
'She was my best friend, lived near me. You remember, she was there in the car on New Year's Eve!
'I mind that: he said.
'Did you know her?' Sally looked at him over the Coke. 'I mean apart from then, had you met her?'
'I'd seen her around. You know, parties!
Sally was going to press for more details but decided against it and continued.
'They found her on the hill just up from the school, lying in the snow. A detective came to the house last night to interview me, and he's been in school all day, talking to the kids!
'How was she killed?' he asked. He had pulled his hand away gently and was playing with the glass, twisting it round and round on the table.
'No one's saying. It said on the radio they had to do forensic tests, but they're treating the death as suspicious!
He lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes as he flicked at the lighter. Suddenly she wondered what she was doing there. It was different from the fantasies, the romantic books she'd escaped into when things at school got really rough. Once her father had taken her to the cliffs at the north end of Unst. It had been spring, the air full of wheeling screaming seabirds and the sharp stench of their untidy nests. Looking over the cliffs, even at a safe distance, she had felt dizzy and breathless. She could see the waves breaking on the boulders below, but couldn't really believe in them. It was like staring down into nothing. She'd thought she was at the end of the world and there was nowhere else to go. Now, sitting opposite Robert Isbister, she had the same feeling of panic.
What, really, did she want to come out of all this? To be loved by him? Oh that, certainly. It was what she'd been dreaming of. The small gestures of affection - his hand on her neck, stroking her hair - the gifts. But that he should make love to her? On the way home tonight, perhaps, in the back of his van? Then that she should stroll into her mother as if she'd just got off the bus to answer questions about her day at school? Was she expecting that? She felt out of her depth. Really out of her depth as if the water was coming over head and she was gasping for breath.
She realized that he'd asked her a question. 'Sorry?'
'Everyone's saying Magnus Tait did it. What did Perez tell you?'
'Nothing about that,' she said. 'He wouldn't, would he? He just wanted to know about Catherine!
'What about her?'
'Everything. Did she have a boyfriend? Who her mates were. He was trying to find out where she'd been the night before she came back to Ravenswick on the bus!
Robert leaned back in his chair. The little man by the fire snored, a rush of air through his nose, so loud that it woke him up. He looked blankly around him then fell immediately back to sleep.
'And did she have a boyfriend?' Robert asked. 'Not that I knew!
'And you would know, wouldn't you?'
'I'm not sure: she said. 'I don't know what to think any more! She wished then he would put his arm around her and hold her, comfort her, tell her it was all right, that it was natural for her to be upset. In a film that was what a hero would do. She wanted to tell him how hard it was for her to be here. Someone might come in who knew her parents. She wasn't like the other young girls he knocked around with. She'd thought he'd been able to tell she was different and that was why he liked her.
'Did she tell you where she was the night before she died?'
'How could she? I didn't see her that day!
'Who do you think did it?' he asked. 'I mean, did she say anything to you before she died? About any weirdos who might have been hanging around?'
'No: she said. 'Nothing like that. Anyway, you couldn't believe everything she said. She could be pretty weird herself. She was screwed up after her mother died. I don't think she lived in the real world.'
'Oh: She thought he was going to ask something else, but he just added 'Right,' and stared' at the old man sleeping by the fire.
'Look,' she said, 'I should go. My mother will expect me back on the bus:
'Oh. OK' He drank his whisky but made no move. 'You said you'd give me a lift.'
'So I did: He smiled. It was something of the old smile, gallant and a little mocking at the same time, but she thought his heart wasn't in it. She thought then that he hadn't wanted to see her at all. He'd arranged to meet her simply to find out what she knew about Catherine's- death. He was no better than the kids in her class.
His van was parked near the harbour. They walked down the steep lane to get to it. He put his arm around her.
She looked around anxiously in case some friend of her mother's should be out watching, but it was very dark, slightly milder with a damp mist in the air, and anyway there was no one about. Before he opened the van door for her he kissed her and, feeling an ache between her legs and the tightness in her breasts, she could remember why she'd dreamed about him since new year. But since that moment of panic in the pub she found it harder to delude herself. He didn't fancy her, did he? Not really. She'd just be another conquest. She pulled gently away.
'I should get back.'
'Yeah?' He stood for a moment, deciding whether he should push it and decided she wasn't worth it. The new clear-sighted Sally could see him weighing up the possibilities, coming down on the side o
f common sense. Better just get her back to Ravenswick without a fuss. She wasn't his type anyway. That, at least, was how Sally interpreted the small shrug, the resigned 'OK then, if you're sure:
They passed the bus just before the Ravenswick turn-off, near the old chapel. Without asking for directions Robert took the van slowly down the hill past Hillhead. Sally saw that the old man had pinned a sheet of cardboard up at the window. Perhaps he'd been bothered by people looking in.
'Where do you want me to leave you?' Robert said. 'By Catherine's house. That's where the bus stops and my mother will see it come down the hill:
Was it a test? If so, he passed. 'I don't know where that is, do I?'
'Just here.'
He pulled in beside Euan Ross's car. 'Nice place,' he said.
More than anything in the world she didn't want to be talking now about Catherine, or Euan Ross. She didn't care if her mother saw her standing outside Catherine's house before the bus arrived. She opened the door of the van.
'Thanks for the lift:
He leaned across to kiss her, but she was already on her way out.
'Will I see you again?' This time, she couldn't tell from his voice what he really wanted.
'I'm sure we'll bump into each other: she said. 'A place like this. . : Proud of herself for not being too eager and this time it wasn't a game. She didn't know What she wanted any more. Things weren't simple. For the first time since Catherine had died, she felt like weeping.
He didn't say anything. He pushed the van into gear and drove off. She stood shivering, staring up at the window of the room where once Catherine had slept, until the bus rattled down the hill.
Chapter Nineteen
At home that night, Sally kept thinking of the first time she'd met Robert. Really met him. Of course she'd known who he was and seen him about before that. Everyone knew who he was. His father was leader of the council and this year would be Guizer Jarl during the Up Helly Aa celebrations. Robert would be in his squad following close behind him in the procession. Everyone said Michael Isbister was a natural choice. A good man. Robert had talked about it and she knew he was proud of his father. Proud and a bit jealous. One day, he said, he'd be Jar!
himself. Imagine what it would be like, walking through the streets, all the folks looking at you.
She'd first met Robert to talk to, to touch, in the autumn at a dance in the hall to support some charity her father was working with. Something to do with rare plants. Or dolphins. It was always a cause like that where her father was concerned. She hadn't wanted to go. What would they say at school when they found out?
They didn't give her such a hard time now Catherine was on the scene, but even so, they could make her life pretty miserable. Her mother hadn't been keen either, but although you always thought of Margaret as being the strong one, when it came down to it her father usually got his way, and Margaret turned out anyway. In martyr mode.
Sally hadn't made much effort getting ready. She'd been wearing that dreadful dress her mother had bought her from the catalogue last Christmas. No make-up. She hadn't even bothered with concealer on her zits. And it had been as boring as she'd suspected it would be. A couple of old men sawing away on fiddles. A fat lass squeezing an accordion. The pooled supper. She'd eaten more than she should, couldn't help it. There'd been nothing else to do.
Then Robert had turned up. Slightly drunk obviously. Ready for a laugh. What would he have been doing there otherwise? It had been the first cold night of the season and every time the door of the hall opened a blast of cold air came in. And one of the blasts had blown in Robert, red-faced, laughing, with a couple of his mates. Big and beautiful like a huge Norse god. The old people hadn't liked it. She could hear them tutting about the state he was in, and what a shame it was letting his father down like that. But what could you expect, they said, the way his mother carried on.
She'd watched from her hard wooden chair, tilting it back to rest against the wall. Her parents were dancing, her mother enjoying herself despite all the moaning that had gone on beforehand, looking OK actually for her age. She was a good dancer, light on her feet, although she had a square, solid frame. A bar had been laid out at the end of the hall and that was where Robert ended up. Sally hadn't been drinking, though she'd been tempted to sneak one when her parents weren't looking. Her father looked over her mother's shoulder and smiled at her. Sally thought he seemed happy. She wished she understood him better and could tell what he was thinking. She smiled back briefly, but it was Robert she had her eyes on.
That was when he moved away from the bar, launched himself off from it and came across the floor to Sally.
He leaned against the wall beside her. Despite the draughts from the door she felt suddenly very warm, sweating even.
‘Do you want to dance?' And he'd reached down and taken her hand and pulled her to her feet, just as one of the fiddlers called folks up for an eightsome reel. She still remembered the feel of his hand, strong against her back, guiding her through the steps, though she knew the dance as well as he did. And seeing him so close, the heavy shoulders and the twist of muscle in his arms, his legs flexed slightly as if he were balancing on the deck of a ship, she'd thought he was what a man should look like, not like the skinny boys in the house room at school or the flabby teachers. Later, when her parents were caught up in a dance of their own, Robert had pulled her outside, and he'd kissed her, holding her buttocks and pressing her into him. She hadn't been able to enjoy it properly because she was worried that her mother would appear at the door and see her, and as the music slowed she'd hurried away inside, rubbing her lips with the back of her hand.
Since then Sally had dreamed of him. After a bad day at school it had only been the thoughts of him which kept her sane. And now the dreams returned. It didn't matter that in the pub she'd had doubts about him; she needed the fantasies more than ever. She arrived home at exactly the time she would have done if she'd caught the bus, drank tea with her mother as she did every afternoon. Then, when her mother marked primary six's arithmetic, she sat in her bedroom, pretending she was doing homework, and dreamed about Robert.
When she went through into the kitchen her father was home from work. He'd taken off his boots and stood just inside the door in his stockinged feet. Her mother was in the same room, but they weren't talking or even looking at each other. Perhaps they'd been arguing and had stopped when they heard her coming from her room, although that was unlikely. Sally had never heard them raise voices to each other. Usually her mother did as she pleased, but if Alex was insistent Margaret gave in quickly. She knew there was no point in putting up a fight. In matters which meant a lot to him he was stubborn, immovable as rock.
What meant most to him was his work. That was what Margaret said occasionally, muttering it under her breath like a defiant schoolgirl, not quite brave enough to say it out loud. Sally had heard her though. Perhaps Margaret had meant herself to be heard. Anyway, she sensed Alex's work as a presence, forcing her parents apart, like the experiment they'd done in physics in the first year, when the magnets couldn't come together no matter how hard you pushed them.
Now, Sally's mother was doing her best to be pleasant.
'Good day?' she asked, speaking to Alex, not to Sally. Sally had already had the questions about her day at school.
'All right,' he said. 'There's been some oil found on a beach near Haraldswick. Some skipper washing out his hold. You'd think by now they'd know. . :
'This time of year, there's not much harm it can do. By the spring when the birds come back to nest, it'll all have gone: Margaret couldn't help herself. She thought he overreacted where his work was concerned. All those seabirds.
Did it really matter if one or two were lost?
'That's hardly the point: He scowled, shook himself out of his jacket, hung it on the hook in the porch. Sally wondered sometimes why he'd married at all. Without Margaret he'd be able to work all the time, glued to the computer in winter, out on the islands when
the light days came.
She supposed they loved each other, or had done once. She didn't think they'd have sex now of course. At their age you wouldn't expect it. They probably hadn't done it since she was born. But she thought her father probably missed it. She saw the way he looked at women. Younger women. And sometimes he touched Margaret, slid his hand over her body, and Sally thought there was something desperate in the gesture. Desperate and a bit pathetic.
Her mother had cooked a chicken for tea, a treat midweek. 'Something to cheer us up a bit,' she'd said when Sally came in. Sally had smelled it cooking when she was in her bedroom, had been looking forward to it, but now she was sitting at the table she couldn't face it. Usually her mother would have made a fuss, spoken about good food going to waste, but today she just seemed concerned. Sally excused herself from the table and left her parents there, eating in silence.
Chapter Twenty
Jimmy Perez knew he should go back to the narrow house by the sea wall and speak to his mother on the phone. When Sarah had left, all that he'd wanted was to scuttle back to Fair Isle where he'd always been safe. The promotion in Shetland had been the next best thing, but he'd told himself he was just waiting until a croft became vacant at home. It was typical that now he was being offered what he'd dreamed of he couldn't make a decision. The drama of the investigation was confusing him. He couldn't see straight any more.
As he approached Fran Hunter's house on the way to Ravenswick, Robert Isbister's van was coming up the hill.
The van had to stop at the junction and Perez saw the personalized number plate, caught a glimpse of Robert's mane of hair in his headlights. Everyone knew Robert. What had he been doing there? Where had he been visiting?
Hillhead? Euan Ross's place? The school? Could he be the friend Scott had talked about? But Catherine, surely, would have better taste than to knock about with him. He was good-looking enough if you liked the macho, Viking type, but he thought Catherine would want more than that.