The Body in the Bracken

by Marsali Taylor

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was the movement that woke me, my boat suddenly come alive, and the sound of water knocking on the hull. I’d gone to bed dog-tired, after the night’s watch and day’s sail, conked out like a doused lantern, and while I was dead to the world something had gone wrong, for Khalida was moving.

  I was out of my berth and hauling on my teddy-bear suit and boots faster than it takes to say it. I could see the shore slipping past through the window, the black water at the sea wall. I caught up my jacket and pulled it on. This high tide would give us valuable extra metres of sea room. I snatched the washboards out of the companionway slot and scrambled into the cockpit.

  Yes, Khalida was loose. The loops of mooring lines had been quietly, gently lifted from her cleats.

  The wind had risen, as the moon had forecast. The rigging whistled, and there was a tumbling waste of black waters around me, their white crests burnished by the thin crescent of moon. We were moving fast towards the shore below Main Street. I put the engine in gear and reached in to the start battery, then, with a quick prayer, turned the key. My ancient Volvo Penta coughed, and started. I watched the shore coming closer and counted a nerve-stretching ten before putting it into forward. There was a horrible grinding noise, and Khalida shuddered and stopped dead. The tiller bucked under my hands. I’d made a stupid mistake: the mooring ropes aft had been lifted off, so I’d assumed they all had been, but the front spring, wound around the cleat on the bow of the boat, where the person would have had to climb aboard to undo it, must have been cut. Left trailing under the boat, it had wound around the propeller.

  There were ways of dealing with that, but not right now, with the wind and waves pushing Khalida shorewards. I uncleated the jib furling line and let out half the sail. It steadied her, but she was still being driven sideways as well as the forwards her nose was pointing. Sideways would take me to the Blackness pier. I could lie there until morning. I looked at the tyre-hung wall, assessing. Yes, with luck I could get her in there until I’d sorted the prop out.

  Then I saw the car on the pier, sitting with its lights off in the shadow of the little stair running down from New Street. There wasn’t usually anyone parked there. The streetlight glow meant I couldn’t tell what colour it was; brown, perhaps, or red, maybe even navy, anything other than white. Looking through the hissing dark to the orange streetlights on the pier, I thought I could see the shadow of one person sitting in the driving seat, watching as I fought to save my boat.

  I wasn’t going in there. I turned Khalida’s nose away, tightening the jib as I pushed the tiller, and the deck tilted under my feet. To get her to go upwind, away from the shore, I needed the mainsail, and to get that up I had to go forrard to the mast. I’d need my lifejacket and harness. If she’d heave-to under jib alone it would buy me breathing time. I pulled the jib as tight as it would go, shoved the helm from me, then, as her nose went across the howling wind, pulled it up and looped a line around it. Now her sail was steering her one way, and the rudder the other, and if she’d had her mainsail she’d sit safely like that for days. I leapt down into the cabin, grabbed my lifejacket, harness, and gloves and was back up before she’d pirouetted her first circle. ‘Come on, lass,’ I told her. ‘We can get out of this, just help me.’

  The mainsail was secured for shore. I clipped on and went forwards to roll the canvas cover off and drop it into the cockpit, fingers working frantically on the velcro. The wind pulled at me, trying to wrench me from my rocking hold on the cabin roof. My face was frozen with cold; I hauled my hood up and continued working at the sail, one arm looped round the mast, so that I could use both hands. Khalida yawed over and back with the waves, and the jib strained, flapped, strained again. Now the shore was less than a hundred metres away. Even with this high tide, her keel would touch the bottom in half of that. I tied the third reef in the mainsail, secured the reefing line at the sail’s clew, then hauled up the first quarter of her mainsail. In this wind, the less sail I had up, the safer I’d be. I winched it bar tight, scrambled back to the cockpit, and grabbed the tiller. ‘Come on, lass. Let’s get out of here.’

  Now she responded properly to her helm. With both sails up, she’d fight her way out of any corner. I hauled the mainsail in and set her nose as close to the wind as she’d go. I was heading out to sea.

  The wind was a good six, gusting seven; not quite storm force, just a yachtman’s gale. Even with these scraps of sail, Khalida was tilted so far over that the waves were washing her lee windows. Every so often there was a soft thump from below as something slid over onto the floor, but I had no time to go and look right now. Cat would be tucked into my berth, tail over nose, ignoring the angle, and nothing else mattered but getting us out of the Scalloway channel and into safety.

  We tacked in a flapping of jib just short of the accommodation barge at the pier. I looked up and saw an astonished face at one square window. Damn! Now there’d be a lifeboat call-out. I got Khalida on course, then looked back and gave a cheery wave, hoping he’d interpret it as an ‘I’m okay’ sign. Once I was out of here I’d radio the Coastguard. I didn’t want to spark off a rescue. We forged across, almost back to the marina breakwater, tacked again. Out of the streetlight glow, the water was a shifting coal-black mass between the red and green lights of the buoyed channel. It wasn’t often I wished I had the latest chart plotter, but I could have done with it here. I rolled away more jib, and her lee side came out of the waves. I looped the chain over the tiller and left her forging ahead while I reached into the cabin for the chart, the guide book and my head torch. Once we were on a longer tack, I’d go below and put a jumper on too, and a scarf; cold was responsible for as many mistakes as stupidity.

  A quick look at the chart showed me that my fastest way out was the way I’d come in yesterday. It’d be a beat out of the Scalloway channel, then a reach through the islands into the clear water below Skelda Ness. After that, I’d be two miles from the lee shore; I could keep going west for a bit, then heave-to until morning, and come back in daylight, with the engine free of rope, and Reidar warned to watch out for any reception committees.

  I tacked again, then ducked below and picked up the radio. ‘Shetland Coastguard, this is yacht Khalida, yacht Khalida, over.’

  A crackle, and Ian’s voice came through the speakers. ‘Yacht Khalida, channel sixty-seven, over.’

  I changed channels and explained myself. ‘Just in case you get a report of a sailing boat in trouble. I’ve been cut loose from the marina. I’m now safely heading for open water.’

  ‘Okay, Cass. Let us know when you get back in.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I checked through the window, went up and tacked again, then went below for warmer clothes. By the time I’d done that we were almost between the last set of buoys, and in another hundred metres I could free her off and let her surge towards the open sea. It wasn’t a route I’d have chosen for night sailing in a gale, with the little islands each side of the channel, one dead in the middle of the next channel, and a submerged reef between the two, but between human enemies and the sea, I’d take my chance with the sea any day.

  Now we were away from Scalloway my eyes had adjusted to the dark. Even this sliver of moon cast a pale glow on the sea, shifting silver between the dark islands. I sighted ahead and noted my compass bearing on my route to safety. The submerged rock was a mile and a half away, twenty minutes at this speed, and – another squint through the compass – I reckoned our leeway was five degrees. I did the arithmetic, and got my course to steer. If one of these scudding clouds came over the moon, I just had to hold this course and listen for breakers for all I was worth, and we’d be safe.

  All the same, it was one of the most dangerous things I’d done recently. My heart was thudding as I heard the waves hiss on the islands not fifty metres from me, and saw the gleam of white foam among the long rocks that seemed to stretch out bony fingers towards us, my tough little boat and I, alone in this wilderness of
water. We came between the first pair of islands, Green Holm and its satellite, and forged on to Langa. The wind was blowing the waves onto the rocks, and the back eddy shoved at Khalida, knocking the wind from her sails. The rock in the middle of the channel was bang on my nose; I adjusted my course towards the Cheynies. Khalida was making nearly six knots through the water. As soon as I’d passed the little rock I brought her up and away from there, came round the last corner, and we were free, with the sea open before us, and the wind blowing us out into it.

  It could be a long night. I hooked up the steering chain that kept Khalida on course and nipped below to put the kettle on, add another jumper, and check the forecast. This wind looked set to blow itself out overnight, and back westerly, which would give me an easy ride home.

  I huddled myself into the corner of the cockpit that gave most protection from the bitter wind and flying spray, and clasped my mug of hot chocolate in both hands. Out here at sea, the waves were twice the size, above the height of Khalida’s cabin roof, shrugging us from one side to the other. One moment we’d be on the crest, with the waste of water shimmering around us, and the next we’d be enclosed in black water. As the wind rose, the crests stopped breaking; the wave would build, and build, then implode from inside in a rush of foam, and the foam itself was building up into lumps; at one point I thought I glimpsed a white motorboat, just fifty yards away, then, as we rose on a wave, realised it was a great block of foam the length of Khalida.

  Frightened? Yes, I was. It would take only one split-pin on the straining rig to work loose, one shackle to undo, and we’d be caught up in disaster: a split sail, a fallen mast, Khalida tossing loose on this sea with no steerage to keep these waves rolling harmlessly to her bow. I started doing what ifs: I could cut the mast free and we could lie a-hull until morning, I could deploy the sea-anchor in the aft locker to keep her nose to the wind. When you’re out at sea, when there’s nobody to rely on but yourself, panic doesn’t help you. I’d learned that in those bleak days after Alain went overboard in the middle of the Atlantic. At first I’d circled, looking, and called for help on the radio, but the help never came. In the end I had to accept he was gone and resume the sail home. A thousand miles from Scotland, I had to do everything alone in a grey wilderness of water: log-keeping, boat checks, sail changes. The ship’s routine helped keep me focused, and when I felt that dangerous bubble of panic rising in me I’d walk round the rigging again, or take sextant readings, or mess about with the sails until they were in perfect racing trim.

  Now I looked out at these waves, and reminded myself I was only a handful of miles from port. The engine was disabled, true, but the sails were working, driving my tough little boat through the water. Cat was safe below. I was well away from deadly rocks. I’d been in far tighter situations. I reached into the cabin for the fleece blanket, wrapped it around me, put my left hand on the tiller, and prepared to sit the night out.

  ‘Absolutely deliberate,’ I assured Gavin. It was just after nine, and the start of a golden morning, with the wind soft on the water, the sky summer-blue, and the grass hills the soft green of August. Cat had come out into the cockpit and was washing his whiskers after eating my crisped bacon rinds. A cormorant surfaced alongside, the sun glistening on its iridescent green back, tilted its grey beak at me, then ducked back under the water. ‘Someone lifted off the ropes they could reach easily, and cut the fore ropes that were up on the bow. A knife sawing would have woken me, so I’d guess they used scissors, the sort you’d have in a kitchen for cutting meat.’

  ‘You couldn’t ID the car?’

  ‘No. It was a car, not a pick-up or 4x4 or Berlingo, but that’s the best I can do. Small, maybe a hatchback, not a long estate. Something like a Fiesta, that shape.’ I could see it still in my mind’s eye, with that faceless shadow watching. ‘The colour was distorted by the streetlights, but it was a colour, mid-shade, not white.’

  ‘And no doubt the entire place knew you were in Scalloway.’

  ‘No doubt at all,’ I agreed.

  The low sun danced on the water, turning it to whisky gold. On the island of Hildasay, it lit up the ghosts of long-gone crofts, the oblong ruin of house in its square of yaird, the long rigs running down to the sea. The sea kissed the grass of the nibbled banks, hiding the beaches; torpedo-shaped seals were hauled up on headlands, heads lifted to the light. On the east side of Scalloway, the houses were silhouetted by the rising sun, the black hills broken by silver twists of water; the western hills were dusted with light, the longer grass pale gold, the heather chocolate rust. A flock of greylag geese passed overhead and skated down onto the water.

  ‘Gavin, do you think the skeleton we found really might be Ivor?’

  ‘You haven’t uncovered anything else that could make someone want to get you out of the way?’

  ‘Something I know that I don’t know I know?’ I shook my head. ‘That odd business of the njuggle and the ring.’ I tried to remember what Jeemie’s car had been. Average shape, navy. ‘It could have been Jeemie’s car.’

  ‘I’ll ask the local officers if they can look into the ring as soon as possible. That connects back to Ivor Hughson too, if it was the girlfriend who sold it to Jeemie. Confusion take all these holidays! The dentists will surely be back to work tomorrow.’

  ‘And if it’s him?’

  ‘Then it’s a case, and we’ll interview you in form, with as many police cars as Lerwick will allow me.’

  ‘Word will just go round that I’ve been arrested.’

  ‘All the more likely that you’ll have told all you know. For the moment –’

  ‘Believe me, I’ll be checking all systems and ropes within an inch of their lives. I’m not having the mast falling on me.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’ll keep yourself safe from hands-off long-shots like the gas and the cut mooring ropes. What I’m more concerned about –’ his voice flattened to impersonal, as if he was talking in an interview room, ‘is that the perp may proceed to direct violence, since you have as many lives as a cat for maritime disasters.’

  ‘I’ll be too busy in Reidar’s café to tempt murderers by lonely walks at night. We open on Friday. Listen, I’ll need to get back in, Maman and Dad are picking me up for Mass. Speak to you later, beannachd leat.’

  ‘Madainn mhath.’ Have a good morning.

  The first thing I’d done in the half-light of dawn was ease the mercifully short end of bow rope from around the propeller. Now I started the engine and set Khalida chugging forward under engine and jib as I stowed the mainsail. We’d be back in Scalloway in less than half an hour.

  Reidar came out to take my lines. ‘A fine day for a very early sail.’

  ‘I was cut adrift in the night.’ I swung myself onto the pontoon. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later – are you working in the café this afternoon?’

  He nodded. ‘All afternoon. Come along. I have a new biscuit recipe also that I wish to try out on you.’

  ‘Any time,’ I assured him, and headed below to change my sailing suit for jeans and a jumper. I’d just finished lacing up my winter boots when I heard a beep from the shore. I scrambled out, secured the washboards behind me, and headed to the car.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a most beautiful winter’s day for a drive. There were parties out at the golf course, dark-clad figures against summer-bright grass. The few still-worked Lerwick peat banks were black gashes in the rust-rose heather, with weather-faded palettes lying in the greff, ready for next year. Three fishing boats were tied by the blue Shetland Catch factory, offloading their harvest. I wondered if Charlie’s was among them. Peerie Charlie would be blyde to get his dad home so quickly. The Northlink-Serco ferry was in, with its newly painted Viking pointing the vessel forwards. The coloured lights and picture of Santa in his sleigh that used to brighten the town from the start of December until Up Helly Aa had been discontinued this year, along with the Christmas tree at the King Harald Street junction. I hoped the money saved ha
d gone to something worthwhile, like meals for the elderly, or care for special needs children.

  The church was still in festival mode, even if everyone else had thrown out their Christmas trees long before Twelfth Night. The wreath by the lectern was made of prickly holly and scarlet chrysanthemums, with the great Easter candle in the middle of it. We had a satin shimmer of white lilies at the altar, and before it, surrounded by hay, was the crib, its roof fret-worked by two of the Polish community. There was a scarlet-leaved poinsettia on each side, the pots sprayed gold and wreathed with tinsel. The metre-high figures went way back to my childhood: Mary, hands folded in prayer, Joseph standing behind her, the ox and ass, the shepherds led by a grey-headed man carrying a lamb, the little boy bringing up the rear. Today was the feast of the Epiphany, so the wise men had been added: a tonsured English king in scarlet robes trimmed with ermine, an African in royal purple over silvery-blue, a Persian whose green cloak was flung back to show the gold underneath. I remembered when I’d come to my very first Midnight Mass, aged seven; I’d been thrilled to be given the task of carrying the baby Jesus forward from the back of the church. There he lay in his basket, a little Victorian boy with milk-white skin and golden curls, arms outstretched.

  Maman wore her white wool coat with a black fur pillbox hat, and Dad had a white polo-neck jumper under his jacket. They could have come straight off the set of a Russian episode from a James Bond. Maman led us to the pew we’d occupied when I was a child, and Dad motioned me in before him, and there I was, sandwiched between two parents. I was far too old, I told myself, to feel this daft sense of security, of the world suddenly being right way up again. We’d got on fine after Maman had left, Dad and I – then the memory rose up of going into their bedroom when Dad was out, to open the wardrobe door, smell her perfume on her dresses, and promise myself that while her clothes were there, she’d surely return. She’d meant to, I thought, but she’d lost my baby brother, and the distance between them had stretched too far to cross. I said a prayer for him. Patrick, he would have been called. He’d have been twenty-six now, maybe married, with his first child …