The Body in the Bracken

by Marsali Taylor

  Anders shook his head. ‘The story first.’

  ‘It’s too muddled in my head,’ I grumbled. All the same, I did my best: the foursome of Ivor, Bridget, Julie, Hubert; the affair with Donna and Julie’s attempt to save the marriage; the problems with Robert-John; Ivor’s voyage down with Hubert, the arrival of Donna, the quarrel with Hubert, with Donna, with Julie; Ivor’s return through the Caledonian Canal to Shetland, the note on the table, his departure on the ferry the next night. I explained his involvement in the missing cask of whisky, and his dodgy dealings with Jeemie. I tried to remember who had been where when, and who might be able to hoist a body on one of Gavin’s ponies to transport it up the hill. My throat was dry when I’d finished. I poured myself another cup of tea and leaned back with an over-to-you gesture.

  ‘It is very complicated,’ Reidar said. ‘It is like one of those Agatha Christie stories.’

  ‘No,’ Anders said. ‘You are too cold, Cass, in your unheated cabin, you are not thinking straight. Your policeman would have thought of it the moment the wife, Julie, admitted she had quarrelled with her husband, and left him. Would he go on his own around this point of Ardnamurchan, which even you treat with respect?’

  I sat up with a jerk which made Cat miaow indignantly, and dig his claws in. Of course he wouldn’t. Tackle Ardnamurchan, single-handed, when he was used to at least one crew member aboard, and then go through the twenty-nine locks of the Caledonian Canal without another pair of hands to handle ropes and rig fenders? No way. He’d do what I had done, sail back up the west coast. There had been no sprig of heather on his boat’s bow because she hadn’t earned it.

  And that meant he’d spent those days without Julie messing about in the area surrounding Gavin’s loch: Mallaig, the bottom of Skye, Loch Nevis, Kyle Rhea. He’d never left it. He’d been killed where we’d found him, by someone who then sailed the boat home.

  I should have thought of it, of course. It was just that the idea of someone else sailing Ivor’s boat hadn’t occurred to me, any more than I’d expect to take over someone else’s house. I was silent for a moment, considering it.

  The idea of Ivor having died where we found him was much neater. No borrowing horses or driving bodies about, just ‘Let’s climb up to that cave.’ A blow on the head, a stab in the heart, poison in a drink. Then the survivor upped anchor and headed for Shetland. Inga’s mother-in-law saw someone, after dark, in Ivor’s red sailing overalls, driving Ivor’s car and going into Ivor’s house. That should have rung alarm bells. People left their oilskins aboard. That person scrambled some clothes into a bag, left a note on the table, took the car on the ferry that night and then dumped it in the morning, as if Ivor had gone south, leaving no forwarding address.

  ‘Someone who knew Ivor well enough to imitate his handwriting,’ Reidar said.

  Julie, of course. Donna. Robert-John, and Maya. Jeemie might have a sample, from the removals. John Georgeson might, from the whisky affair, and what he knew his sons and daughter might also know.

  ‘I can see Jeemie as a forger, and he was from Walls. They’re good sailors.’ I thought about the rest of the list. ‘I don’t see Donna sailing a yacht home.’

  ‘No,’ Reidar agreed. ‘But she had a strong motive for killing him. She loved him and he’d betrayed her.’

  ‘All the same, she could only have done it if she killed him here.’

  Anders shifted Rat to his other shoulder. ‘Could his wife sail?’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s used to boats, but she’s never crewed at Brae. She had only one night aboard before the row, not long enough for her to learn to set the sails, and she’s too sensible to think she could pick it up on an epic voyage like that.’

  ‘The Georgesons?’

  ‘John Georgeson’s brother has a Sigma 33, and they’ve all crewed for him. John Georgeson might even have a boat of his own in Lerwick. I don’t know all the fleet there. Robert-John’s a good hand in a boat.’

  The long way home would be a challenge for him, but I had no doubt he could do it, if there was enough at stake. Maya’d been on his uncle’s boat at regattas too. An intelligent woman … yes, intelligent enough to learn how to work the sails and instruments. If they’d worked together that meant it had been deliberate; they’d gone south intending to kill him. They’d left the business van there, brought the yacht home, and then Robert had returned to the mainland with the car, in Ivor’s name, and come home in his own van.

  ‘And Hubert Inkster, of course.’ Hubert could sail, and he knew the boat. He and Ivor had planned the trip together, so he’d know all about the tides, the lights, places to stop for a breather. ‘But if Hubert killed Ivor, then who killed Hubert?’

  ‘That will be what is keeping your policeman busy,’ Reidar said. ‘Alibis. And given the weather last night, it will be everyone saying they stayed at home, watching the television, with the curtains shut on the snow.’

  It sounded likely.

  ‘What about the gun?’ Anders asked. ‘Your laws are strict, are they not? The police will know who has a licence.’

  I’d thought about this too, in the watches of last night. ‘I think, actually, that it might have been Ivor’s. He had a pistol that he used for starting races, at the regatta, and I’d thought it was just a starting gun.’ I hadn’t cared to look closely at it. ‘But perhaps it was a real one.’

  ‘So everyone knew he had it.’

  ‘Hubert, and Robert-John, and Julie, of course, but the person who killed him could have seen it on board, and taken it.’

  I was getting too comfortable. I called Cat and headed back to Khalida. I’d just got the hatch open when the first flake fell, drifting down in a spiral around me, the second, then a dancing swirl of them; then, with a sudden rattle of halyards, the wind got up, and the snow poured down like smoke from the north, blotting out the school, the street of coloured houses, the pier with the castle, then sweeping across the water to envelop us. I dived into the cabin and saw through the windows the way the near shore disappeared into this same white whirl. We could have been alone at sea, Cat and I, our gold-lit cabin lost in spindrift.

  I put a hot water bottle into my bed, and ran the engine while I did a coloured mind-map of today’s lectures, then I renewed the hot water bottle, brushed my teeth, and got into my thermals. Never again would I spend a winter in the northern hemisphere, I vowed to myself. I’d head for the Caribbean come next September. I wriggled into my berth and lay for a moment, pondering. What had Hubert wanted to tell me? Bridge – saw her. Bridget Georgeson. Maya, Donna, Julie. John Georgeson lived at Bridge House, Voe. Hubert could have been telling me he’d seen Miss Georgeson, or he could have been saying he’d seen one of the others at Bridge House. Not Miss Georgeson; there would be nothing odd about her visiting her father. Nor could I see any link between Donna and John Georgeson, nor Julie and him. Maya, now, that was different. She wanted at all costs to save her husband and children, little Annemarie and the unborn baby. She might have gone to John Georgeson, secretly, while Robert-John was out, to beg the help he was too proud to ask for.

  Bridge … saw her.

  Then, dazzlingly, it came to me. Bridge. The Skye Bridge. He’d been crossing on Thursday, and seen her, Ivor’s yacht, on the water below, with her distinctive green dodgers, heading for home up the west coast, just as we’d surmised, when according to the plan they’d worked out, Ivor should have been making his way up Loch Ness.

  He’d seen the person at the helm.

  Thursday 9th January

  High Water at Scalloway UT 02.53, 1.3 m

  Low Water 08.59, 1.0 m

  High Water 15.12, 1.4 m

  Low Water 21.54, 0.9 m

  Moonset 02.05

  Sunrise 09.03

  Moonrise 11.24

  Sunset 17.13

  Moon first quarter

  You dunna tak ling amang da drewie-lines.

  You don’t take ling (a deep sea fish) among seaweed (close to shore). Fig, you need to make an e
ffort to get a worthwhile result.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was bitterly cold when I awoke, and the condensation on the inside of the window had frozen into frost ferns. I hauled my warmest clothes over my thermals and set off for a hot shower straight away, envying Cat his thick fur. The tide was almost out; the shingle-sand glistened dark between the pewter-grey sea and the snow-covered upper shore. Little wading birds darted about the clear portion of beach.

  Antoine pounced on me as I came back. His hair was standing on end as if he was harassed.

  ‘I have the entire Jarl Squad here for breakfast tomorrow, and not a French breakfast of a croissant, a coffee, but the full Scottish, with bacon and eggs, and fried bread, and even blood pudding, for breakfast, what horror. And now one of my girls has phoned in sick, so if you can help out, I will be grateful. You cannot cook, of course, but you do not need certificates to serve plates.’

  ‘I’ve got intermediate food handling.’ It had been running at Train Shetland, a four-day course, and Reidar had suggested I sign up. Antoine snorted. Intermediate food handling didn’t compare with a proper French waiter’s apprenticeship. ‘You have black clothes for waiting in?’

  ‘No problem.’ I’d got some from the charity shop, for this evening, where I’d be handing out Reidar’s best baking at the ceremonial naming of the Up Helly Aa galley, the Viking longship which would be at the heart of tomorrow’s celebrations.

  ‘Then I will see you tomorrow, as early as possible. There are to be speeches, so no doubt it will take half the morning.’

  After my classes I headed up to the café. Cat came with me as far as the breakwater, pouncing on the snow, scooping it with his paws and making flurries as he chased his tail, then he decided it was too wet and cold, and raced back home, slipping in the gap in Reidar’s forehatch to join Rat, who’d also been left behind. I scrunched briskly on. Prince Olav’s slip glistened with ice, and the net over the shed roof made a faint pattern under the smooth snow. When I got nearer to the shop then the crunching snow had been turned to grey ice by passing rubber boots, walking shoes, buggy wheels.

  The shop was in Up Helly Aa mode. The window was full of home-made shields and helmets with cardboard raven wings (the nursery Viking project) surrounding a miniature galley. There was a poster on the door promising a 7 a.m. opening tomorrow to sell programmes, and a home-made ‘hours to go’ countdown on the counter, alongside a stack of horned Viking helmets in authentic plastic. The girl behind the counter wore a long kirtle under a Viking-style apron pinned with oval brooches. I got two tins of catfood and was just hesitating over the choice of cat biscuits when a woman behind me spoke.

  ‘So, now, did you hear Jeemie o’ Grobsness is been hauled into the police station to talk about stolen jewellery?’

  I turned round. It was an older woman in a parka, sparked with farm mud, and of course she wasn’t talking to me, but to another woman of the same age, in a town coat, with a loaded wicker basket. I turned away and listened.

  ‘Stolen jewellery! Never.’

  ‘Yea,’ insisted the country woman. ‘I heard it from our Janette’s oldest lass, that helps with the cleaning at the police station. The policeman with the kilt visited him twa days ago, and got suspicious, and after that they searched the “missing items” file in the station, and came up with several things in his shop. Then the police confronted him with the evidence, and he admitted it.’

  ‘Never! Wha were they stolen from?’

  ‘Folk all over Shetland. An you ken this, he did it through this Facebook that all the bairns are aye on.’ It’s even got a Facebook page, the man’s a great one for his computers, Magnie had said. A quick glance showed me half the shop was listening, breath-held. ‘It seems he was “friends” with the whole of Shetland. All he had to do was look out for holiday photos, to let him ken what houses were empty.’

  I thought of the photos I’d seen of people smiling from a hotel balcony in the Canary Islands, from a ski slope on a Swiss alp, from a market in sunny Africa. Having a wonderful time here …

  ‘Then he just broke into the house and took things that widna be missed.’ What’s security like? Gavin had asked. I imagined Jeemie arriving at a darkened house in his dark car, and slipping silently through an unlocked back door or cludgie window. I thought he’d like the power buzz of roaming through the house without the owners knowing; maybe even, if it was an isolated house, drinking a cup of tea in their sitting room before he searched for things that wouldn’t be missed immediately: a grandmother’s engagement ring, pretty, old-fashioned, not hugely valuable as jewellery goes, but worth several hundred pounds, and never worn, just kept safely in a box for sentiment’s sake. Prowling through people’s houses, learning all their secrets …

  ‘Never!’ the town woman repeated. ‘Well, I dinna ken what folk are coming to nowadays.’

  ‘Our Ruby said that the police had that much stolen stuff that they’d likely have to hold a display of it all in the Town Hall, and get folk to come and identify what was theirs.’

  Our Ruby, I thought, was using her imagination now. The countrywoman trailed off in a round of appreciative murmurs. I chose the medium-priced cat biscuits and headed to the counter, thinking. Last Wednesday, Jeemie had said, for the girl selling Julie’s gimmel ring, and presumably he dated the items just after he’d stolen them, so that he wouldn’t be caught out by an owner saying, ‘Oh, no, I polished that just before we went away on holiday.’ That meant he’d taken it while Julie was in Tenerife over Christmas. Donna had been telling the truth when she insisted Ivor had never given her a ring; unless Jeemie’d stolen it from Donna.

  Prowling through people’s houses, learning all their secrets … but that was three months after Ivor’s death. I didn’t see how it linked in. I paid the Viking girl, and came out into the cold.

  Reidar and Anders had been busy. The armchairs were all in place, with little tables invitingly beside them, the peat stove glowed in its corner. A clock ticked between china huntsmen on the mantelpiece, and the windowsill was bright with pots of blue hyacinths. Reidar got me writing menus in my best French script, while he concocted chocolate cakes bulging with whipped cream and decorated with slices of strawberry. Anders was making croissants under his direction, rolling out, adding slivers of butter, folding over, rolling again. Once I’d done the menu cards I was initiated into the mysteries of creating pains au chocolat. It was peaceful, familiar, standing shoulder to shoulder with Anders again, and we reminisced of voyages we’d done and discussed how far two people could actually take my Khalida, while Reidar directed us like a benevolent giant. When the clock chimed five we drew a deep breath and looked around with pride at the cold store filled with trays of dough triangles and rectangles ready to bake, the cakes on their shelves, the plastic containers filled with biscuits. Reidar put an arm around my shoulders, and clapped Anders on the back. ‘Tomorrow will be a success. Now we must eat, then it will be time to get to the boating club.’

  The snow had stopped again, and the sky was clear, with the stars ruled over by the silver moon. We ate the remains of yesterday’s stew aboard Sule, mopping our plates with thick slices of crusty bread, then I nipped back to Khalida for my blacks, and we headed to the boating club together.

  We weren’t invited to the naming ceremony, but from the buzz in the bar afterwards as the folk swarmed in, it had gone really well, with speeches from all concerned. The Guizer Jarl had invited the ‘clerk o’works’, the leader of the boys who’d built the galley, to fix the nameplate on, and she’d been named after the Jarl’s wife, ‘in appreciation of their lengthy marriage and consistent support.’

  Evening refreshments weren’t usual, but Reidar had offered to supply ‘eight o’clocks’ as advertisement for tomorrow’s opening. I circulated with trayfuls of fancies, wished the Jarl squad luck for tomorrow, and headed for Khalida at half past nine, when the last of the food was gone, dog-tired, and with my feet aching far more than they’d ever done after a
double watch on a tall ship.

  ‘It went well though,’ Reidar said. ‘It was excellent advertisement. While the men are doing the official bit, we will see the wives tomorrow.’

  Friday 10th January

  Scalloway Fire Festival

  High Water at Scalloway UT 03.53, 1.3 m

  Low Water 10.28, 1.0 m

  High Water 16.29, 1.3 m

  Low Water 23.06, 0.9 m

  Moonset 03.21

  Sunrise 09.01

  Moonrise 11.47

  Sunset 15.24

  Moon first quarter

  Ros a fair day at night.

  Congratulate yourself on a fine day only when it’s finally over.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The snow lay overnight, but the wind had fallen, so it wasn’t as cold as I’d feared. I re-filled my hot water bottle at 4 a.m., then Cat and I slept snugly until the first light began to creep into the cabin. I looked across at the clock: half past seven.

  It was going to be a most beautiful day, crisp and clear. The sky was that pale winter colour, like a distilled essence of summer blue, and the water glimmered in answer. The snow stretched clean across the hills, as if they’d been newly sprinkled with caster sugar. A dunter bobbed up beside the shore, smart as a twenties young man-about-town with his white jacket and black and green yachting cap, tilted his head and commented, ‘Cor, cor!’

  I waved Reidar and Anders off, headed into the college canteen, and was soon busy laying tables while Antoine and his minions raced around in the kitchen. Then we heard a storm of cheering, a drift of music, and we all piled out to watch the procession, the Vikings leading their galley from the blue-doored galley shed above the Minister’s steps, flanked on each side by three flickering torches.