The Body in the Bracken

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘It’s danced three times, so you’ll get a chance to watch.’

  He watched gravely through the first dance. ‘It looks the same, except that you sway where our lady would birl under the man’s arm. Shall we try it?’

  I was annoyed to find myself trembling as we took the two steps to the floor. It was only a dance, Cass, get a grip. As we joined hands and stood side by side, waiting for the second chunk of music to begin, I could hear his breathing, slightly quickened, as he could hear mine; then we were walking together, steps matching, less awkward than I’d feared. Three steps and a hop forward, three and a hop back, then sideways, and as we met again he swirled me into a waltz hold. I could feel the roughness of his tweed sleeve against my back through the thin material of my dress, and the warmth of his hand on my waist. He held me close enough so that I was secure, yet not so tightly that I felt constrained. His breath was warm on my hair, and I could feel his chest rise and fall as we swayed to one side, the other, again, then he spun me off into the polka steps, one, two, three, one, two, three. He was a good dancer. I thought about that and fell over my own feet. His arm tightened, steadying me, then relaxed.

  ‘The annual Police Ball,’ he said into my hair, ‘and every wedding in the Highlands, to say nothing of being taught in school. My feet think in fours.’

  ‘We were taught too, but I’ve no’ used it much since.’

  ‘I thought daily hornpipes were de rigeur on a tall ship.’

  ‘Not since the days of Captain Bligh. We do Norwegian square dances sometimes, if there’s a fiddler aboard.’

  As we separated at last I was vexed to find myself blushing, and not quite able to look at him. Then the band leader pulled his microphone towards him again: ‘Please take your seats, ladies and gentlemen, for squad number 7. Squad number 7, Fifty shades of the Doctor.’

  The fiddle-box carrier (a youngster whose job was to collect and distribute props, and count all squad members onto the bus before it left each venue) scurried across the floor with the CD. There was a moment of clicks and hisses, then the Dr Who theme tune engulfed us. The doctors and nurses I’d noticed in the procession strode on, swinging their stethoscopes. They were followed by a selection of costumes, each topped by a photograph mask. I didn’t know any of the people, but everyone else did, judging by the laughter at the other tables. Their complaints included an irresistible fascination for drink, not being able to pass a bonny woman in the street, and toenails that meant they had difficulty getting their rubber boots on. The doctors gave increasingly daft prescriptions, then there was a blare and crackle from the loudspeakers and in rolled a flashing-lights Dalek. ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’ it gobbled, in traditional fashion, covered the doctors in silly string, and chased the entire cast from the hall. A pause for applause, then they all came back in, and the band leader announced the squad dance: ‘The Polly Glide.’

  ‘The what?’ Gavin murmured in my ear.

  I cast back in my memory. ‘I think it’s one you do in lines.’ As the music began, my feet remembered. A march forwards, reverse, sideways, back sideways, then a complicated pattern of toe-pointing, a galumph forwards, and you began again. I was just about to say, ‘Do you want to give it a go?’ when Anders rose and caught my hand.

  ‘Come, Cass, it is a night to be foolish.’ He swung his arm around my waist and before I knew it we were between another two couples, stepping forward, back, sideways, and it felt entirely natural to be messing about with Anders like this again, a strange extension of scrambling about sailing boats. By the end of it we were both breathless and laughing as we dropped back into our seats.

  ‘Squad 11, Miss Shetland,’ the band leader announced, and the blue-movie women with the fishnets strolled in, simpering in front of the judges, who were girls dressed as crofters in boiler suits, yellow wellies, and toorie caps. One towed a life-size stuffed collie. The women swayed round the floor to a fiddle waltz, then, with a drum roll, the traditional striptease tune began, and ‘Miss Scalloway’ shimmied in, golden curls, high heels, gloves. He’d kept his beard on, just in case someone thought he was taking this seriously. I sank a little lower in my seat, but Gavin was laughing and cheering with the rest of the audience as ‘Miss Scalloway’ stripped down to a very ornate bikini. It wasn’t a pretty sight; he had to be the hairiest man I’d ever seen. The judges were impressed and came forward with his prize, which had me laughing at last: an extra-large tube of Veet hair remover.

  The squad dance was an eightsome reel. Anders and Gavin were grabbed by a couple of young women in very short dresses, and I steered Reidar round the intricacies of left hand and right, setting to your partner, the reel of three. I felt absurdly self-conscious when it came to my turn to be in the middle, and ended up clapping and turning counter-clockwise, against the way of the dancers circling me, eyes looking at the floor. Gavin set neatly, with none of the overdone raised-arm stuff, and when it was our turn to birl he spun me round with balanced control, placing me exactly in front of his opposite number for the next set and spin. His kilt pleats swayed as he stepped the reel of three; my dress floated about my legs as he spun me again. Then there was the final ‘shaking hands’ round, and a last birl with Reidar which was more of a galumph that took us sideways into Anders and his partner, so that we ended the dance in a flurry of apologies.

  Gavin thanked his partner, and came back to our table. ‘A long cold drink?’

  ‘Oh, yes please. A bitter lemon with loads of ice.’

  He went off to the bar, and I decided it was time for a breath of fresh air, and a quick look across at Khalida. Too many people would know she’d probably be unguarded tonight.

  I slipped out of the front door and into the shadows of the wall facing the marina. The thump, thump of the band had begun again, blessedly muffled. Squad 7’s bus was parked in the dinghy space, and another bus crunched along Port Arthur Road towards me, slowed at the club and turned in just past it: the next squad arriving. Along the pontoon, all was still. I took two breaths of the ice-cold air, and was just about to go back in when there was a shuffle at the corner of the club, and the broad shoulders of Laurence Georgeson loomed up in front of me. His dark brows met in a scowl, his mouth sneered. I turned my head away, hoping he wouldn’t recognise me, and tried to move around him. He stood solidly, blocking my way.

  ‘Well, now, I think I ken your face this time.’ His eyes lingered on my scar; he gave a sour smile. ‘You didn’t wait for your weight.’

  Damn.

  He leaned forward, breathing beer in my face. ‘And just why were you poking around our warehouse?’

  Another dark suit, just as bulky, came up behind him: Peter Georgeson, as black-avised as his brother, and in just as friendly a mood. ‘Our father would like a word with you.’ He clamped an elephant-seal flipper on my shoulder. ‘I think you should come with us.’

  I thought not. They were between me and the club door, but I reckoned I could outrun them, even in these shoes. I shrugged sulkily and took two steps forward, as if I was obeying. I felt them relax. I spun around and ran for it: around this side of the clubhouse, onto the balcony at the back, and over the top of the railing.

  Surprise had given me fifty metres grace. There was a shout behind me, then only one set of running footsteps; one of them must have gone back around the front, and if I wasn’t quick I’d find myself trapped between them, here at the back of the club, with the dark water glimmering. I let myself down from the railing, and felt the jar from the heeled shoes stab up my ankles. If I was fast I’d make it behind the college without being seen.

  My luck was out. The bus I’d seen had backed right to the railing, leaving no room for me to get behind. I heard my follower’s shoes thud dully on the wooden balcony. He’d be on me soon; and the brother who’d come round the front would be in sight any second.

  I ran for the open doorway of the bus. Most of the squad were still aboard, collecting up their gear or having a last long swig from their half bottles, but a c
ouple were almost at the boating club door, and two, dressed as policemen, stood at the bus door. I dodged behind them, and Peter Georgeson strode past, looking beyond the bus. I started up the bus steps and ran straight into myself coming down: my dark sailing suit, the lifejacket with CASS down one side, my photograph fronting a wig with a long, dark plait. This Cass was a good head taller than me.

  ‘Kevin?’ I said. I leapt onto the step beside him. ‘Shooosh,’ I breathed. ‘There’s someone after me.’ Lawrence Georgeson had come around the corner, looking towards the club door, as if he thought I’d dodged past the guizers. His brother shook his head. Both heads turned to the bus.

  ‘I need to get to Gavin.’ Kevin’s glittering eyes looked blank behind the mask. I claimed him without thinking. ‘My policeman. It’s those two, the Georgeson brothers.’

  He shoved me behind him, into the bus. ‘Shut the door,’ he ordered the driver, and stood between the seats, raising his voice. ‘Boys, we need to get Cass into the hall without anyone seeing her.’

  ‘Nae borrer,’ said a voice I recognised as Jimmy’s. ‘They’ll be a black bag somewye. Come on, Andy, you have one. Brian, do you have your tulley?’

  The bus driver fished under his seat and brought out a handful of black bags; a policeman produced a Swiss Army knife. Jimmy handed him a bag. ‘Cut holes for her head an’ arms. Wha has the green gear?’

  ‘It’s here,’ a girl’s voice said. I looked round into a green face and warty nose. ‘I’m Gwen, Kevin’s girlfriend.’ The face paint wouldn’t let her flush, but her voice was excited. ‘Is someone after you? Have you found out this murderer?’ Bless the lass, she was already fumbling in her handbag. ‘Wipe this all over your face.’ She was already moving as she spoke, thrusting a pat of face paint into my hand, and a dampened sponge. ‘You can have me hat an’ cloak, I’ll keep the wig. We’ll need to hurry, they’ll be announcing us any minute.’

  Brian handed me the black bag, and began working on a second one. I wiped the green facepaint all over my carefully done make-up, hauled the plastic bag over my frock, and tied Gwen’s cloak around my neck. Gwen whisked a hairbrush from her bag and backcombed my hair, then put her hat on my head, and there we were, a pair of pantomime witches ready for our cue, not a moment too soon. There was a thump at the door of the bus.

  ‘Yea, let him in,’ Kevin said, and the bus driver shrugged. The doors wheezed open, and Laurence Georgeson lumbered forward. He filled the bus door completely. ‘I’m looking for Cass Lynch,’ he announced.

  The boys in the bus burst into a chorus of whistles, the girls made ‘oooh’ noises. Kevin shimmied forward. ‘That’s me, darling. You want any villains detected, I’m your woman.’

  Georgeson was momentarily at a loss. ‘Cass Lynch?’

  ‘It’s on me lifejacket, see?’ Kevin pointed. ‘CASS.’

  Then Georgeson got it. ‘Dinna mess me about, I want the real one. We ken she’s in here.’

  Kevin blocked his way, and told the exact truth with a coolness I wouldn’t have expected of my quiet fellow engine-destroyer. ‘This bus is for the members of our squad, an’ the real Cass is no’ in that. Now you’ll have to let us out, or we’re going to keep the hall waiting, and that’ll never do. Come on, boys.’

  The busload of guizers surged forwards, and Georgeson was forced to step aside. I felt his scrutiny as I passed him in a surge of green-faced, black-hatted witches, with my heart thumping like an engine piston. Peter Georgeson had come out to the steps of the bus. He gave us a suspicious glance. Gwen shoved right up to him. ‘Let us past, we’re on. Come on, Angie.’ She took my arm and swept me past him. He looked at the last of the squad straggling out of the bus, looked back at me, the smallest of the bunch by several inches, and reached out a massive fist to grab my arm.

  Right on cue, the band leader announced us: ‘Put your hands together for squad number 8, squad 8.’

  ‘That’s us! Come on!’ She shoved Peter’s arm aside and hauled me into the club. The loudspeakers burst into ‘Black Magic Woman’. ‘Follow the other witches.’

  For crying out loud … It was one of those nightmares where you’re on stage with no idea what the script is, or what your lines are, and I definitely didn’t do theatricals, but the Georgeson brothers were right behind me, and following the other witches out into the clear space in the middle of the hall was the only way to get myself back to Gavin and safety. I took a deep breath, and came into the spotlights. Three witches were wheeling a cauldron made out of one of those blue plastic barrels, almost chest height, and from the effort they were making, surprisingly heavy in spite of the wheels; the rest were crouching, cackling and rubbing their hands in best witchy tradition, so I did likewise. This wasn’t a time to be shy. My first cackle startled me with its volume.

  Gavin was still at the bar as we came in. He turned to watch us. I passed close to him and cackled again. His head came up instantly; a long look, then I knew he’d recognised me. His eyes went quickly round the room, found the two Georgesons, like a pair of mobmen in their black suits, and came back to me. I nodded. Message understood.

  We were circling round the cauldron now. Suddenly there was a bang and a flash from it, and the devil character rose out of it, waving his hands. We witches went round him, cringing, while he waved a whip about. Then there was another flash, and Kevin-Cass leapt out of the cauldron too, and proceeded to run round us, trailing a line of jib sheets tied together, until we witches were trussed to the cauldron, with the devil in the middle of us. Kevin blew a whistle, and the Gavin character and a squad of policemen entered at the gallop and did a dance routine before unmasking the devil, who turned out to be the Leader of Shetland Islands Council (another photograph). We witches went into a pleading routine, blaming him for making us do it. The police seemed inclined to let us go, but the Gavin character strode forwards, lifted the hat of one witch, and flipped down a mask inside it – Helen Budge, Head of Education. The other witches lifted their hats and flipped down masks which looked like more council people, including Vaila Wishart, who was the chair of the Education committee. There were cheers from the audience; Scalloway school had been the first casualty in a round of closures. The policemen unfurled blue and white ‘Communities United for Rural Education’ banners, plastic handcuffs were produced, and we were marched off. My heart began to thump again; for all they were plastic, the cuffs were strong enough to hamper me if a Georgeson grabbed me – but surely they wouldn’t dare, right under Gavin’s nose?

  The policeman who’d collared me was taking an age to find the key for my cuffs, making a comedy performance of it, patting each of his dozen police jacket pockets. In the shadows, the Georgesons moved forwards. I stood mast-still, fighting down my impatience. He found the key at last, and fumbled my handcuffs off. I sensed rather than saw the movement of a dark arm behind me. A heavy hand came down on my shoulder. I ducked away from it and pushed forwards onto the floor, just as the squad dance was being announced. Perfect. I slid across the floor to Gavin, at the bar.

  ‘The Georgeson brothers say their father wants a word with me.’

  ‘Presumably they’ve now matched up the stupid boy in a boiler suit with Cass Lynch, girl detective. The sort of people who act first, then let their brains catch up. The father didn’t get where he is by doing that.’ He took his change and carried the two drinks back to our table. ‘Are you asking me up for your squad dance, before you change?’ He held his hand out. ‘Or are you going to stay green all night?’

  ‘It isn’t easy being green. I’m not sure I remember how to do a Pride of Erin.’

  ‘You said that about the Polly Glide, and your feet remembered fine.’ He swept me into a waltz hold. ‘I haven’t managed to tell you yet.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ I stepped, crossed, pointed my toe, reversed the movement. We spread our linked hands, pulled back from each other, then pulled in again, so that our faces were very close, looking along our shoulders into each other’s eyes.

  ‘You
mentioned the horse harness,’ he said. Retreat, advance again. ‘And the Lerwick Gala items.’ A last sway, and we were back into waltz hold, gliding round. ‘This is most dreadfully unromantic,’ Gavin complained. His arm was warm around my waist, his hand firm on my back. ‘Our first waltz, and I’m talking shop.’

  ‘I don’t have a fan to flutter. Go on, the Lerwick Gala stuff.’

  ‘The Purloined Letter.’

  I gave him a blank look.

  ‘Three barrels,’ he said simply, stepping nearly forwards without even looking at his feet, ‘among cartoon cut outs, with the front one labelled “Lucky Dip”.’

  Light dawned. We did the spread arms, stepping back, stepping forwards bit again. ‘And one of the empties smelt of whisky?’ I asked, along out lined-up shoulders.

  He nodded, and turned me under his arm. ‘It’s funny how people don’t seem to count receivers or creditors or insurance or tax officials as actual owners. He was very offended that I called it theft.’

  ‘It’s not exactly theft. He gave it to the people who’d bought it.’

  ‘Yes. Unless forensics can match the whisky profile to the recovered Lunna Bridge, there’s no actual evidence of anything.’

  ‘You didn’t mention Magnie?’ I asked, alarmed.

  He shook his head. ‘I saw no bottle, I tasted no whisky. I think it’ll just be quietly dropped.’

  My feet had remembered the complicated step-cross pattern now. I could leave them to get on with it. ‘Shetlanders have had years of ignoring the ranselmen to take what the sea brings.’

  ‘Ranselmen?’

  ‘The Customs Officers.’ I remembered a radio broadcast we’d listened to in secondary. ‘There was this ship wrecked, Gudrun, and all that was left to salvage was some spars and a keg of brandy the seawater had got into.’

  ‘Flotsam, jetsam, laggan.’

  ‘A wreck. The customs officials weren’t happy. There was a court case, but the only men who’d been seen at the ship just happened to have left on a whaling ship.’