‘But why,’ I asked, ‘should it be so odd that he wanted to be a crew aboard?’
‘Eco stuff,’ Inga said. ‘He’s rabid about it, haven’t you noticed?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ve had the youth of today, and the government, and the EU.’ I was trying to remember if we’d ever spoken about eco matters in front of him. Probably, given the film’s sponsors. Yes, we had, and recently; we’d been speaking about Favelle’s Greenpeace film. Unusually, Gibbie hadn’t commented at all, just grunted, drunk his tea, and been the first back to work.
Inga grimaced. ‘Eco stuff is all those rolled together, with him. He blames the Greenpeace lot and the do-gooders and the tree protesters for ‘all this bruck about no fish left in the sea’. He was particularly angry about that film Favelle did. You know, the poisoning the seas one that really highlighted the issues. It was after that the government got tougher on quotas.’
‘I think that’s a coincidence,’ I said. ‘I don’t see the prime minister saying, ‘It was in a movie, we need to act now.’
‘Gibbie puts the two together,’ Inga said. ‘Cass, I feel I’m being right melodramatic here, but he’s got this hatred of all Favelle stands for, and the only reason I can think of that he’d be so keen to be involved is that he’s out to make trouble in some way. If I was you, I wouldn’t let him work on anything important – I mean, nothing that would sabotage a day’s shooting or something like that.’
‘He could do that so easily,’ I said. ‘Suddenly letting the sail down in the wrong place. Sticking the engine out of gear.’
‘But you could watch him, now you know,’ Inga said. ‘I don’t have any proof of anything. It’s just really odd he should want to be involved. He’s really odd.’
I’d talked to Anders about it, that evening. Gibbie was sleeping at home, of course, so once he was off the ship the next day we went over all the rigging with a fine tooth comb.
‘Did you find anything?’ the inspector asked.
I shook my head. ‘Nothing I could prove. Just odd things, a block rigged the wrong way round, and a sheave jammed with a small piece of cloth. After that we never let him work alone on the boat, and we took it in turns to sleep aboard Stormfugl so that there wouldn’t be any funny business at night.’
‘I wondered about that,’ the inspector said. ‘Why you needed a night watchman, up here.’
‘Gibbie,’ I agreed.
‘Obsessive,’ the inspector repeated. ‘Did he know the dead woman?’
The truth sounded bad; I gave it, reluctantly. ‘She was staying in his house.’
There was a silence, broken by the officer who’d been interviewing Anders coming in. The DI rose in one smooth movement. I listened to the rattle of the ice maker behind the bar, and wondered what Anders had said.
When he came back in, though, the inspector’s face still had that air of friendly good nature, a peaceable soul with all the time in the world. He fished in his tin once more and took out a little packet of new hooks, the barbs steel-bright. ‘There’s a brown trout in our river that I’m determined to lure out. Well, now, I’d need to know more about the dead woman, and the other film people. The Second Unit arrived first, in late May, is that right?’
I nodded.
‘I’ve never been a film star, so you’ll need to tell me a bit more about how it all works.’
‘Money,’ I said. ‘The big star, the big director, they cost. What the studios do is shoot as much as possible before they arrive, using another director and stand-ins. That’s the Second Unit. In this case, they did most of the shots of the boat, and some background scenery shots as well, I think – I wasn’t involved in these.’
‘Mmhmmm,’ he said, nodding. ‘Lend me your finger for a moment, would you? Just for this first knot.’
I put my finger on the slippery line. He asked, as he was tying the knot around it, ‘This Maree Baker arrived with them?’
I nodded. The clear line closed around my finger. I slid it free.
‘What was your first impression of her?’
‘Her height,’ I said. ‘How long her legs were. I was sitting down on the pier, so I was looking up at her, and that was my first impression.’
The Second Unit was directed by Michael Ashford, and they arrived in a white transit van an hour before low water, straight off the overnight ferry from Scotland. It rattled to a halt and a dozen scruffs in tattered jeans and bright jumpers got out from the tail doors, all clutching large black electronic boxes or trailing flexes, and eyeing up Stormfugl as if she was a cross between an adventure playground and a problem to be solved. The man in the passenger seat strode down the pier and put his hand out.
‘Cass Lynch? I’m Michael Ashford. Pleased to meet you.’
I was hard put to it not to go, ‘Wow!’ He was like a hero from Pirates of the Caribbean, with glossy brown hair falling in a smooth curve to his shoulders, an oval face, dark eyes under arched brows, and a faint hint of moustache over sensually red lips. No, not a pirate; a doomed cavalier or a romantic poet. There was intensity in the dark eyes, a melancholy curve of the lip. The likeness was finished off with an open-necked white shirt and a dark brocade waistcoat. ‘It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Cass.’ The voice was south London, overlaid with American. He held my hand just a fraction too long, and I felt my cheeks go hot, blushing like a schoolgirl. Get a grip, Cass. You’re too old for a holiday romance.
‘How d’you do?’ I managed. ‘This is Anders Johansen, Stormfugl’s engineer.’
He gave Anders a long, thoughtful look, the same intense handshake. Anders’ cheeks reddened. I moved quickly to Gibbie, standing silent and sullen behind me.
‘Gibbie Matthewson, our local waters expert.’ Gibbie gave a sour nod, his hands staying in his pockets.
Michael turned to look behind him as a rattle and thump across the boating club cattle grid announced the arrival of an articulated van with Lighting Systems blazoned along the side. ‘Great to meet you all. Now, we’ll just get started.’
In ten minutes he had his crew spread out around the boat, and then seemed to be everywhere at once, indicating a light here, another there, and conferring with the cameramen on how exactly they’d achieve the shots in his storyboard. I watched for half an hour or so, partly out of interest, partly to check that they were leaving operational bits of the ship alone. I didn’t want to lower the sail and find five thousand quid worth of camera dropping with it.
Various cars were coming and going, so I didn’t particularly notice the red Fiesta from Bolts car hire firm come down to the hard standing. I was watching from the pier, back against one of the bollards, legs stretched along concrete that was almost warm in the May sun when a Gone with the Wind voice said, ‘Hey.’
Maree.
My first thought was how tall she was. She was wearing those really skinny jeans, and her legs seemed to go on for miles. Above them was a loose jumper, equally designer, with a V-neck that slipped towards one tanned shoulder. Then, of course, I noticed her likeness to Favelle: the same oval face, with that curved, enigmatic smile, but Maree’s upper lip was fuller, redder, and her green eyes were cat-like under dark arched brows. The biggest difference was that she had dark curls instead of Favelle’s trademark long red-gold hair. Her hands were the same elegant shape as Favelle’s, but tanned with short nails, the hands of someone who’s willing to do things aboard a boat. She was expensive and groomed in her wave of perfume, and she made me feel like I’d felt on my first school day in France, a scruffy, sailing-mad teenager suddenly dropped among elegant French girls who blow-dried their hair every morning.
‘Hey,’ she said again. Her voice was gruff, like a boy’s when it first starts to break, quite different from Favelle’s musical alto. ‘You must be our skipper. I’m Maree, the double for Favelle. I sure am looking forward to going to sea in a real Viking boat.’
‘A lovely day for it,’ I agreed. I stood up and held out my hand. ‘Cass Lynch, her skipper.’
Her eyes widened, startled. ‘Cass Lynch? Are you any relation to Dermot Lynch, who came over to the conference in California?’
Oh, yes ? ‘His daughter,’ I said.
I got a thoughtful look, then a slow, calculatedly charming smile. ‘Hi, Cass, pleased to meet you.’ She looked past me along Stormfugl. ‘It’s some boat. I hadn’t realised they were so big, the Viking ships. No wonder they came across the pond.’ She dropped down beside me, perching herself on the other bollard. ‘We’re not doing many scenes on the actual ship, are we? Just the long shots, and a few close-ups. Most of it’s done already, on blue-screen.’
I tried a smile. ‘Technical stuff.’
‘Oh, you know. They film you doing whatever in the studio, in front of a blue screen, and then substitute the real background. Most outdoor stuff’s done like that. It saves bother with sound.’ She gave a long look round. ‘It’s so bright here. The sun on the water, and no pollution. I hadn’t expected that. How far away is that? Those houses?’
The long fingers flicked towards the white houses of Eid standing out against their green background. ‘Six, seven miles,’ I said.
‘It’s clear as anything. Home, you’re lucky to see six hundred yards. So where is your house?’
I thought I’d see just how interested she was in Dad. ‘Oh,’ I said airily, ‘I live aboard my Khalida. The little white yacht at the end of the middle pontoon, there.’
She sighed, and slid down the bollard to sit on the pier, long legs stretched out, then smiled again, and this time I smiled back. ‘Sounds real neat. I work in a bureau in LA – my firm’s involved in the same area as your daddy’s, eco-research and alternative energy. I get really fed up with it, you know?’
‘I thought you were Favelle’s double,’ I said.
‘Sure.’ She ran a hand through her hair, making it stand out like a halo. ‘Sure, but that’s, like, a vacation job. Makes a change, you know?’
‘I do waitressing sometimes,’ I agreed.
She grimaced, then smiled.
‘An interesting life. Tell me all about it sometime.’
‘You’re the second person to say that recently,’ I said.
A sideways glance from those eyes, the colour of the sea over sand on a sunny day, astonishingly clear, fringed by dark lashes. I’d have bet those weren’t natural, in spite of the dark hair. ‘Was he good-looking?’
‘Life doesn’t revolve round men,’ I retorted.
‘Oh, honey, doesn’t it? How old’re you, Cass?’
‘Twenty-nine,’ I said.
‘Just older than me.’ She gave my old jeans a sideways assessing look.
‘Very few Shetland women wear make-up,’ I said. ‘And they definitely don’t get their noses fixed, or their boobs done.’
She stared, genuinely horrified. ‘You’re kidding me? Don’t they wanna make the best of themselves? No wonder your –’ She bit off what she was going to say. ‘Didn’t your mommy help when you were a kid, about that kinda thing?’
Maman filled the house with crystal clear notes. She didn’t do motherly advice. ‘It’s not a motherly thing here.’ Seeing she was still lost for words I added, ‘They get their teeth fixed, though. The school dentist comes round once a year.’ I was lucky; I’d inherited my dad’s good teeth. Inga had been unlucky, and spent two years with a brace that she could barely speak through.
It had given her an opening, though; she tacked back to her original idea. ‘Does she stay here, your mom?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘she has a flat in Poitiers. France.’ You never knew, there might be a Poitiers, Ohio. ‘She’s a singer. Opera.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ I could see her thinking it: a Shetland housewife wouldn’t have been competition, an opera singer might be harder to supplant. ‘With a particular outfit?’
‘She’s pretty famous in Sun King music circles,’ I said. ‘Eugénie Delafauve.’
‘They’re separated then, your parents?’
I’d had enough of being cross-questioned. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with the price of fish,’ I said.
She looked satisfyingly blank for a moment, then smiled. ‘You’re telling me to mind my own business, right?’
I was saved from answering by Dad’s 4x4 coming round the curve and down to the boating club. He was dressed to kill in a dark suit with a polo-neck under it, Roger Moore-style, and he came straight over to us, to Maree, and held his hand out.
‘Good morning, Maree. It’s a pleasure to see you again. How was your journey?’
‘Long,’ she said, and made a face that had him laughing.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I said. I didn’t bother to get up.
I was pleased to see a faint tinge of red in his cheeks.
‘You’ve met my daughter Cassie, then. Maree was such a help to me in LA, Cassie, she was my right-hand woman.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said equably.
‘Maree,’ Dad said, ‘come and talk to me about Favelle’s publicity plans. Are we going to use the ship for the wind farm shoot too?’
He led her off, his hand on the small of her back within ten paces.
To kick the film off we were all invited to a meal at Busta. Dad was up at the top table, between two other suits, with Maree further down, though not out of eye contact distance. I was level with the salt, with Anders a bit lower, and Gibbie lower still. I’d hoped he wouldn’t refuse the invitation, in spite of the blight he’d probably cast over everyone; he’d been in such a glowering mood all day that I wouldn’t have been happy leaving Stormfugl unguarded. I had Michael on one side and a young man with an American tan hiding severe acne on the other – one of the technicals who’d been swarming all over the ship. He gave me a nervous glance and ducked his head away. That suited me, but I was out of luck for shipboard romances. Michael was more interested in Maree, constantly drawing her attention and laying his hand over hers. Oh well. I grimaced at Anders and concentrated on the food. It was a pretty good spread: a starter of toast and local smoked mackerel, presented with the fish nestling among neatly made tomato roses and curling lettuce leaves. My Norwegian restaurant boss would have approved. It was followed by local roast lamb, then a lemon soufflé, sweet and creamy with the zing of the lemon lingering after the mouthful had gone.
There were several bottles of wine on the table, and by the time the coffee arrived voices were louder and faces redder. People began to move around, introducing themselves. I got stuck with a middle-aged man from Detroit who kept putting his hand on my arm. Maree did a circuit, working her way steadily towards Dad. Michael went from one suit to another, going back to Maree for a minute or two between each. Dad radiated local businessman host charm in the centre. When Gibbie grunted a goodbye and slipped out, I exchanged a glance with Anders, and he slid out after him.
Maree looked across at Dad until their eyes met, then excused herself. Five minutes later Dad left too. Michael was enthusing to a suit about the wonderful Shetland light; he kept talking as Dad passed him, but his dark eyes followed Dad through the door. Five minutes more and he too was gone, letting the door swing shut behind him with a bang that caused a sudden, uneasy silence.
Trouble hung in the air then like that over-bright light before a storm strikes. Prince Rupert’s men thought they were invincible in their laces and satins, but when they realised they’d lost they preferred glory to safety, a suicide cavalry charge, taking as many of the enemy as you could before they hacked you down. How was a dazzlingly handsome cavalier going to take losing his mistress to an older Roundhead? It would be a nasty shock; perhaps enough of a shock to make him lash out.
Chapter Five
Lash out with what? I hadn’t thought about a weapon. There had been nothing near where she lay. I’d have noticed something out of place, even under the shock of finding Maree’s body. I asked abruptly, ‘What was Maree killed with?’
DI Macrae’s head came up. His grey eyes met mine, sharpening. ‘That’s the first question you’ve asked me.’<
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‘I didn’t think of it before,’ I said.
‘Something hard, probably larger than hand-sized,’ he said. ‘More like a stone than a stick. Is there anything like that aboard Stormfugl?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘A block – a pulley, I mean – would be just what you’re looking for, but she only has wood and leather fastenings. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing –’ I paused at that, for there was something tapping at my brain like the ship’s carpenter testing the mast for rot.
His hands stilled on the fly. ‘Something wasn’t right?’
‘I don’t think it was that kind of thing, though. Not something about the boat.’ I tried to visualise it, but all I could see were the bloodied hands. ‘No, it’s gone. Sorry.’
‘Let me know if it comes back.’ He looked up as Sergeant Peterson came in. She had two sheets of A4 in her hand, covered with small, neat writing, and I could see she was fretting with impatience that he was still here talking to me when he should have been everywhere. He leaned back and read them through, like a computer considering information and slotting it into its place: tidal vectors, wind speed, current. There was a long pause, then he turned back to where we had been.
‘They arrived in late May and you spent a week filming aboard the ship, with Maree doubling for Favelle.’
I nodded. ‘We did the establishing shots first, with the ship being rowed by local folk from the yoal teams. The cameramen did close ups of straining bearded oarsmen and Vikings hauling on ropes, and the sail falling from the yard to catch the breeze. Everything had to be repeated over and over.’ I grimaced. ‘It took two days before Michael was satisfied he had enough shots in different lights and wind strengths. After that, Joe from the boating club took the cameramen and Michael out in the inflatable, and we went into the Atlantic for another day of sail handling with that buzzing around us.’
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