Anders. I took out my mobile. There was coverage here; three bars. A tinned voice buzzed in my ear: ‘ This phone is switched off. Try later or send a text.’
I wrote a new short message: Where r u? Khalida 2 b searched. Must talk. C.
I called Mr Berg next, before he saw the press conference. ‘I am sorry to report,’ I said, ‘that the woman who died aboard Stormfugl was Favelle herself, and that it does not appear to be an accident.’
‘I have already been visited by the police here in Norway,’ he said heavily. ‘I am considering what to do. Ted wishes to finish the film.’ His voice lightened, sounded almost smug. ‘I will contact you again.’
End of conversation; probably end of job.
Later, after Dad and I had silently shared a what’s-in-the-fridge casserole, I phoned Maman. I needed the Olympian perspective of Juno, chief goddess. I thought she might be at a rehearsal, but the phone gave its single echoing buzz only three times before there was a click.
‘Eugénie Delafauve, allo?’
‘Salut, Maman,’ I said.
‘Cassandre. I was just about to phone you. I saw you on the news, ten minutes ago. The death of a film star.’ She didn’t sound surprised. Film stars were a lesser breed, prone to sudden death, unlike singers, who had to go on no matter what. ‘Upon your ship, it seems. That is unfortunate.’ Although it was also not surprising, as ships, although orderly in conception, had to contend with disorderly waves and wind.
‘Very,’ I agreed. ‘It will not do my métier as a skipper much good.’
‘And the police? You are not antagonising them?’
‘Au contraire. I am even letting them search Khalida.’
‘Qui ça? Ah, your boat.’ There was a frowning pause. ‘Does that mean you are under suspicion?’
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘You see, I didn’t recognise her. I thought she was the star’s twin sister.’
‘And so?’
‘It’s a bit complicated.’
‘Explain, then.’
‘The twin, Maree, whose body I thought it was, she and Dad are … friendly.’
‘Ah.’ It was a soft sound that would have reached the leaning-forward students in the gods. ‘Serious?’
‘That’s complicated too. Yes, I believe. Except Dad’s made a mess of it. They had a massive row the night she died, and his alibi depends on me so I’m not sure the police believe it. On top of that, she’s gone missing.’
‘Yes.’ She left another considering silence. ‘You are not likely to be arrested imminently?’
‘I hope not.’
‘Good. I have arrangements to make. You are at your father’s house? Do not make anything worse, either of you. I will telephone in half an hour.’
It was nearer three-quarters of an hour. ‘Cassandre? I will arrive on the last aeroplane tomorrow night. I will stay with you and your father, naturally.’
Naturellement.
‘I have arranged a concert in the Town Hall, on Saturday.’
‘How did you manage that?’
I could see her immaculately curved eyebrows rising in surprise. ‘I telephoned the head of your Shetland Arts, of course, and told him I was willing to perform. He was most delighted. One would not wish to look as if one was rushing to the defence.’
I didn’t expect DI Macrae to accept that on face value. And what was Maree going to say when she turned up? Come to that, what would Dad say? I was torn between relief that Maman was taking over, that this whole mess would receive a dose of efficient French common sense (nobody would arrest us, I thought illogically, with Maman in charge) and irritation at myself for being relieved. A good skipper didn’t need her mother as dea ex machina.
‘Now, the important thing,’ Maman said ominously. ‘Your clothes. If I am to present you as my daughter, you must be better dressed. I will bring something of a proper cut to the airport, for you to change before we meet the press. What shoe size are you?’
‘Five, I think.’
‘What is that in Continental size? No, never mind, the shoe shop will know. Black brogues and sandals suitable for a dress.’
‘A dress?’ I echoed, aghast. Assieds-toi, joue avec tes poupees.
‘You cannot impress in jeans. But I will bring you properly tailored jeans and a jacket. I cannot think what possessed you to wear that one for the television. Awful. I will see you tomorrow at ten past seven. Do not alert the press, my agent will do that. Now, you had better pass this phone to your father.’
I took it through. ‘Maman.’
Dad’s eyebrows shot upwards. He attempted at a smile. ‘Eugénie? How are you doing, girl?’
A flood of accented English from the phone. I left them to it.
My mobile did its text-bleep at last. Staying with friend. Search okay rat out. Meet up tomorrow over and out. A.
Over and out. Our shorthand for ‘I’m just going up the mast’ or ‘taking the autopilot off’ or ‘the wind’s blowing up’. I’m not answering any more calls.
I suddenly realised how little I knew about Anders. His routines, yes. He was a morning-shower person. Breakfast at 7.30: a bowl of cornflakes with one spoonful of sugar and half a pint of milk, followed by toast with cold meat on top, salami for preference, and a slice of that sweet Norwegian cheese, then a pint glass three-quarters full of orange juice, drunk in a oner. He’d work until his midday cup of tea, with milk and two sugars. He was a steady worker, not pausing to chat all the time. Lunch break, more bread, cheese, and salami. Evening meal, whatever was going. Curry acceptable; British chips, not.
I could tell you what he would be doing at any hour of the day, but I didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head. He’d mixed well with the film crowd, chatting up the girls with superficial success, since Rat had had to be left aboard, but I hadn’t noticed him actually getting anywhere with any particular one. He’d presumably slept aboard Khalida on my watch-nights, since he’d been there for breakfast. He’d been in the cockpit or, these warmer nights, on Stormfugl, for his watch-nights, and if anyone had joined him there I hadn’t noticed signs of their presence.
Staying with friend. A sudden memory gave me the where. Did you hear they saw the ghost at Busta? Suzanne screamed to wake the whole house, then went into a fit of hysterics. He’d been on the longship all day, and fully occupied with Favelle during lunch; the only way he’d know about that would be if he’d been there, at Busta.
I was sure he hadn’t been at Busta last night, though. He genuinely hadn’t seen what was going on and he would have if he’d returned from there. He’d have been on watch aboard Stormfugl for the first part of the night at least. What had made him take refuge in the boating club? I couldn’t see what would have panicked him so much that he’d had to cobble together an alibi.
Spent the night together, indeed. He’d got some explaining to do.
It had been a hell of a day. When I lay down I felt heavy, earthbound. I tried to remember when I’d last slept ashore. That hostel the police had taken me to, a dormitory with a dozen beds? No, it had been in the Med; those box-sized chalets they’d called accommodation.
Not since I’d bought Khalida. I gritted my teeth. Until Mr Berg sacked me, I was still skipper. There had been a murder aboard my ship, and under God I’d see the murderer brought to justice.
Paranoia or what.
I lay awake and thought. What on earth was Favelle doing aboard Stormfugl? The only answer that I could think of was that she was looking for Maree. She’d tried to find her at Jessie’s, and failed, because Maree had already lit out. Perhaps she’d tried ringing Dad, and got no answer. So her next thought was to try the longship, or Khalida. I considered that as logic, and decided it would hold.
Now, why was she looking for Maree? Given the secrecy of their set-up, it had to be something pretty urgent. Well, the big thing that had happened that day – yesterday, only yesterday – had been the rock falling. Favelle had been angry when Ted had dismissed it as an accident. Did she have r
eason to believe it wasn’t an accident?
Hang on; the other thing that had happened was the letters. I’d given Maree a handful of letters, and she’d gestured towards Elizabeth. Then she’d looked at the top one, the typewritten one, and taken them after all. Then at lunchtime, Favelle had been distant, annoyed.
Did all that get me anywhere? Suppose, just suppose, she’d been receiving threatening letters, threats she thought were being carried out when the rock fell. That would explain her anger with Ted when he took it lightly.
Yes! That conversation between Maree and Ted, the day before the rock fall. Could it have been about anonymous letters? Ted had been warning Maree to keep quiet, and Maree had insisted Favelle was to be told. ‘I’m not prepared to keep this to myself.’
Ted’s voice, equally determined. ‘You must. For her sake, you must.’
Maree wanted Favelle told. If she’d recognised that typewritten letter as a threatening one, she’d have made sure Favelle got it. In the meantime, the threatener followed it up with the rock.
That didn’t mean Maree herself wasn’t the threatener. Suppose she was. She made sure Favelle read the letter, but said she couldn’t discuss it just now, she had to get off set. ‘Don’t come to Jessie’s house. Meet me at the longship, after dark.’ Then –
My reasoning broke down. Then she legged it in a way calculated to draw attention to herself, instead of sitting put and acting upset, or going back to Dad for a grand reconciliation and acting ignorant. Besides, she hadn’t legged it far. DI Macrae had told Dad she hadn’t been on a flight or the boat – not under her own name, anyway. If she’d carried a faked passport, then this was a long-laid murder plot, which didn’t fit with the affair with Dad. All the same, I considered it. Getting his sperm tested did seem an odd thing to do, and you could safely expect him to have a fit about it. All you had to do was make sure he read the letter.
No, it was all needlessly elaborate. There was no need to drag Dad into it at all, except as a double-bluff too elaborate for even the skipper who made us re-set all the sails into identical angles. And she’d liked Dad. I envisaged her again in his kitchen, humming to herself as she chopped onions, her face lighting up as he’d come in. That hadn’t been a fake.
Besides, I couldn’t think of any reason why Maree would kill Favelle. Finance? No, her husband Ted would, I presumed, inherit the bulk of her estate. Deep-laid resentment against her star of a sister was possible, but she didn’t like the film star life, she couldn’t be bothered with film people, and she was getting out.
Very well then, assuming Maree was innocent, where was she?
Dad had been waiting for her to come back. It hadn’t been final, just an argument, but serious enough to make Maree wonder if she really wanted to take on a man who was a generation away. She’d have wanted peace and quiet to think it through, but she’d also have wanted to be able to meet Dad for a reconciliation if that’s what she decided to go for.
Peace and quiet in Shetland. Jessie had copies of the magazine Shetland Visitor in every room. I’d have looked for a self-catering cottage in the back of beyond, and phoned the owner, calling myself Jane Smith and paying cash. I’d have switched my mobile off, so that nobody could bother me. If the cottage was small enough, it might not have a TV or radio, so I wouldn’t see the news. Maree wouldn’t care about missing a day or two of riots in the Middle East and rows over oil prices.
Tomorrow, I decided, I’d work my way through the pages of the Shetland Visitor. I’d phone each landlady and ask if they’d had a sudden booking from a single lady the night before last.
If Maree was still in Shetland, I’d find her.
Chapter Eleven
DI Macrae had set the search of Khalida for ten the next morning. I was pacing the pontoon at quarter to. The tide had only just begun to flow back. Khalida’s sides reflected white in the water, and the sunlight rippled along the hull. They’d taken my key, so I could only peer in at the varnished wood and swinging lantern of my home, my sanctuary.
He arrived with three spaceman officers following him. I could feel curtains twitching right round Brae. To make it worse, Ted’s white limo drove past, and I saw the pale blur of his face turning to look. I didn’t want him to think I could be responsible for his wife’s death.
Behind the officers there was someone in a coastguard uniform, presumably an expert in checking boats for hidden compartments. Well, there were no smugglers’ holes in Khalida. He was a tall, dark bloke of around my age who walked with a familiar, unhurried stride. Then he turned and I saw it was Martin Nicolson, Inga’s brother, who used to crew for me.
I’d thought then that he’d end up good-looking. Like Inga, he was a “dark” Shetlander, with black, black hair and brown eyes, Inga’s moulded cheekbones, a firm mouth, and a determined chin. He’d been a damned good crew, reacting before the puff of wind or fall-away; the trophies I’d won had been half his, and we’d shared them month about.
‘Martin!’ I said.
He ducked his head sideways, gave me a shy smile. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember.’
‘Not remember?’ I turned to DI Macrae, who was frowning at this possible compromise to his search. ‘Martin was my crew in my Mirror.’
‘A fine time we had too,’ Martin said, grinning his old grin. ‘I’m never had as much fun since.’ Then the grin faded. ‘I’m sorry about this, Cass. They asked the coastguard for someone who knew about the construction of peerie boats. I didna ken it was yours they were searching.’
I managed a shrug. ‘The more thoroughly they search, the more thoroughly I’m cleared.’
‘Then we’ll get on with it,’ DI Macrae said, and nodded to one of the officers. ‘Prints, then we’ll come in.’
I eased my toes out of my flip-flops and sat down on the pontoon, bare feet dangling in the water. Its touch soothed me. ‘I don’t know how you all plan to squeeze in,’ I said.
‘I’ll stay outside,’ DI Macrae said equably. He crouched down beside me, the pleats of his kilt brushing the wooden walkway. ‘Thank you for being so sensible about this, Ms Lynch.’
‘It has to be done,’ I said. ‘Like I said, go ahead and clear me.’
He could hear the confidence in my voice, shot a quick glance sideways. ‘It doesn’t clear you that much. If you killed Favelle, why would you bring a blood-boltered weapon to your own boat when you could just drop it overboard?’
I looked into the darkness beneath Khalida’s white side, down to where the brown kelp waved. ‘Dropping it overboard wouldn’t be clever. The water’s not deep, and it’s clear.’ A starfish gleamed on the bottom. ‘Look, you’d see it.’
‘Not,’ he said gently, ‘if it was a stone, just like the others.’
‘Divers could tell a newly dropped land stone,’ I said. ‘I’d think of that.’
A white flash from within Khalida made me jump. I could see the spacemen moving like ghosts. In the cockpit, Martin began taking items out of the lockers: the bucket with spare anchor chair, the life-raft, the light-weight sails in their bags, put aft out of Rat’s way, fenders and mooring warps, the winch handle for the main halyard, a bottle of water. He swung himself into the biggest locker, and came out again, shaking his head.
DI Macrae watched for a moment, then looked back at me. ‘I can tell you that you didn’t leave any footprints on Stormfugl.’
There was a suspicion of emphasis on the ‘you’. I lifted my head. ‘Oh?’
‘There were a man’s footprints, gravelly, going on board, underneath the body, and to the engine. Larger feet than Anders, by a good three sizes.’
I jerked upright. A little wave crept coldly up my rolled jeans. ‘A stranger aboard?’
Now Martin went into the cabin. I could see his shadow checking there were no dummy bulkheads.
A cold suspicion was growing in me. If Anders hadn’t been there, then Stormfugl had been left unguarded. It could have been Gibbie down below, tinkering. I resolved to check every inch of her before
leaving the pier again.
DI Macrae was watching me. ‘An idea?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Everything’s important just now.’ He waited for a moment, but I didn’t say anything more. He gave a nod, accepting that. ‘Would you like to know about alibis?’
I turned my head to him, surprised. The sun made his thick hair the colour of a stag’s ruff. ‘If you’re telling me.’
‘The Ronas Hill group, the ones up filming, they’re out of it. They were wandering all over the hill looking for the best views, but their car was parked by a camper-van, and the people in it are willing to swear it never moved until four, when you phoned Ted Tarrant. Tarrant, Michael Ashford, and the other director of photography, James Green, are all in the clear, unless I can work out a way of going twenty miles on foot in three-quarters of an hour, which is the longest time any of them was away from the others. The rest of the film people, well, there was a party at Busta that night, and Favelle and Elizabeth were the only ones who didn’t go to it. The whole crew took over the Long Room and stayed up till well after midnight, messing about with ouija boards.’
‘Film folk don’t seem to need sleep while the shooting’s going on.’
‘Nobody was absent for longer than it took to go to the toilet or the bar. None of them had any grudge against Favelle; none of them knew her. She was out of their orbit.’
‘When was the last time anyone saw Favelle?’
‘Elizabeth looked in on her just after half past ten, to see if she had everything she needed. She was sitting at her dressing-table taking her make-up off. She was very calm, Elizabeth said, not in any way different.’
‘Was she wearing make-up when you found her?’
He nodded. ‘Good, Ms Lynch. Yes, she was. Not heavy make-up; just enough to go out in. But then, we know she went out. She walked aboard your longship.’
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