Death on a Longship

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘The campers are certain that the film people’s minibus never moved.’ This was a young man’s voice, with a Lerwick accent. ‘They’d have heard it. A number of people saw Ashford and Green, both with cameras, and Tarrant roaming about the hill taking photographs, but the times are too vague to help us. I’ve done a list, giving approximate times, and I’m certain that none of them was gone long enough to get from Ronas Hill to Brae on foot.’

  ‘Could they have done it on bicycle?’

  ‘A professional cyclist could, sir. They’d have to be good.’

  ‘News on the burned videos, Ewan?’

  ‘Just fragments, sir, although we might get a print off them.’ That was the Glaswegian officer again. ‘No footprints at the burning site – the entire hotel clustered around and trampled.’

  ‘The bicycle?’

  ‘Ted Tarrant’s, sir. He always packs a bike in case he gets the chance to do a bit of exercise. That’s known among the film crew so someone else could well have borrowed it. He kept it folded up under the bed in his room. The case was still there, with marks of gloved prints over Tarrant’s: average-to-large male size, or large-handed woman.’

  ‘My money’s still on Tarrant. The husband.’ It was Sergeant Peterson again. ‘The perp in ninety-six per cent of cases is the husband. All this heartbroken stuff is just crocodile tears. He’s an actor, remember.’

  ‘Not a very good one,’ Inspector Hutchinson retorted.

  ‘He could be lousy on screen and brilliant off it. He suspected his wife of having an affair with the hired hand –’

  ‘If you accept the Norwegian’s version two.’

  ‘– came back and caught her at it.’

  ‘Don’t forget the profile,’ Gavin said. ‘Ruthless, emotionally cold. Efficient. That doesn’t fit with your scenario of a man catching his wife being unfaithful.’

  Ruthless, emotionally cold, efficient. Yes, the murderer was all of those.

  Sergeant Peterson wasn’t going to be kept down. ‘It spoils Jim’s scenario too, sir. Dermot Lynch killing Favelle in mistake for Maree.’

  ‘Ninety-six per cent is husband or lover.’ Perhaps Mr I-am-right was trying to rise above so commonplace a name as Jim. ‘We’ve only got Lynch’s account of what the row was about, and it’s about as implausible as they come. Why on earth should she get his sperm tested? No, she told him she was leaving, taunted him with his age, and he wanted revenge.’

  ‘One at a time,’ Gavin said. I could hear the scribble of a pen. ‘Any more new information on Tarrant?’

  A new voice spoke. How many officers did he have in there? ‘His finances are sound, sir. He gave me full access to his stockbroker in the States. And as he told us himself, his wife was his star. His films will be much less valuable without her.’

  Answer: as many officers as it took to uphold the honour of the Scottish police and fend off demands for Scotland Yard. To step aside for the English would be the ultimate failure.

  ‘So if Tarrant was responsible, his likely motive was his wife’s infidelity.’

  ‘How could he have found out about it, Gavin?’ That was Inspector Hutchinson again. ‘Nobody we’ve questioned has him anywhere near the lunch tent. He was up on the hill with the cameraman talking about shots while she was propositioning the Norwegian.’

  I felt another surge of anger. Anders had a name.

  Gavin side-stepped that one. ‘The bicycle was his and he knew where it was kept. He’s certainly capable of bicycling that short distance quickly. Opportunity without motive. Keep working on that, Sergeant – texts, calls, notes from Johansen to Favelle or vice versa that he might have found. How about his relations with Maree?’

  ‘No hint of anything wrong there, sir. She visited the house regularly, according to the housekeeper, but never when Favelle wasn’t there. Her stand-in work was generally with Ashford, not with Tarrant.’

  ‘Very well then. Dermot Lynch.’ A flap as he took a new page. ‘I don’t like your quarrel scenario, Jim, but I agree that his business record shows he can be ruthless.’

  I hadn’t thought of Dad as ruthless. I remembered the way I’d been packed off to France, the way he was planning to carve up Shetland, and wondered with a sudden sense of panic if I’d got it totally wrong. Magnie’d taken ten times the drink Dad had and still managed to drive home.

  ‘The other possible motive, sir,’ Sergeant Peterson said, ‘is that he wanted his wife back, and Maree was getting in the way. Putting her body on the longship confused the issue, involved the film folk.’

  ‘And his own daughter.’

  ‘They quarrelled bitterly fourteen years ago and she hasn’t been home since,’ Sergeant Peterson said. ‘What does he owe her?’

  ‘She says he was too drunk to drive.’

  ‘The blood readings don’t agree with that,’ Hutchinson stated. ‘Illegal, yes, but not incapable.’

  ‘Very well. Motive for killing Maree, possible. We need to talk to Maree.’

  Sergeant Peterson said, ‘The local man was dealing with something on Fetlar when we phoned, but he said he’d get off there by the next ferry. Radio Shetland is doing an urgent call on their 5.30 bulletin. She may not be listening to the wireless, but her landlady will be.’

  ‘Good. Lynch’s opportunity, yes. Motive for killing Favelle?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘None, sir. She was his pin-up girl for the wind farm,’ McDonald said.

  ‘Very well. Lynch, possible motive of either revenge or elimination to kill Maree, opportunity good. The speed his wife arrived here at suggests she suspects one of her family.’

  Hutchinson’s voice turned contemptuous. ‘She was sweetness and light this morning. No interest in what Dermot was doing with another woman; she is his wife. Her Cassandre is strong, but little. She could not possibly have moved a heavy body.’

  Poor Maman, poor Dad, not even allowed a morning together.

  ‘How long have she and Lynch lived apart?’

  ‘Sixteen years.’ A rustle of notebook. ‘They’ve met up occasionally in that time. They seem to keep on friendly terms. Phone each other every couple of months. No suggestion whatsoever of them getting back together until now, according to the Poitiers cop I spoke to.’

  ‘When did she book her flight over?’

  ‘Exactly when she said. Phone call from the house on Muckle Roe, 9.25. Flight booked from the Poitiers flat after a couple of other calls, 9.55.’

  ‘Very well. Next suspect.’ It was Gavin’s voice again. He didn’t even pause before saying my name. ‘Cass Lynch. Motive: jealousy. She’s come home expecting her father to welcome her, only to find a woman in his bed. The same age as she is but pretty, charming, glossy, everything she’s not.’ The words stung like a loaded rope lashing across a bare arm. ‘She admits Maree telephoned her, but nobody’s spoken to Maree since. She knew Maree could be coming along that road, for her evening run, but she didn’t expect Favelle.’

  ‘Why move the body to the longship?’

  ‘Same as her father, to focus attention on the film, not the personal. She could have sent the anonymous letters too, she’s been around the film lot long enough to be a familiar face. She’s got a computer and a memory stick, so all she needed was twenty seconds alone in the office. She was one of the few who knew about the wind farm when the first letter came.’

  ‘Or,’ the quiet voice said slowly, ‘she could have known about Favelle and Johansen. She’s Johansen’s skipper, and he was worried about it. He could have confided in her. Maybe it was Favelle she meant to kill. I’ve been talking to the film crew, sir, and the general feeling is that Ted thinks highly of her, and she’s pretty starry-eyed about him. An affair?’

  I felt sick.

  ‘She’d have to be stupid. Think he’d go for her, after Favelle?’

  ‘Obsessed women are stupid.’ Sergeant Peterson had an edge to her voice that suggested she’d been there.

  The bile rose in my throat. If they were going to decide I’d done it,
they’d find the simplest things and count them against me: my memory stick, and a couple of jokes shared on deck after the day was over.

  ‘Opportunity: yes.’ Gavin Macrae’s voice was coolly matter-of-fact. ‘We’ve no exact time for the blow, only the death. The doc suggested earlier, but it could be as late as when she got in.’

  ‘She’s got form, sir.’

  The bastard didn’t even pause. ‘Yes, Mouettier’s death. I agree with the Fiscal’s conclusion at the time; no jury would have convicted. No point in even trying. That bullet across her cheek was fired by someone else, and there were no signs of other violence aboard. Her story was simple and convincing. But yes, she had the ruthlessness to get him overboard after he shot at her.’

  I’d half-wanted to go to prison for Alain, but I wasn’t going to let them frame me for Favelle’s death. Testing each stone before I put my weight on it, I retreated back along the shore and across the tarmac parking space to my little car. I had to nail the real murderer, and fast.

  Although she didn’t know it, Maree had the evidence I needed. The police officer at the door was looking the other way. I slid into the car, eased the door shut, and drove off. Yell.

  The ferry terminal had changed completely. The small motorboats were still riding nose to waves in the bay formed by the pier, and the same obelisk marked the end of the sewer pipe, but there was a huge turning space where the old ferry had docked, and after that a yellow gate keeping the general public from the end of the breakwater. Ahead of me stretched a smooth two-lane highway into the jaws of a huge dark-blue boat with a white superstructure.

  I took my place in the unbooked lane and fished for my purse. Three day-glo yellow jackets were waving the booked cars on. They had their hoods pulled up, so that I couldn’t see if one of them was Dodie. As my line crawled forwards I spotted him taking the money with a machine slung around his neck, like an old-fashioned bus conductor. I just had to wait till he got to me.

  He flushed pink under the yellow hood when he peered into the car. ‘Cass! I was hoping you’d phone again. I’m found your lady.’ He gave a quick look over his shoulder to assess the number of cars packing in. ‘I’ll meet you up in the cafeteria, in mebbe five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Dodie. See you in five minutes.’

  He nodded and slipped off to the next car. I squeezed myself out in the foot between me and the car on my right, and headed for the steel door marked ‘Lounge.’ It was palatial, with rows of maroon seats, like a huge aeroplane, and picture windows framing the grey, tumbled water. I bought a hot chocolate from the machine and sat down.

  Dodie didn’t keep me waiting long. He eased his spray-stained jacket off with a glance at the pristine seats and slid apologetically into the seat beside me. His fair hair was tousled, and his cheeks rosy from the wind. ‘Now then. I’m found her,’ he said. ‘I asked me mam if she could ask some of her pals that had B&B or self-catering, and she did a bit of phoning around. Your wife’s up at da Herra, in a house there.’

  ‘Dodie, you’re a star,’ I said.

  He beamed. ‘Is this the wife the police is looking for? It was on SIBC just half an hour ago, saying if anyone kent her whereabouts they were to ask her to contact the police.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. She’s the sister of the wife that died.’ I grimaced. ‘I’m going to have to tell her.’

  His cheery mouth turned down. ‘Do you ken da Herra?’

  ‘Turn left just before Windhouse.’

  ‘That’s it. Joost keep going along the road, almost to the end. It’s called Grimister, the hoose, and I think there might even be a sign, for tourists. It’s a big grey and white house, wi’ a brown wood porch. You’ll no’ miss it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘She’s been walking a fair bit, the wife, but she’ll likely be in for her tea ee now. If she’s no’ there, try the Old Haa, down at Burravoe. She likes their fancies. Eating for two, Agnes that runs the cafe said.’

  I liked Yell. Seventeen miles long, seven across, the island was shaped rather like Bart Simpson, with a squared off head, big grin (the long inlet of Selli Voe), one arm pointing skyward and short legs. In spite of the satellite dish on every house and the new prosperity of food stockpiled in freezers, it was essentially Shetland as it used to be. Nearly every one of the thousand folk was related to at least five hundred of the others, and everyone was concerned in everyone else’s business. I had no doubt, as my car trundled off the ferry, that each person who raised a hand from the side of the road knew exactly who I was and where I was going. Details of the why would have to wait until Dodie finished tying the ferry up and phoned his mum.

  I rattled over the metal ramp and onto the road running along the low hill that rose on my right, dark green with heather. On my left, the land fell away in a long slope down to the sea. A rust-red tanker waited in the Bay, taking its turn in the queue for Sullom Voe jetty. I passed a fishing loch, with a boat pulled up at one end. The peats here were newly cast, and hadn’t started drying yet; the bank was black and smooth as an oiled whetstone. Just beyond it was the sign I wanted: Whalfirth Grimister Herra Raga.

  I drew in. Above me brooded Shetland’s most haunted house, Windhouse, a gaunt ruin that raised gap-toothed battlements to the sky. I’d lost track of the number of people supposed to have died there, including a man driven to death by the devil and a baby whose skeleton was found behind a nailed-back shutter. Dodie had had a fine fund of stories to tell as we’d all camped at the regattas. The most impressive among the faceless monks and disappearing white things was a simpler one. He’d gone up there one day to herd a dozen sheep that had got into the grounds, and everything had been fine at first. Then he’d started to feel uneasy. His dogs began darting at the sheep with whitened eyes and flattened tails, and cringing away from the ruined walls. They’d got the sheep away, and it was just as he was fastening the rickety gate behind them that the lead dog turned and stared at the empty driveway leading to the door-less opening. ‘I saw the hair on her back rise, just like that,’ he told us, ‘and then she gave a howl like I’ve never heard and bolted, with the other dog following her, and the sheep scattering before them.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’ Martin had asked breathlessly.

  ‘Nothing. I stood my ground for a moment, then I had to get oot o’ there an aa. I turned and began walking, but my feet went faster and faster, and by the end of the gait I was running, trying to pretend I was chasing after the sheep.’ He took a disgusted swig of the red tin we’d managed to sneak from the bar. ‘Faerd o’ nothing.’

  I’d known that story was true because Dodie loved embroidering. If he’d made it up there’d have been a headless spectre at the very least.

  I looked up at the old house, much more of a ruin than it had been when we’d come up to Mid Yell regatta and taken time between races and prize-giving to go and look around it. It had a new owner, Dodie had said, a builder who’d bought it for £1 on condition he restored it. I felt a sudden surge of rebellion. Why did everything old have to be kept? Be-damned to that, for once. The ruin above me was a memory of a house, fit only for tearing down. Demolish it, ghosts and all, back to bare green hill, and let a new family build in the space and bring happiness.

  I turned my back on it, and scrunched along the track to the Herra, a community of thirty souls spread around a corner of shelter for the fishing boats, with the wild Atlantic beating at the door.

  Dodie was right; I couldn’t miss the house. It was an old manse, or built by a merchant who’d profited by the herring boom. It had a square frontage, a thin porch with a window each side, and three windows above. The brown of the porch was echoed in visible stones on the front, set in white cement, and the battlement pattern around the windows was painted grey. The view of the Atlantic was breath-taking. I hoped it had done Maree good.

  Dodie had also been right about her being in. She met me at the door, opening it wide and stepping back into the carpeted hall with a resigned air. She was dressed in a big jumper and jeans, and h
er feet were socked, as if she’d just left her walking boots at the door. With her short hair tousled and her cheeks rosy she looked like someone I’d like. I was sorry at the way she’d got entangled with us. I hoped she wouldn’t mind too much if Maman was home to stay.

  ‘Hiya, Cass,’ she said. ‘D’ya want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She showed me to a comfy sitting-room, dominated by a gleamingly white mantelpiece, navy-tiled, with a real grate under the arch. It smelt gently of rose potpourri. I sank down on the couch and prepared to break the news. I heard her footsteps approaching across a wooden dining-room floor, then silencing for the thick carpet of the hall. The door was pushed open by the tray in her hands.

  She came in talking, as though she was determined not to let me break her peace. ‘You did well to find me – how’d’ya manage? I guess everyone knows everyone here. Still, I’ve had a coupla days of solitude. I even switched my phone off, can you believe it? But I guess it’s time to get back to real life. Does Dermot know I’m here?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve not come about that. Maree, everyone’s been trying to get hold of you. Favelle’s dead.’

  The hand pouring the coffee stilled, then set the pot down, cup half-filled. Her mouth opened and her eyes stared blankly. She sat down on the couch behind her. Her mouth shut, opened again, shut. She swallowed, tried again. ‘Favelle? But she can’t be, she was fine – she can’t be –’

  Her hand came up to her mouth, fell again, and gripped its pair in her lap; she watched them as if they could tell her the answers. ‘How?’

  ‘They’re investigating that,’ I said. ‘The police.’

  Her eyes flew back to mine. ‘An accident.’

  ‘No,’ I said. I looked away, to let her react in privacy. She made a little, stifled sound, rose, and went to the window. It seemed a long time before she spoke, and her voice was harder.

  ‘Do they know who did it?’

  Then feeling penetrated through numb shock. She began to cry. I sat beside her and held her hand, as if that would comfort her for losing a sister. When at last she stopped I drew back and poured the coffee.