Ann Cleeves - Red Bones

‘There’s no possibility that Hattie could have found coins on an earlier visit?’ He kept his voice tentative. The last thing he wanted to do was question the student’s integrity without good reason. But if Mima, or any of the other islanders, had known there was something of value on her land it would bring a new perspective to her death. It seemed to Perez a more natural order of events.

‘Why wouldn’t she tell anyone? Hattie and Sophie always work on the site together. There are all sorts of health and safety constraints that prevent solo work. Besides, she’s not a thief, inspector. She’s passionate about the project. There’s no way she’d remove objects from the merchant’s house at Setter without recording them properly.’

‘Of course,’ Perez said. ‘It was a foolish idea.’

But he was wondering if anyone else had been rooting around on the site, if any other objects of value had been found there. He imagined the misty, rainy night. Perhaps Mima heard something from her house or went out unexpectedly late to shut up the hens. Of course if the intruder came from Lindby she would recognize them, even from the faint light seeping out of the back of her house. She’d grown up there. Everyone was familiar to her. Islanders had been encouraged to take an interest in the dig, but Mima wouldn’t expect anyone there once the students had left. Had she challenged the person? Shocked them into violence?

He realized Berglund was staring at him. The archaeologist wasn’t a man for quiet contemplation.

‘Is that it?’ Berglund asked. ‘Can I get back to Whalsay now? I’m interested to see the coins for myself.’

‘Of course.’ Perez though was lost in thought. Would Hattie have noticed if someone had been visiting the site when she wasn’t there? And what might the intruder have already found? He remembered the conversation between Sandy and Hattie in the Pier House Hotel, Sandy’s questions about the value of the coins. Perhaps other people would believe them worth stealing. He should find out if there was a black market in objects like this.

Later, in his office, he tried to call Val Turner, the Shetland archaeologist. He thought she would know if the coins had any sort of value. She’d put the Whalsay dig into context for him and because she could have had nothing to do with Mima’s death it would be possible to talk to her more freely than to Paul Berglund. But she wasn’t in and he had to leave a message on her answering machine.

He’d just replaced the receiver when his phone went. He expected it to be Val and was thrown to hear the breathy, little-girl voice of Hattie James.

‘I wonder if it might be possible to speak to you.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘No, no. Not on the phone.’

‘Were you planning to come into Lerwick in the next couple of days?’

‘No, no,’ she said again, frustrated because he didn’t seem to understand her. ‘That wouldn’t be possible. My boss has come in today.’

‘You’d like me to come there to talk to you?’ At last he could see what she wanted from him. The idea of returning to Whalsay filled him with an unexpected dread. He liked the island, what he knew of it. Why was he so reluctant to return? Why the clammy claustrophobia of impending imprisonment? Perhaps it was the fog, the lack of any recognizable horizon. Or the twisted family ties that seemed to pull him in too, so he lost his objectivity. He was tempted to suggest that she speak to Sandy, but he thought she needed careful handling, and even the new, perceptive Sandy would frighten her off.

‘Oh, please.’ The relief in her voice was palpable.

‘Is it urgent? Could it wait until this evening? Shall we meet in the Pier House at six?’

She paused. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Come to the Bod. I’ll make sure I’m on my own there.’

Sandy stood at the north end of the island and watched the small fishing boat approach. This was nothing like the Cassandra , the huge pelagic ship owned by the Clouston family. When that went to sea it was away for weeks, far out in the north Atlantic. It landed its catch in Denmark and then went back to the fishing grounds again. There were stories all over the island about how much it had cost when Andrew bought it just before his stroke. A fortune, they said. But as long as Sandy could remember the Cloustons had had money. This boat belonged to Davy Henderson, had just been on a short trip and was already on its way home. It had been kind of Davy to take Ronald with him. It would have done him good to get away from Whalsay, even for a short while.

The wind blew his hair across Sandy’s eyes. He’d driven up the island to Skaw because he needed to get away from Utra for a while. A little way inland was the most northerly golf course in the British Isles, green and manicured despite its exposure to the weather. He came occasionally with Joseph to play and his father was pretty good, though they never took the game too seriously. Now he wished Davy had asked him to go out on the boat too. He wasn’t much of a sailor but it would be worth a few hours of discomfort to get away from his family and the discussion of the funeral.

He wanted his grandmother to have a good send-off, of course he did, but she wouldn’t have wanted all this fuss. She’d have been happy just to know all her friends were there in the kirk. The place she’d been married. The kirk was on a spit of land to the west of Whalsay known as the Houb. It was surrounded on three sides by the sea, and Mima always said that being there made her think of her sailor husband: it was a bit like being in a ship. She’d have wanted lusty singing during the hymns and a bit of a party afterwards. Nothing else would have mattered to her. Now his mother was wound up about getting rooms ready for Michael, Amelia and the baby, planning the food as if she was preparing for a thirty-day siege, working herself into a state about who else they should invite.

He relived the scene at breakfast. His mother had been at the kitchen table, drinking her second cup of tea, surrounded by lists. Lists of food and drink and people who should be told. Joseph had had the sense to make himself scarce and was already out on the croft, checking the ewes.

‘Do you think Paul Berglund would want to come?’ His mother’s question had come out of the blue, sharp, underlaid by a barely controlled hysteria.

‘I don’t know.’ Sandy thought it unlikely. Why would someone with a life want to go to the funeral of an old lady he barely knew?

‘He’s a professor,’ Evelyn said.

‘What has that to do with the price of fish?’

‘I was thinking Michael might get on with him.’

‘Michael will get on just fine with Ronald and the rest of the lads.’ But was that true? The last time Michael had been home it was like he was a different man.

Sandy sat on the grass and watched the boat come in against a stiff south-easterly breeze. It was one of those bright and gusty days: one minute there was sunshine and the next a bit of a squall would come up. At least the fog had cleared. He wished his mother could relax more. When she was relaxed she was a lovely woman. He’d thought with his father working at home and both of the boys gone she’d be able to enjoy herself, become less tense. He didn’t know what to do to help her. Once, confiscating cannabis from a couple of German students who’d been camping on Fetlar. he’d wondered flippantly if that might provide an answer. Chill her out a bit. Years ago he’d gone to visit Michael at Edinburgh University and someone had made hash cakes. He laughed at the thought of slipping some dope into his mother’s baking, wondered what Michael would say about the idea. Once he’d have laughed too, but now Sandy wasn’t so sure. That evening when they’d sat round with his friends in the student house, candles lit, music in the background, was probably the last time they’d really talked.