Ann Cleeves - Red Bones

The phone rang. He wanted to leave it, to continue with his thoughts, but it could be Fran. He’d found it difficult to talk to her away from his own surroundings and now he was desperate to hear her voice. He climbed out and grabbed a towel – he always thought his house on the shore gave him privacy, but he’d been caught out before when a canoeist or sailor floated close to his window. The phone stopped just before he reached it. She would leave a message, he thought. And he’d call her straight back, before she rushed out to meet her friends at some experimental piece of theatre, some gallery opening or smart restaurant.

But when he pressed 1571 to pick up the message he heard quite a different woman’s voice. It was Val Turner, the local-authority archaeologist. ‘Jimmy, I’ve got an initial report back on the Whalsay bones. I’ll be in the office for half an hour if you want to give me a ring.’

He went back into the bathroom but now the water seemed grey and uninviting, his contemplations ridiculous. He pulled out the plug and got dressed.

Instead of phoning Val back immediately he called Fran’s mobile. There was no reply and he left a message. When he rang Val, she picked up her phone straight away. ‘You’ve just caught me, Jimmy. I was just about to leave.’

‘Have you got time to meet up? I’d be happy to buy you dinner. A thank-you for rushing through the analysis of the bones.’ After all, he thought, he needed company. It would do him no good to sit in on his own, brooding. And he still had questions about the dig. The laundry could wait for another day.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You don’t know the favours I’ve had to call in to get that done so quickly. I’ve never known it happen in under six weeks.’

‘I owe you, then. Shall we see if they can squeeze us into the museum?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Half an hour?’

She was there before him in the upstairs restaurant, sat at a table for two looking over the water. It was only just starting to get dark; the nights were drawing out. She was sitting over a glass of white wine and there was another for him.

‘I didn’t get a bottle,’ she said. ‘I’m driving and I presume you are too. Is that OK?’

‘Of course.’

‘Now, the bones…’ She grinned. She knew how much he needed the information.

‘Just tell me. How old are they?’

‘Most are old,’ she said.

‘How old?’

‘Given the unusual circumstances, I sent four pieces of bone for dating. Three of them returned dates that fell between 1465 and 1510, and it’s probably one individual, not several people. So they’re not contemporary. They can’t have anything to do with the recent deaths in Whalsay. The age fits in perfectly with Hattie James’s theory about the building. Fifteenth-century. Like the coins.’

So not the dead Norwegian. Is that old story from Mima’s youth just a distraction?

Val Turner was still speaking. ‘I wish I’d been able to tell her. Perhaps if she’d known absolutely that she was right about the age and the status of the house she wouldn’t have killed herself.’

If she did kill herself , Perez thought. But he didn’t say anything. It would take one chance remark to start a rumour. It suited him fine for the time being if people thought Hattie’s death was suicide. Then he took in the importance of Val’s first words.

‘You said most of the bones were old. What did you mean by that?’

‘There’s one piece that seems more recent than the rest. I’ve asked them to check it. It’s probably an error.’ She seemed suddenly aware of the effect her words had on him. ‘Really, it happens. You shouldn’t take it too seriously.’

‘Do you know whereabouts on the site it was found?’

‘I’ll be able to check. Hattie was a meticulous record taker. I’ll talk to Sophie.’

‘Sophie’s gone home,’ Perez said.

‘Then I suppose she’s left the paperwork with Evelyn.’

‘How well did you know Hattie?’ he asked.

‘I’d met her several times, obviously,’ Val said. ‘The dig’s part of post-grad research, but it’s on my patch. Ultimately it’s my responsibility that it’s carried out to a professional standard.’

‘What will happen in Setter now?’

‘I’m hoping the university will take it on, make a large-scale project of it. We ’d certainly support that. Whalsay would be a good place to have a reconstruction open to the public. There are some enthusiastic local volunteers.’

‘Evelyn?’

‘You know her? Yes. She’s a dream to work with. It’s amazing the way she’s found her way round the grant system.’

‘I understood Joseph Wilson wasn’t so keen to have the dig on Setter land, and he’s the new owner.’

‘Really?’ Val didn’t seem too bothered. Perhaps she thought Evelyn would always get her way.

‘What’s the next step in the process?’

‘Public consultation,’ Val said. ‘And Evelyn’s taken care of that too. She’s planning an event in the community hall in Lindby to explain about the coins and the remains to the island. Next week. She asked if we could host it here in the museum, but we wouldn’t have time to organize it. Will you be able to come along?’

Fran will be back by then , he thought. It might be something she’d enjoy.

‘Why the rush?’ he asked.

Val laughed. ‘Evelyn doesn’t really do patient.’

‘Doesn’t it seem a little tasteless, so soon after Hattie James’s death?’

‘The idea is that it’ll be a memorial for her too. A celebration of her work. Evelyn’s invited her mother, the MP.’

‘Has Gwen James agreed to come?’ Perez was surprised. The woman had refused to come to Shetland when her daughter had first died. Why would she turn out for something so public? But perhaps that was the point: the public domain was where she felt most comfortable.

‘Apparently.’

Perez looked out over the water, where examples of traditional Shetland boats were moored. He thought they could be in a ship themselves here, something large and grand, one of the cruise ships that put in to the islands in the summer. ‘Is she expecting Paul Berglund back?’

‘Presumably. Now Sophie’s gone, he’s the only person left to represent the university. I need to be sure the site’s going to be properly written up. That’s down to him.’

They sat for a moment in silence.

‘What did you make of Hattie?’ Perez asked. ‘You must have met her a few times.’

‘She was very bright, passionate, meticulous. She would have had a brilliant future in archaeology.’ Val broke off as the food arrived. ‘This is going to sound really sexist, but I thought she needed a man in her life. Someone to share things with. Someone to stop her taking herself too seriously.’

Perez said nothing.

‘There’s something else though,’ Val went on. ‘Something about the bones. The bones that were accurately dated. It’ll fascinate you.’

He looked up. His thoughts were elsewhere. Back in Whalsay, with a beautiful young woman lying in a trench, close to where those ancient bones had lain for centuries.

Val didn’t seem to notice. ‘They’re part of the body of a man. We found enough of the pelvis to establish the gender. He didn’t die a natural death. He was murdered, killed by a stab wound. That’s what it looks like, at least. The ribs have shattered. We ’d not have been able to tell from the skull. We ’ll never know why he was killed, of course, though it’s fun to guess.’

Now he was starting to be interested. ‘What do you think might have happened?’

‘Hattie’s theory was that a local man took over the role of merchant in Whalsay. He’d suddenly acquire wealth, status. I’d guess that wouldn’t make him very popular with his neighbours.’