Ann Cleeves - Red Bones

‘You think he was killed so people could steal from him?’

‘That,’ she said, ‘or because they were jealous of him. They were poor and he was rich. Envy, the green-eyed monster, perhaps that was what finished him off.’

Val Turner hurried away as soon as the meal was finished but Perez stood for a moment outside before driving home. Through the long plate-glass windows he could see the reconstruction of the top of a lighthouse that stood in the museum, the huge glass dome and the workings. Once, the flashing beams had guided ships away from a rocky shore. Throw some light my way , he thought. But he felt he was groping towards a solution. Being away from Whalsay had given him some perspective and the conversation with Val had brought an even sharper focus.

Sandy made no attempt to move back to Utra even though his room was free. He even took it upon himself to milk Mima’s cow. Early in the morning and late in the afternoon he would sit on the box in the shed, wipe the udders with the cloth he’d brought out from the house and watch the liquid squirt into the bucket. After the first few tries, with his father watching and grinning, it had come easily to him. Maybe it was like riding a bike, he thought, one of those skills that, once you learned, you never forgot. He remembered Mima teaching him when he was a child, laughing at his first tentative attempts to get milk to come. ‘You’ll need to be firmer than that boy. Squeeze and pull. They’ll not come off in your hands. That’s more like it.’ It had been one of the few things he’d managed better than Michael. Sitting here this morning, the smell was exactly the same. Cow and muck and the rich sweet smell of the new milk. There was the same sense of achievement too when the pail was full.

Later he took the churn round to Utra. His father was out on the hill. Sandy could see him in the distance as he walked down the track to the house. Evelyn was in the kitchen at the table, poring over sheets of paper. More lists. He’d thought all that was over after the funeral, but now it seemed she had other plans; there was something else for her to organize. At first she didn’t talk about it. She took the milk and poured half into a jug to go in the fridge. The rest she set to stand in the kitchen.

‘I thought I’d make some soft cheese,’ she said. ‘Do you mind, Sandy, we used to make it when you were bairns?’

‘What’s all this?’ he asked, nodding towards the paper, the ruled columns, the round handwriting.

‘We’re having a do in the Lindby Hall,’ she said. ‘A sort of memorial for Mima and Hattie. And to give folk a chance to see the silver coins and hear about the project. The press will be interested too. I can organize the catering.’

Sandy thought that was his mother all over. Once she’d made up her mind about something there could be no delay. It had to happen immediately. The timing seemed in poor taste to him. What was the hurry?

‘What does my father say about it?’

‘He thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘Really?’ Sandy was astonished. The last he’d heard, Joseph hadn’t even wanted the dig on Setter land. Wouldn’t all these visitors want to see where the coins had been found? His father was a private man. He would hate all the fuss and the disruption to his routine.

‘He understands how much it means to me.’ Her face shut down with that closed, obstinate look she could have sometimes. He knew there was no point questioning it. She shuffled the papers into a pile and slipped them into a clear plastic envelope. He thought again she should have had a career of her own, a business to use up all that energy. She looked up at Sandy.

‘When are you planning to get back to Lerwick?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’ve got some leave to take.’

‘So you’ll be here for the evening when we show off the coins. I was thinking Friday would be a good day. It’s fine that you’ll be here. Hattie’s mother is going to come. It’ll be nice for her to see a friendly face. Can I put you down to meet her at the airport?’

‘Does she know what she’s letting herself in for? She’s not even buried her daughter yet.’ Sandy thought these island events could be daunting for anyone. He couldn’t face them without a couple of drams and a few cans in his belly. He remembered Gwen James in her London flat, chain-smoking, guilt-ridden. How would she deal with the curious islanders, the intrusive questions? Then he remembered she was a politician and probably capable of putting on a show.

‘I spoke to her this morning,’ Evelyn said. ‘She said she wanted to see where Hattie died.’

‘Would she rather not do that without an audience?’

‘I explained what we were planning.’ The stubborn tone had returned. ‘It was her decision. She didn’t have to agree.’

But it would suit Evelyn’s purpose, Sandy thought, to have the woman there. An MP, something of a celebrity, to give the Setter project a bit of credibility, almost a touch of glamour. Sometimes he was shocked by how ruthless his mother could be. She would make a fine politician herself.

‘I’ve booked her a room at the Pier House,’ Evelyn went on. ‘I said she could stay here but she didn’t want to put us out.’

At least, Sandy thought, the woman would have her own space to escape to. He wondered if Perez knew what his mother had planned and what he would make of it.

‘Who else have you invited?’ he asked.

‘Everyone who’s been involved with the dig. Paul Berglund, of course.’

‘Will he come?’

‘I’m not sure. He said he might have other commitments.’

I bet he has.

‘But I’ve talked to his head of department at the university and said how important we feel it is for him to be there.’

Sandy found himself grinning. His mother could be as persuasive as a bulldozer. Where had this drive and nerve come from?

‘And what did the university say?’

‘They were sure Professor Berglund would find time in his diary for such an important occasion, especially as it would be dedicated to one of his students.’ Evelyn looked up and caught his eye. For a brief moment they shared the conspiratorial laughter.

‘I’d have liked Sophie to be there,’ Evelyn said. ‘Did you hear that she’d gone south?’

‘Aye, I had heard that.’

‘It was all very sudden. She didn’t even drop in here to say goodbye, and that seems kind of rude. I don’t suppose you have an address for her, her mobile phone number?’

‘No, Mother, I don’t.’

His mother seemed about to press the point, but thought better of it. ‘I suppose the Cloustons will be there,’ she said. ‘You can never keep Jackie away from any sort of party.’

Sandy went out on to the hill to look for his father. Walking over the heather he thought the week in Whalsay had made him a bit fitter. He didn’t feel the strain in his legs or that dreadful heaving in his lungs that came sometimes when he followed his father up the hill. In town he never walked anywhere and he lived off takeaway food. He thought with longing of sweet and sour pork, the batter all crispy, the sauce rich and thick with sugar and pineapple. What was so great about feeling fit?

He found Joseph squatting over a dead newborn lamb. It had already been picked over by ravens and hooded crows.

‘It was tiny,’ Joseph said. ‘It was never going to survive. Maybe the smallest of twins.’ He straightened and looked along the ridge of the hill. ‘I thought you’d be away back to Lerwick now the funeral’s over.’

‘Perez said I should take some leave. I’ve got plenty owing and I can’t carry it forward after the end of April.’