Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

Lerwick isn't big, and before I knew it I was almost on the harbour front. I turned right, up a street of houses, swung into a narrow lane, and climbed out. As I closed the door, I saw a bullet hole in the body panel, a couple of feet behind the driving seat. At night, with an accelerating unlit target, that was some shooting. I shuddered and swallowed and hurried away.

There was a phone box near the town hall, I was told, and I ran to it up something Brae, a street so steep it knocked the breath out of me. When I reached the box I gave myself great offence by having to use a ten-pence coin for a twopence call. Then I remembered that the coin I'd used in

Anderson's cottage had been a two. Well spent, I thought.

Lincoln was listed under Journalists in the Yellow Pages. His wife answered the phone with the slightly weary politeness

of journalists' wives who become accustomed but never reconciled to late phone calls. I told her who I was.

`Jack's away, Mr Sellers. Can he call you back?' A Scots accent. Maybe Lincoln was a Scot, despite the name.

`No. I'm here in Lerwick, in a call box. I need to find him urgently. Do you know where he is?'

Ì know where he was going. To the galley shed in Saint Sunniva Street.'

Ìf not, one of the pubs?'

She said primly, 'I feel sure you'll find him at the shed, Mr Sellers. D'you know where it is?'

Ì'll find it.'

Ànyone will tell you.'

`Thanks.' I hung up and left the kiosk, looking for anyone who'd tell me, but the street was quiet. Finally I found a small boy who should have been in bed. `Da galley,' he said. Àway da.'

Looking in the direction his finger pointed, I could see a pool of bright light among the grey stone houses half a mile away.

`Da's da galley.' He seemed impressed.

He grinned and ran off, almost certainly not in the direction of bed. I also grinned briefly to myself, glad to have something to grin at, then set off towards the lights. The wind still blew, but Lerwick is sheltered from the blast by the high hills and the half mile walk was an opportunity to wind down, soothing yet bracing. I turned into St Sunniva Street, still tense but feeling better.

A small crowd; perhaps a hundred people, was gathered beneath the bright television lights, and a camera dolly showed above their heads, lenses pointing into the shed. I approached, then pushed my way through until I could see inside. I ought to have remembered, of course. I'd heard of the galley, of Up-Helly-Aa, the Shetland Fire Festival,

but until I looked in through the double doors the word galley hadn't clicked in my mind. It stood there now, a big, colourful, beautifully-built Viking galley, shields at its sides, the striped sail furled at its masthead, people milling around. Half-bottles of whisky, those flat halves that fit conveniently in pockets, were much in evidence and a few people were wearing full Viking costume. I looked at the galley with interest. In the UpHelly-Aa festival it would be dragged in torchlight procession through the streets, and burned, spectacularly. A waste, I thought, then doubted my own sudden judgment. Why a waste, when it was also an exclamation of pride?

The somebody nudged me and rattled a collection box under my nose. 'She's fine, eh?'

`She is.'

`Costs money, she does.' He was smiling. 'More every year. Inflation they call it.'

I found a pound note, folded it and slid it into the box. 'I'm looking for Mr Lincoln.'

Òh aye. The reporter?'

I nodded.

`He's here somewhere. Saw him no more than a minute or two ago. Aye, there he is, over there.'

He pointed out a man in his late thirties, fair-haired and stocky, who stood quietly watching the TV cameraman. Earning his bread, no doubt.

`You're Mr Lincoln?'

He turned. 'Yes?'

`John Sellers, Daily News.'

We shook hands and he said, 'Here for Up-Helly-Aa,' then? Make a nice feature. Nationals haven't done it for a year or two.' He was English, probably Lancashire from the vowel sounds.

`Not really. I want to see a man.'

Àbout a dog?' He laughed. 'Okay, that's why I get a retainer. Who is he?'

`How many retainers?'

À few.' He laughed again, energetic and cheerful, a busy,

independent freelance who served many people but no master. 'Good, is it?'

I said, 'It's a story we care about. I want help, but it's an exclusive. So far, anyway.'

Òh?' Bright and beady interest.

À tenner for information,' I said. 'More if it stays exclusive. God help your retainer if it doesn't.'

He said seriously, 'You've been dealing with too many Southern crooks, Mr Sellers. I'm secure if I'm paid.' `James Anderson. The ornithologist.'

`Jim Anderson. Oh yes, I know him. Don't tell me the Daily News is interested in birds with wings.'

Ì just want to see him.'

`He was here till a few minutes ago.'

`Here?' I could hear the surprise in my voice.

`They're all here for Up-Helly-Aa. He may still be marching, I think.'

`Where is he?'

`He'll have gone. You've heard about the fire?' `What fire?'

`His house. I got a tip-off from the police a few minutes ago and told him. Not too bad, so I understand. But he lives in the far west, you know. Takes a fire engine a long time to get there.'

`Damn! He'll have gone out there.'

Lincoln said, 'I don't think so. He went to phone, I know that. To find out how bad it was.'

`Where will he phone from?'

He laid a finger against his nose, grinning. 'Local knowledge. When he's in Lerwick he usually stays with Miss Petrie. She was a teacher here for years. Retired now.'

`Her address. Quick!'

He eyed me with interest, my urgency whetting his appetite for the story; he gave me the address and directions how to get there. It wasn't far away. Less than ten minutes' walk, he said. I half-walked, half-ran and made it in five.

Miss Petrie lived in a neat granite cottage in a small row in the older part of the town, and from the shut-down look

of the place Anderson wasn't there and she'd gone to bed.

I gave a couple of bangs with the polished brass door-knocker and waited. After a moment a light came on inside, a bolt was drawn back, a lock turned. She was about seventy, white-haired and needle-thin, wearing a heavy woollen dressing gown with several neat dams in it. Miss Petrie could have modelled for any advertisement that required a face stern yet kind, authoritative yet gentle. A long, good, helpful life lay behind her and she looked at me with an incongruous sharp hostility in her level grey eyes.

I said, 'Miss Petrie?'

`Yes.' She said it slowly, reluctantly.

Ì'm sorry to disturb you, but it's very urgent indeed. I must speak to James Anderson.'

`Then you'd better speak to him somewhere else. He's not here.' Her voice was cold. I said, 'I have very important information for him. My name – '

`No,' she said sharply. Her hands shook slightly, from age or nervousness. Age, probably. This one would have good nerves.

`Please, Miss Petrie. If you can even get a message – '

Ì don't know where he is. You're wasting your time and mine, young man. Good night.'

She began to close the door.

Desperately, I said, 'If he's told you somebody's after – '

But the door was shut. The lock clicked and the bolt slid home. I raised my hand to the knocker, but let it fall, accepting the futility of knocking again. If I'd ever met someone acting out of character, it was the old lady behind that door. Nor was it hard to guess the reason. I'd doubted, at first, whether Anderson would have gone to Miss Petrie's house. Far more likely that he'd have set off on the long drive to Sandness when he heard about the fire. But now I was sure that he either was there or had been there.

The old lady's unnatural hostility only confirmed it; she was protecting one of her own, and with determination. I