The Body in the Bracken Read online

  ‘I’ll make room,’ I assured him.

  ‘You’re a pleasure to cook for,’ his mother said. ‘I was afraid you might be one of these girls who’s so concerned about her weight that she only eats salad.’

  ‘There’s nothing like sailing to keep the pounds off and the appetite up,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  It was black dark outside. Once we got into the dinghy, the sea glinted coal black around us, and the anchor light half-way up my mast shed a moon-clear circle around Khalida’s white hull. I climbed aboard, and leant over for Gavin to hand Cat’s basket and the provisions up. ‘See you at six thirty.’

  ‘Six thirty.’ He looked up at me, face whitened in the LED light. ‘Don’t be having nightmares, now. Sleep well.’

  Sunday 29th to Tuesday 31st December

  Sunday 29th December,

  High Water Kyle of Lochalsh, UT 03.58, 4.6m

  Low Water 10.08, 1.8m

  High Water 16.14, 4.6m

  Expecting to arrive Ruba Reidh light 16.45

  Sunrise 09.07

  Moonset 12.58

  Sunset 15.42

  Moonrise 03.49

  Moon waning crescent .

  Monday 30th December

  High Water Ullapool, UT 02.06, 3.9m

  Low Water 07.55, 2.0m

  High Water 14.27, 4.2m

  Low Water 20.59, 2.0m

  Sunrise 09.07

  Moonset 12.58

  Sunset 15.42

  Moonrise 03.49

  Moon waning crescent.

  Forecast: westerly force 3-4, Sunday a.m., and backing S to SE during Sunday evening with strong gusts, then SW from midnight.

  Mackerel skies and mares’ tails

  Make tall ships carry small sails.

  Chapter Four

  It was still black dark when I awoke, but the crescent moon cast her yellow gleam over the loch, so that every headland stood out black against the burnished water. Half past five. I squirmed out of my berth and put the kettle on to boil while I dressed. Cat got his breakfast and litter tray, then I headed up on deck. The wind was exactly as promised, a westerly that would give us a fine beam-reach up to Cape Wrath.

  I rolled the cover off the mainsail and freed the tiller. By the time I’d done that the kettle was whistling; I filled my flask and secured it to the table with bungee cords. I put the stew on to heat while I buttered several of Gavin’s mother’s rolls, added a generous layer of crowdie, and put them in an ice-cream tub. The hot stew went into my wide-necked flask. I wouldn’t starve this voyage.

  Back up on deck, I saw Gavin’s dark figure stepping from the pier into the boat, and heard the oars creak, then the clink and splash of him lowering the engine. A moment, then it put-putted into life. I started my ancient Volvo Penta and hauled my mooring rope from the buoy. The anchor light would double as a steaming light, if there was anyone about to be particular.

  ‘Halo leat,’ Gavin greeted me. ‘All set?’

  ‘Tha,’ I agreed. ‘Lead on.’

  Ten minutes, and we were in the loch proper, with the twisting path we’d seen from on high glinting before me. Gavin throttled back and came alongside, holding up a newspaper-wrapped parcel. It was warm as he handed it to me.

  ‘Bacon rolls,’ he said. ‘They’ll keep in a jumper till you’re ready for them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I hated those awful railway platform moments. ‘It was a lovely Christmas.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ He held out his hand and I laid mine in it, glove to glove. ‘Now you know your way, come back.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I meant it. ‘Let me know how you get on with your skeleton.’

  ‘I will. Beannachd leat.’ Goodbye, a blessing on you.

  ‘Beannachd leat.’ I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. His breath was warm on my lips as I drew back. ‘Thank you. Taing mhor.’ Then, before I could make a fool of myself, I stepped back and put Khalida into gear. ‘I’ll text as I go, if I get a signal.’

  He raised his hand as I pulled away from him. ‘Safe journey.’

  It would be a long day and night. I had a bacon roll just after seven, when the hills began to be outlined in blue, and another at eight. The first creamy light, the colour of a duck’s egg, lay in a streak above the eastern hill, though the western sky before me was still dark, with the crescent moon as flat as if it had been painted on, and the stars fading points of light against the violet sky. As Khalida putted on, the light behind us strengthened to a line of cream above the cut-out hills, and the old-brass moon bleached to a curved silver line. Daylight replaced the starlight glimmer on the water; now I could see the shore, its colours dulled, and by the time we reached the end of the loch it was fully light, with the early sun turning the western hills to shades of gold: the bleached long grass, the olive heather, the varnished brown of tree branches. We passed the last skerry, then I brought Khalida head to wind to raise the mainsail. I sheeted it in, loosed the jib, and she surged forward under her own power. I glanced down into the cabin. 08.35. Yes, I should have the tide with me now – and on the thought we came out into the stream, and I saw the log figures creep up from 4 knots to 5, then to 5.3, 6.2. At this rate, we’d make a swift passage. Cat crept up to sniff the air, then crouched down on the thwart, paws braced. I reached down for his lead and clipped it to the harness I’d trained him to wear at sea.

  ‘Going home, Cat,’ I told him.

  The sky was clear now, but the water was overshadowed by the mountains, and the low sun magnified every bump and hillock. On my left, the shore was bare; on my right, there was a row of cottages by a pale beach, their lights glimmering in the water. Glenelg, Bernera, the ferry pier and the end of the road. The Kyle Rhea turbines flickered fibreglass-white above the pale blue water. After that the hills were wooded on each side, then the sound opened out into Loch Alsh. The sun dazzled in my eyes from the east, and the wind was in my face. I tightened the sails and pointed close to the wind, and Khalida tilted over. Cat slipped back into my berth, where he’d be snug, however much the boat tipped. The log had gone down to 5.6 knots, but we were broadside on to the tide, so we’d be pushed towards the next narrows, at Kyle Akin. On shore, a hunch-shouldered heron flapped into life above the whisky-gold water at the loch edge; behind me, the sun’s reflection made an oval too bright to look at. Three ducks crossed my path.

  By ten thirty we were bumping under the arches of the Skye Bridge, with Khalida rocking to the overfalls of wind against tide. I’d come down under sail, and been rocked closer to the massive piers than I’d liked by a passing fishing boat. This time I set the engine going, rolled the jib away, and headed dead centre of the wide arch. Now the Sound of Sleat lay open before us. I cut the engine, restored full sail, set Khalida’s nose for the gap between Longay and Eilan Mor, hooked up the windvane, and settled back to relax.

  The views were spectacular. On my left, the Cuillin rose sheer from the sea, Bla Bheinn and Sgurr Alasdair, jagged slabs of rock topped with fissures of snow. On my right, Loch Kishorn and Loch Carron cradled the green oasis of Plockton, where palm trees grew. The sky arched blue above me now, with long cumulus gathering smoke-grey from the west. Behind me, slanting lines of rain fell to the water, blotting out Ardnamurchan. If I’d had longer, I’d have sailed on down and round that headland, and earned my little Khalida the right to wear a bunch of heather at her prow. Properly speaking, of course, it was a sign that boats coming up from south had made it round the notoriously tricky point and into the Highlands, but we Shetlanders had to do it in reverse. Another time …

  Under sail, with the tide pushing her on, Khalida kept up her speed. The Course over Ground on the GPS in the cabin read 8.3 knots. By midday we’d come level with the point of Rona, and the sea horizon had opened out before us. The sun had climbed as far into the sky as it was going to go, and the water deepened to hard, bright winter blue. On my right, the headlands to the north lay one after another like the landscape glimpsed through a window in a medieval pain
ting. I’d done forty miles of the journey in under six hours. I should easily make Rubha Reidh, and maybe even the Stoerhead Light, before the weather closed in.

  By 14.00, the sky had darkened. A mirr of rain blew over. I pulled up my hood and fastened it under my chin. A last shaft of sunlight hazed the hills and brightened the colours: scarlet roofs, cornflower-blue tarpaulins over boats and tractor, the glistening orange weed at the water’s edge. Then the grey clouds closed over the sun. Rain by 1800, the forecast had said, and the wind backing to the south and rising. I hove-to, took in a single reef, and made sure the ropes ran free to take in the second, then ate a bowl of Gavin’s mother’s stew sitting at the table in the cabin, added an extra jumper under my oilskins, and wrapped a scarf around my neck. I sent Gavin a text: Making gd progress how is skeleton? His reply came just as the kettle boiled: Organising hill search bad time of year. Everyone busy with N Yr. Safe voyage. Fed and clad, I took my mug into the cockpit and freed off the sheets again. We sailed on into the dusk.

  It was a long, cold passage over the coal-shining water, with the cliffs of Scotland an outline in the distance. The rain came on in the early evening, as forecast, and the wind swung with it. Soon we were running goosewinged under a double-reefed mainsail and half jib, and I didn’t dare leave the tiller for more than seconds. I could reach into the cabin for the log-book, or make drinking chocolate from the flask, but that was all. Khalida surged forward with each gust, surfing down the long wave-backs. I was glad when midnight came, and it began to back westerly at last. I let the jib slip over to the same side as the mainsail, and unrolled it a little, then I put the chain over the tiller, to hold Khalida on course, and made myself comfortable under the cabin awning, standing up every five minutes to look all round for the lights of passing ships hurrying down the Viking corridor to have their New Year at home. I slipped below for a midnight snack, then alternated between sitting up on deck and doing my own New Year clean: polishing the woodwork, washing the dishes, pans, floor and ceiling, and shining the ship’s bell, lantern, and fish brass. I wrote up the log at half-hourly intervals, and had a cup of chocolate every three entries. I listened to the Coastguard weather reports. I fished up a bucketful of water and scrubbed as much as I could reach of the decks. I cleaned the bilges. I re-stowed the sails in the forepeak. I checked off the lighthouses as we passed them: Tiumpan Head, Stoer, Butt of Lewis, and Cape Wrath at last, as the first grey light began to filter through the darkness. Now I could see the water around me, although the cape was only a dark shape on the horizon.

  Another day, another night. I cat-napped through it, with my alarm clock set to allow me no more than twenty minutes at a time. Grey water tumbled around me. I caught a glimpse of the peak of Hoy, far on the horizon as the sun set, and saw the lights of Fair Isle as the 30th of December slipped into Old Year’s Day. At last the star of Sumburgh Head light flashed from ahead of me. Gradually the sky lightened; the triple peaks of Foula stood grey and distant off my port bow, and the rocky head of Sumburgh, topped by the Stevenson brothers’ first Shetland lighthouse, was off to starboard. By breakfast time, the horizon ahead was violet, shading into the blue east, but behind me there were grey cirrus, dabbed with a painter’s brush. Mackerel skies and mares’ tails, make tall ships carry small sails. The sailor’s storm warning. Khalida was still moving steadily through the long waves, and the tide was bringing our speed up to 6.3 knots. We’d go faster in the next three hours, when the wind picked up, and I’d be sheltered by the cliffs of West Burrafirth once I’d turned the corner around Papa Stour. College didn’t start for another week, so I was heading for my home port of Brae, where my parents still lived – at least, Dad still lived in the house I’d grown up in, and Maman seemed to be dividing her time between it and her elegant town flat in Poitiers. I wasn’t sure I’d be awake for the New Year bells, but I’d join them for lunch tomorrow.

  We just beat the wind. We stormed past the World War I guns on Vementry isle with the water breaking white around us, skooshed around between Papa Little and Muckle Roe, and ran full tilt for the marina, with Khalida’s mast swaying ominously to each gust. I was thankful to drop the mainsail at last and motor in to my berth. I’d just fastened the last mooring rope when the wind rattled the rigging and tilted Khalida over as if she was still at sea. I dived below. The rain drummed on the fibreglass roof. I opened the forehatch for Cat to go out if he wanted to, sent a ‘made it’ text to Gavin and Maman, fell into my berth, and slept.

  Wednesday 1st January

  New Year’s Day

  Low Water, Brae UT 02.42, 0.6m

  High Water 08.55, 1.8m

  Low Water 15.11, 0.6m

  High Water 21.33, 1.8m

  Moonrise, 08.25

  Sunrise 09.15

  Sunset 15.02

  Moonset 15.59

  New moon

  He wis flyin every fit.

  He was flying every foot – said of someone in a great hurry.

  Chapter Five

  The midnight fireworks woke me, and the cheerful noises drifting down from the boating club bar. I opened my eyes and considered my curved fibreglass ceiling. I could turn over and go back to sleep, or I could go and join the party for an hour or so, then go back to sleep. Cass, the party animal … maybe not. I made myself a new hot water bottle, got undressed properly, and left them to it.

  When I woke, the wind had fallen. The sunrise was tinged with rose; to the west, the clouds were blowing like smoke across the pale blue sky. The spring tide had washed up the slipway until it almost reached the flat in front of the boating club. It was strange to see the concrete empty. I’d worked here all last summer, when it was filled with dinghies: Picos, Sport 14s, Mirrors, our new Feva under its pristine cover. Now they slept in the shed, with the rescue boat in the middle, like a mother hen surrounded by its chickens. The slip was a silent gleam of grey water, instead of being filled with flapping neon-pink sails, and scuffling children shrieking at the coldness of the water, or throwing jellyfish at each other.

  It was warmer this morning. I tightened the halyards without needing my gloves, then leant against the mast to look around. The marina was cradled in a rock arm at the head of Busta Voe. The town of Brae (population 2,000), half an hour’s drive north of Lerwick, was spread round the u-shaped beach. The oldest houses were across on my right: the Manse, the former shop (with own pier), the old school, the village hall, several houses that were now B&Bs. Among them were modern Brae, the dark brown council houses and pastel wood of new-builds, the health centre and care home, the school and leisure centre, and several ‘Britain’s most northerlies’: the astroturf pitch, the Indian takeaway, Frankie’s fish and chip shop, the Co-op, the fire and police stations.

  Behind the main town was the cluster of houses built for oil folk. They were little, square houses, dominated now by the white bulk of the hotel for the newest workers, busy creating a giant gas terminal for Totale. As long as I could remember, people had been prophesying the oil would run out, but the tankers still kept coming. Gas was the new big thing, and Totale had four accommodation barges filled with workers, three in Lerwick and one in Scalloway. The other main effect on islanders, according to my friend Inga, was that you couldn’t get a plumber, joiner, brickie, or engineer for love nor money; they were all busy too earning mega-bucks at the terminal to come to the houses of mere locals.

  Cat came out while I was looking round, sniffed the air and headed along the pontoon with his plumed tail upright, a cat who was checking out his home turf. His neat white paws stepped disdainfully on the wet wood. He paused at the marina gate, inspecting the sheep in the park above, then slipped beneath the grille, and bounded down to the beach. I went into the boating club for a long, hot shower, laying my clothes on the heated floor to warm up while I washed, then came back to enjoy the last of Gavin’s mother’s rolls for breakfast, toasted, with raspberry jam. After that, I texted Gavin: Awake at last. Happy New Year. How is skeleton?

  The reply came
within seconds. I’m least popular person in the force. Big hill walk tomorrow. Forensics on holiday till Monday.

  I’d just finished texting commiserations when the phone rang: Dad.

  ‘Your mother’s cooking a wonderful New Year’s Day lunch,’ he said. ‘Will I come and get you?’

  ‘That’d be great. What time?’

  ‘Don’t you be laughing at me, now. Eugénie, quelle heure déjeuner?’ My mouth fell open. They must be really trying to make this reconciliation work, if Dad was speaking French. He picked up my thought. ‘Should have learned it years ago. If I’m going to be visiting France more often, meeting your mother’s colleagues, I’d need to be able to say more than just bonjour. Hang on.’ I tried to imagine my businessman dad at one of Maman’s rehearsals, with Greek-robed chorus members chattering like eider ducks in the corridor of some stately home while several highly strung soloists imposed their interpretation of the music on some poor director in the great hall.

  ‘We eat at une heure, your mother says. I’ll get you at quarter to.’

  ‘See you then,’ I agreed.

  I’d just coaxed Cat away from a dead fish on the tideline and put him in his basket when the black Range Rover drew up at the marina gate. I scrambled in. ‘Hi, Dad. Happy New Year.’

  My dad was in his sixties now, but you wouldn’t have guessed it. His dark hair had only touches of grey at the ears, his eyes were still blazing Irish blue. I’d got my colouring from him, and the curls, but not, to my sorrow, his commanding height; I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and there were times aboard a tall ship when I could’ve done with an extra six inches. He had a stubborn chin, a beaky nose, and a voice that bounced round the car. Forty years away from Dublin hadn’t eased out any of his accent.