The Body in the Bracken Read online

  The club was open that evening, but I didn’t feel like going up. I was worried about Cat, still lethargic after his poisoning even though he’d only been out for less than two minutes, and I didn’t feel it was safe to leave Khalida. I’d be securing myself from inside tonight. The person who’d turned the gas tap had a key to the marina, which narrowed it down to about half the population of Brae. Julie certainly had one. Robert-John and Maya probably did. Mr Georgeson senior of Georgeson Removals might well have an interest in one of the boats, although murdering a man because he’d cheated your son seemed a bit unlikely.

  It was half-way through the evening when I heard the marina gate clang, and felt footsteps on the pontoon. I squirmed on the couch to look through the window. It was Magnie, the hood of his neon-yellow jacket pulled down against the rain.

  ‘I heared you had some trouble,’ he said, once he was settled in the corner of the couch. ‘Willie saw you baling oot gas.’

  Naturally. ‘I don’t suppose he saw anyone unken at the boat?’

  ‘No’ that he mentioned.’ Magnie nodded as I lifted the kettle. ‘Yea, thanks to you, a cup o’ tay would go down well.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘I brought a fancy to go with it.’ He put a margarine tub in the middle of the table. ‘So what’s going on?’

  I lit the gas under the kettle, and sat down opposite him. ‘Somebody came aboard and turned the taps. I was lucky not to be blown to smithereens.’

  ‘And for why?’

  ‘I’m the link,’ I said. ‘That skeleton that Gavin and I found, nothing would ever have connected him with Shetland, if it hadn’t been me that found him. Ivor Hughson ran away from his wife, and that was that. His finances were in a mess, there was maybe another woman involved, and he ran. Who’d question it?’

  ‘The lass who’s courting with the policeman in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Yea. Shut me up quick before I mention Ivor’s name to Gavin. It would have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for Cat.’

  ‘Poor puss,’ Magnie said, rubbing Cat’s grey head. Cat opened yellow eye slits, acknowledged the sympathy, and curled his plumed tail over his nose once more.

  ‘He ate his supper fine. I think he’s okay.’

  ‘So,’ Magnie said, getting down to brass tacks, ‘Julie Hughson kent you were down in the Highlands, because you telt her. Robert-John and Maya Georgeson did, because they’d read this morning’s P and J.’

  ‘A lot of folk in Shetland read the Press and Journal.’

  ‘Then there was the Georgeson man’s truck. John Georgeson, the councillor. His big brother was at the school with me, and a nasty obstreperous object he was an’ all. The whole family’s the same, what they want, they’ll have. Robert-John’s the exception. He was the youngest son, and I doubt he got that used to being ordered about by his father an’ big brothers that he never developed any personality o’ his ain. That foreign wife o’ his is the best thing he ever managed.’

  I placed his mahogany tea before him, and opened the margarine tub. The fancies turned out to be millionaire shortbread with dates in the lower half. ‘You’re no’ been baking?’

  ‘Left over from the five hundred night at the club.’

  Five hundred was a card game, a cross between whist and bridge, and there was a Shetland league who met during the winter. I’d occasionally gone up to find tables laid out, and a crowd of people playing in the kind of silence that you tiptoe through to get to your notes in the teaching room, conscious of every squeak of your slightly damp trainers on the lino floor. The embarrassment was worth it for the fancies which were left as a help-yourself in the fridge. Magnie took a bite of his and shook his head.

  ‘Lass, yon Councillor Georgeson’s no’ someone you want to fall foul of. There was speak about him paying a secretary from Shetland Transport to give him a copy of every quotation she put out. He’d send one to the client too, but twenty pound cheaper.’ He went into proverb mode. ‘Da king o’ da flukes is as glied as da rest o’ dem.’

  ‘Untrustworthy,’ I agreed. ‘And he has trucks going up and down all the time. He could easily transport a body to a nice piece o’ wilderness and leave it there. But why should he? What would happen to Robert-John and the firm if Ivor was found dead?’

  ‘They’d have to assess the assets, I suppose.’ Magnie drew his brows together. ‘Well, I can tell you for a fishing boat, for David Jarmeson died aboard the Astella, and he was part-owner. They were allowed to go on trading, sell the fish and land it ashore in Norway, but the books had to be inspected within an inch of their lives, to find out to a farthing what he was worth at the time o’ death, and that had to go to his widow.’

  That was what I’d thought. ‘Maya thinks she can just get them solvent again, with work, so long as Ivor doesn’t reappear.’

  ‘What she thinks, Robert-John’ll think.’

  ‘Maybe no’. Dad said Robert-John had said he’d set a detective firm on to trace him. Maya wouldna’ve approved of that. Robert-John’s up and down from Scotland all the time too, and on his own, without needing an employed go-between. I bet your Mr Georgeson doesn’t drive his own trucks now, or if he did it would be noticed.’

  ‘I think you should leave it all alone,’ Magnie said. ‘Get your policeman up here as soon as you can to investigate with all the noise he can make, and they’ll all ken you’re passed on the information you’re gotten, an leave you in peace.’

  ‘I’ll maybe do that,’ I said.

  ‘And if he’ll leave his policeman’s hat off for an evening, I have a most special dram I think he’d like to try.’

  ‘An illicit fire-water from Norway?’ I guessed, remembering past occasions.

  ‘Even better as that. You tell him, now, when you’re telling him all about the rest of it.’

  I scowled at the cooker taps. ‘I’m no’ having people coming in and trying to murder Cat and blow Khalida to fibreglass splinters. I’ll maybe phone tonight.’

  He gave me a sceptical look, gathered up his neon oilskin, and headed back out into the streaming night.

  I sighed and picked up my mobile.

  ‘So,’ Gavin said, when I’d explained, ‘you really think this body might be Hughson, and somebody’s trying to stop you telling me about him.’

  ‘I can’t see any other reason someone would try to silence me. It was a serious attempt at doing just that. If I’d been below, lighting the lamp, there’s no way I’d have survived.’

  ‘Specialist knowledge?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Anyone who’s ever been even an afternoon on a boat would know about turning the gas off. Boat owners are paranoid about it, and the tap being in a cockpit locker usually means someone has to stand up to let you get at it, so it’s a visible fuss.’

  ‘Knowledge of your boat?’

  ‘Not even that. Cooker, cylinder. Just a matter of looking.’

  ‘And everyone knows, of course, which boat is yours.’

  ‘The only one with her mast up.’

  He was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘Question one. Who knows you found the body?’

  ‘Everyone now. It was in the P&J – the Aberdeen Press and Journal.’

  ‘So it was. And the boat was empty all afternoon?’

  ‘From about twelve right up to five. I was at a children’s party.’

  His silence was eloquent.

  ‘Peerie Charlie couldn’t go without me,’ I explained. ‘It was fun really – at least, he enjoyed it. Swimming followed by sweeties. Here, that gives Maya Georgeson an alibi – that’s Hughson’s partner’s wife. She was there, with her little girl. But, they gave me a lift back, and there was a Georgeson Transport truck at the marina – that’s his father. The partner’s father, I mean. According to Magnie, he’d bear watching.’

  ‘Isn’t he a pillar of the community, councillor and all that?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said darkly.

  ‘Cynic. I didn’t get peace to look for Hughson today, but I’ll make it a priority tomorr
ow.’

  ‘Keep me posted, if you’re allowed.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ His voice changed from policeman to friend. ‘Kenny and Mother were asking about your journey, and send their best wishes …’

  Friday 3 January

  Low Water at Brae UT 03.32, 0.5m

  High Water 09.45, 1.9m

  Low Water 16.01, 0.5m

  High Water 22.23, 1.9m

  Moonrise 09.34

  Sunrise 09.13

  Sunset 15.07

  Moonset 18.58

  Waxing gibbous moon

  Dem as comes oonbidden sits oonsaired.

  Don’t expect a welcome if you’re a gatecrasher.

  Chapter Twelve

  I woke to rain drumming on the cabin roof and lashing against the windows. I’d had a restless night, rousing to every little change of sound: the wind backing, the tide turning so that the ripples tapped against Khalida’s stern, a car driving down into the marina, waiting with engine running and retreating again. I reached out for my watch, pressed the luminous button, and found I’d slept in. It was eight o’clock, and still black dark, a horrid blashy day. The wind wasn’t as cold as yesterday, but it was stronger, snatching my hair loose from its plait and trying to buffet my washing gear from my hand. The tide was flowing like a river, pushed by the exceptionally high tides; there would be a new moon tomorrow night.

  I brooded over breakfast. It was all very well for Magnie to say ‘Keep out of it’; he wasn’t baling gas out of his cabin. If someone had it in for me, I wanted to know who.

  I phoned Maman. ‘Are you and Dad still going into town today?’

  ‘Yes. You want to come too?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s something I want you to do for me, Maman actress. I’ll explain on the way.’

  ‘Intriguing. Will I need a costume?’

  ‘Your most imposing black and white chic.’

  She laughed. ‘Very well. We’ll pick you up at ten o’clock.’

  I spent the wait on security: double-taping the various split-pins that held the mast up, and adding extra mooring ropes. I secured the washboards and chained Cat’s forehatch exit. I’d wondered about sending Cat himself to safety at Magnie’s but between Magnie’s outsize stripey and the imperious Siamese he’d adopted after she’d saved herself from a sinking yacht, permanently in a state of war with each other, but likely to gang up on outsiders, I didn’t think he’d enjoy himself there.

  The sky was clearing as the Range Rover bumped down the gravel into the marina. Maman had taken me at my word, and was wearing her white wool coat with a black-flowered corsage, cinched in with a black belt. A jaunty cap with black feathers perched on her head, and her Callas eye-liner and frosted lipstick was as immaculate as if we were heading for La Scala instead of Lerwick.

  I scrambled into the back seat. ‘Perfect, Maman. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.’

  ‘If I thought, now, that either of you girls would be in serious danger,’ Dad said, ‘I’d be forbidding this caper.’

  ‘You just have to ask for a quote for moving a piano,’ I told Maman.

  ‘Ah,’ Dad said. ‘Robert-John’s father?’

  ‘Georgeson Removals,’ I agreed, and explained the story as far as I had it, while the long sea-arm of Olnafirth slid by us, pewter-grey turning to silver as the clouds cleared. Behind it was the island of Linga, a symmetrical curve of dark-chocolate heather, and behind that the sun gleamed dully on the wide Atlantic. ‘I want to get a look at him,’ I finished. ‘If he knows me, he knows I wouldn’t want a removal van. Maman looks like someone who might, and if he knows Maman, then a piano is just what he’d expect her to be removing.’

  ‘They don’t get on, you know,’ Dad said. ‘Well, Robert-John didn’t say that, in so many words. I suggested he could maybe look to his father as collateral for a further loan, and he made it clear he wanted to get himself out of the mess without asking his father for help, and preferably without his father knowing anything about it.’

  ‘He is the odd one out,’ Maman said. ‘His father, well, we see what a forceful character he is, each week there is something in the papers that he sounds off about.’ She made a face. ‘Usually it is something some firm from south doing Shetlanders down – you know, the council has given a job to them, like repairing a council house scheme, and they make a mess of it, when local builders would have done better.’

  ‘There’s a lot of truth in that,’ Dad said. He had begun as a builder. ‘We’ve had a few south firms giving a cut-throat price based on working south, which the council has to accept, as the lowest tender, even though you know it won’t be a good job for that money. The firms factor in transport costs afterwards, recoup it on materials, and do a job that won’t stand Shetland weather.’

  ‘But,’ Maman quibbled, ‘if Monsieur Georgeson did not know that his son was in trouble, he had no reason for killing the partner who caused it, even if he would be ruthless enough to do such a thing.’

  ‘He’d know,’ I said. ‘Magnie knew all about it, from gossip at the club. John Georgeson’s one to keep his ear to the ground.’

  We came through the village of Voe, and onto the main road between Lerwick and the north isles. The lines of the Long Kames lay each side of us.

  ‘What’s the latest with your wind farm?’ Dad was a director of a group who planned to create a large wind-farm in central Shetland – over a hundred huge turbines, visible from everywhere, and installed, for the most part, on untouched peat moorland like this, which was already colonised by birds and carbon-absorbing plants. I was trying hard to sit on the fence; like any other Shetlander, I could see what climate change had already done to the seabirds who used to flock the cliffs, but I sympathised with the objectors who said the development was too big and too destructive. We were driving through what would be the centre of it now, between the hills of the East Kame and the Mid Kame, a wilderness dark with wet heather, and with jigsaw pieces of water reflecting the sky.

  Dad made an airy gesture with one hand. ‘Oh, the objectors are still pushing this judicial review through. They’re still on about the birds, and that we don’t have an electricity licence, as if any wind farm applications ever do have that. It’s just a formality. The council aren’t going to revoke their consent, they want the money too much.’

  ‘What if it goes against you?’

  ‘It won’t.’ His voice was so confident that I gave him a sceptical look. ‘If it does, we’ll appeal. They want to force the council to hold a planning consent review.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you hadn’t had one.’

  ‘Well, girl, we went all round the rural halls with our plan and a scale model, we were absolutely transparent about it. There was no need for the council to waste money on a review. We made sure everyone knew exactly what we planned, and had the chance to ask questions.’

  ‘A sales talk,’ my pal Inga had called the hall meetings, ‘ from people you knew stood to make a lot of money from it.’

  ‘And were many questions asked?’

  ‘Ach, well, Cassie, you know what it’s like. The people who speak at these things are the ones who’ve decided against it already. The ones who are okay with it, or not bothered either way, they don’t come.’

  In short, as Inga had told me, there had been strongly expressed, near-unanimous local opposition in nearly every village where there would be turbines nearby. I decided to push my luck. ‘How’s your health paper coming along?’

  ‘Nearly finished – the results, from windfarms all over the world, will be published next month. That’ll reassure the worriers.’

  I doubted it. I’d read a good number of internet articles myself, and it seemed to me that people, animals, and local wildlife were demonstrating a number of ill-health effects caused by their proximity to turbines. It would be interesting to see what Dad’s tame doctors came up with; but like so many Shetlanders who were keeping quiet, I swallowed my natural daughterly desire to say black to Dad’s white.
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br />   ‘There,’ Maman said. She passed her iPad back. The internet was open at a picture of a grand piano with solid turn-of-the-century legs and a raised lid. ‘Perfect. A Bechstein baby grand, from the Edinburgh Piano Company. 1924, and recently restored.’

  The car swerved as Dad tried to see too. ‘£8,500. If that’s what you’d like. We’d have to build an extension to fit it in.’

  Maman laughed. ‘No, I research my role.’ Her voice went honey-sweet. ‘I consider to buy this piano, M Georgeson, but I wish to assure myself it can be transported to Shetland.’ She took her iPad back. ‘Or there is a restored Steinway, £30,000. Of course one would have to hear it.’

  She subsided into murmuring to herself, and I sat back and watched the Loch of Girlsta slide past – another deep one, with its own Arctic char, though no njuggle, that I’d ever heard. The ditches at the side of the road were sloping banks carved into the peat, black with rain, and punctuated by spouting waterfalls. The grass of the Tingwall valley was sodden green, the ponies’ long coats darkened. Now, in winter, they had fur like a bear’s. White patches were dirtied with mud, and the thick manes that fell almost to their sturdy knees were matted with a natural layer of protective grease. Shetland ponies were designed to live outside through the winter, sheltering below peat banks, or in hollows of the hill. I knew that much, but that was about it for my equine lore. I presumed they were intelligent beasts; intelligent enough, for example, to be trained to charge down to the road and into the loch, if there was a bucket of oats for them at the end of it. Gavin had shown me photographs of Luchag and Ribe burdened with dead stags, and talked of one from his childhood that had been trained to take its carcase home by itself, be unloaded, then return for the next one. I’d seen old photos of ponies with a pannier of peats on each side, walking in line down a hill track, without a bridle between them. When I got the chance, I’d go and chat to Inga’s oldest lass, as Magnie had suggested. He thought there was something dodgy going on …

  We swooped down the hill around the golf course, up again and down into the industrial end of Lerwick, with, to our left, the blue expanse of Shetland Catch, Europe’s largest pelagic fish processing factory. There were no boats sitting beside it, unloading their catch through long black tubes straight into the heart of the factory. I wondered where big Charlie was: off Norway, off Ireland, out at Rockall.