‘Something you don’t need right now?’
‘The company did get names out of the protesters, but they were false. At least, I’m assuming Yuri Gagarin and Judy Garland are aliases.’
‘Sound reasoning.’ Judy Garland: Braid-Hair. Interesting choice.
‘So they were detained, given something hot to drink, and flown back to the mainland.’
‘Very decent of T-Bird.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘And the video recording?’
‘That was, as you guessed, our security staff. Precautionary, I’m told. If there’s trouble, we have physical evidence.’
‘They don’t use the film to identify the protesters?’
‘We’re not the CIA, Inspector. We’re an oil company.’
‘Sorry, sir, go on.’
‘Willie Ford says he knew Mitch had been seeing someone in Aberdeen – past tense. But they never discussed her. Mitch was – quote – “a dark horse on the question of his love life” – unquote.’
Dead ends everywhere.
‘Is that everything?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, thank you, sir, I really appreciate this.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector. But next time you want a favour, try not to make it on a day when I’m due to sack a dozen of our workforce.’
‘Hard times, Mr Minchell?’
‘A book by Dickens, Inspector Rebus. Goodbye.’
Jack was laughing. ‘Good line,’ he said approvingly.
‘So it should be,’ Rebus said, ‘he was less than a mile away.’ He walked over to the window, watched another plane taking off in the near-distance, the roar of its jets fading as it headed north.
‘Had enough for one morning?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. He’d been expecting Eve to call. There was that favour. He wondered if she’d do it. She owed him, but crossing Judd Fuller didn’t sound like the wisest move on the dance floor. She’d been dancing her own little steps for years: why trip up now?
Jack repeated his question.
‘One option left,’ Rebus said, turning to face him.
‘What’s that?’
‘Flight.’
At Dyce Airport, Rebus showed his warrant card and asked if there were any flights out to Sullom Voe.
‘Not for a while,’ he was told. ‘Maybe in four or five hours.’
‘We’re not fussy who we fly with.’
Shrugs, shakes of the head.
‘It’s important.’
‘You could always hitch a ride to Sumburgh.’
‘That’s miles from Sullom Voe.’
‘Only trying to be helpful. You could rent a car.’
Rebus thought about it, then had a better idea. ‘How soon could we be out of here?’
‘To Sumburgh? Half an hour, forty minutes. There’s a helicopter stopping there on its way out to Ninian.’
‘Fine.’
‘Let me talk to them.’ She picked up her telephone.
‘We’ll be back in five minutes.’
Jack followed Rebus over to the public telephones, where Rebus made a call to St Leonard’s. He was put through to Gill Templer.
‘I’m halfway through listening to the tape,’ she said.
‘Better than Saturday Night Theatre, isn’t it?’
‘I’m going through to Glasgow later on. I want to talk to him myself.’
‘Good idea, I’ve left a copy of the tape with Partick CID. Have you seen Siobhan this morning?’
‘I don’t think so. Which shift is she working? If you like, I can try to find her.’
‘Don’t bother, Gill, long distance doesn’t come cheap.’
‘Oh hell, where are you now?’
‘Ill in bed, if Ancram comes asking.’
‘And looking for that favour?’
‘A phone number, actually. Lerwick police station. I’m assuming such a thing exists.’
‘It does,’ she said. ‘Under the auspices of Northern Division. There was a conference in Inverness last year, they were complaining about keeping tabs on Orkney and Shetland.’
‘Gill …’
‘I’ve been looking it up while I talk.’ She reeled the number off; it went into his notebook.
‘Thanks, Gill. Bye.’
‘John!’
But he’d cut her off. ‘How are you for change, Jack?’ Jack showed him some coins. Rebus took most of them, then called Lerwick and asked if they could lend a car for half a day. He explained it was a murder inquiry, Lothian and Borders. Nothing to get het up about, they’d only be interviewing a friend of the victim.
‘Well now, a car …’ the voice drawled, like Rebus had asked for a spaceship. ‘When would you be arriving?’
‘We’re on a chopper out of here in about half an hour.’
‘Two of you?’
‘Two of us,’ Rebus said, ‘which rules out a motorbike.’
His reward: a deep gurgling laugh. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Well, I can do something. Only problem might be if the cars are out elsewhere. Some of our calls are to the back of beyond.’
‘If there’s no one to meet us at Sumburgh, I’ll phone again.’
‘You do that now. Cheerio.’
Back at the desk, they found they were on the flight in thirty-five minutes.
‘I’ve never been on a helicopter,’ Jack said.
‘An experience you’ll never forget.’
Jack frowned. ‘Can you try that again with a bit more enthusiasm?’
29
There were half a dozen planes on the ground at Sumburgh Airport, and the same number of helicopters, most of them connected as if by umbilical cord to neighbouring fuel tankers. Rebus walked into the Wilsness Terminal, unzipping his survival suit as he went, then saw that Jack was still outside, taking in the coastal scenery and bleak inland plain. There was a fierce wind rising, and Jack had his chin tucked into his suit. Post-flight, he looked pale and slightly queasy. Rebus for one had spent the entire time trying not to remember his outsized breakfast. Jack eventually saw him signalling, and came in from the cold.
‘Doesn’t the sea look blue?’
‘Same colour you’d turn after two more minutes out there.’
‘And the sky … incredible.’
‘Don’t go New Age on me, Jack. Let’s get these suits off. I think our escort with the Escort has just arrived.’
Only it was an Astra, snug with three of them inside, especially when the uniformed driver was built like a rock formation. His head – minus the diced cap – brushed the roof of the car. The voice was the same as on the telephone. He’d shaken Rebus’s hand as though greeting some foreign emissary.
‘Have you been to Shetland before?’
Jack shook his head; Rebus admitted he’d been once, but added no further details.
‘And where would you like me to take you?’
‘Back to your base,’ Rebus said from the cramped back seat. ‘We’ll drop you off and turn the car in when we’re finished.’
The woolly suit – whose name was Alexander Forres – boomed his disappointment. ‘But I’ve been two decades on the force.’
‘Yes?’
‘This would be my first murder inquiry!’
‘Look, Sergeant Forres, we’re only here to talk to a friend of the victim. It’s background – routine and boring as hell.’
‘Ach, all the same … I was quite looking forward to it.’
They were heading up the A970 to Lerwick, twenty-odd miles north of Sumburgh. The wind buffeted them, Forres’ huge hands tight on the steering-wheel, like an ogre choking an infant. Rebus decided to change the subject.
‘Nice road.’
‘Paid for with oil money,’ Forres said.
‘How do you like being ruled from Inverness?’
‘Who says we are? You think they come checking up on us every week of the year?’
‘I’d guess not.’
/> ‘You’d guess right, Inspector. It’s like Lothian and Borders – how often does someone from Fettes bother travelling down to Hawick?’ Forres looked at Rebus in the rearview. ‘Don’t go thinking we’re all idiots up here, with just enough sense to set light to the boat come Up-Helly-Aa.’
‘Up-Helly what?’
Jack turned towards him. ‘You know, John, where they burn a longboat.’
‘Last Tuesday in January,’ Forres said.
‘Odd form of central heating,’ Rebus muttered.
‘He’s a born cynic,’ Jack told the sergeant.
‘Well, it’d be sad for him if he died one.’ Forres’ eyes were still on the rearview.
On the outskirts of Lerwick, they passed ugly pre-fabricated buildings which Rebus guessed were connected to the oil industry. The police station itself was in the New Town. They dropped Forres off, and he went in to fetch them a map of Mainland.
‘Not that you could get very lost,’ he’d told them. ‘There are only the three big roads to worry about.’
Rebus looked at the map and saw what he meant. Mainland comprised a shape in the vague form of a cross, the A970 its spine, the 971 and 968 its arms. Brae was as far north again as they’d just come. Rebus was going to be driving, Jack navigating – Jack’s decision; he said it would give him a chance to sight-see.
The drive was by turns awe-inspiring and bleak: coastal vistas giving way to interior moorland, scattered settlements, a lot of sheep – many of them on the road – and few trees. Jack was right though, the sky was amazing. Forres had told them this season was ‘simmer dim’ – a time of year without true darkness. But in winter, daylight became a precious commodity. You had to respect people who chose to live miles from everything you took for granted. Easy enough to be a hunter-gatherer in a city, but out here … It wasn’t the sort of scenery to inspire conversation. They found their dialogues crumbling into grunts and nods. As close as they were in the speeding car, they were in isolation each from the other. No, Rebus was damned sure he couldn’t survive out here.
They took a left fork towards Brae, and found themselves suddenly on the island’s west coast. It was still hard to know what to make of the place – Forres was the only born and bred Shetlander they’d met. What architecture they’d seen in Lerwick had been a mix of Scottish and Scandinavian styles, a sort of Ikea baronial. Out in the country, the crofts were the same as any in the Western Isles, but the names of the settlements showed Scandinavian influence. As they drove through Burravoe and into Brae, Rebus realised he felt just about as foreign as he ever had in his life.
‘Where to now?’ Jack asked.
‘Give me a minute. When I was here before, we came into town the other way …’ Rebus got a fix on where they were, and eventually led them to the house Jake Harley shared with Briony. Neighbours looked out at the police car like they’d never seen one before; maybe they hadn’t. Rebus tried Briony’s door – no answer. He knocked harder, the sound echoing emptily. A look in through the living-room window: untidy, but not a mess. A woman’s untidiness, not quite professional enough. Rebus went back to the car.
‘She works at the swimming pool, let’s give it a shot.’
The pool, with its blue metal roof, was hard to miss. Briony was pacing the edge of the pool, watching children at play. She wore the same uniform of singlet and jogging bottoms as when they’d last met, but now had tennis shoes on her feet. Her ankles were bare: lifesavers didn’t bother with socks. She had a referee’s tin whistle strung around her neck, but the kids were behaving themselves. Briony saw Rebus and recognised him. She put the whistle in her mouth and gave three short blasts: a recognised signal – another staff member took her place poolside. She walked up to Rebus and Jack. The temperature was getting on for tropical, with humidity to match.
‘I told you,’ she said, ‘Jake’s still not shown up.’
‘I know, and you said you weren’t worried about him.’
She shrugged. She had short dark hair which fell straight most of the way before ending in kiss-curls. The style took half a dozen years off her, turning her into a teenager, but her face was older – slightly hardened, whether by climate or circumstance Rebus couldn’t say. Her eyes were small, as were nose and mouth. He tried not to think of a hamster, but then she twitched her nose and the picture was complete.
‘He’s a free agent,’ she said.
‘But you were worried last week.’
‘Was I?’
‘When you closed the door on me. I’ve seen the look enough times to know.’
She folded her arms. ‘So?’
‘So one of two things, Briony. Either Jake’s in hiding because he’s in fear of his life.’
‘Or?’
‘Or he’s already dead. Either way, you can help.’
She swallowed. ‘Mitch …’
‘Did Jake tell you why Mitch was killed?’
She shook her head. Rebus tried not to smile: so Jake had been in touch since they’d last spoken.
‘He’s alive, isn’t he?’
She bit her lip, then nodded.
‘I’d like to talk to him. I think I can get him out of this mess.’
She tried to gauge the truth of this, but Rebus’s face was a mask. ‘Is he in trouble?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but not with us.’
She looked back at the pool, saw everything was under control. ‘I’ll take you,’ she said.
They drove back through the moorland and down past Lerwick, heading for a place called Sandwick on the eastern side of Mainland, just ten miles north of where their helicopter had originally landed.
Briony didn’t want to talk during the drive, and Rebus guessed she didn’t know much anyway. Sandwick turned out to be a spread of land taking in older settlements and oil-era housing. She directed them to Leebotten, a nestling of sea-front cottages.
‘Is this where he is?’ Rebus asked as they got out of the car. She shook her head and pointed out to sea. There was an island out there, no sign of habitation. Cliffs and rocky approaches. Rebus looked to Briony.
‘Mousa,’ she said.
‘How do we get there?’
‘Boat, always supposing somebody’s willing to take us.’ She knocked on a cottage door. It was opened by a middle-aged woman.
‘Briony,’ the woman said simply, more statement of fact than greeting.
‘Hello, Mrs Munroe. Is Scott in?’
‘He is.’ The door opened a little wider. ‘Come in, won’t you?’
They entered one decent-sized room which seemed kitchen and living room both. A large wooden table took up most of the space. By the fireplace were two armchairs. A man was rising from one of them, unhooking wire reading-glasses from his ears. He folded them and put them in his waistcoat pocket. The book he’d been reading lay open on the floor: it was a family-sized Bible, black leather cover and brass clasps.
‘Well now, Briony,’ the man said. He was middle-aged or a little after, but his weatherbeaten face was that of an old man. His hair was silver, cut short with the careful simplicity of a home barber. His wife had gone to the sink to fill the kettle.
‘No thanks, Mrs Munroe,’ Briony said, before turning back to the man. ‘Have you seen Jake lately, Scott?’
‘I was over there a couple of days back, he seemed fine.’
‘Could you take us across?’
Scott Munroe looked to Rebus, who stuck out a hand.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus, Mr Munroe. This is DI Morton.’
Munroe shook both hands, putting no power into it: what had he to prove?
‘Well, the wind’s dropped a bit,’ Munroe said, rubbing the grey stubble on his chin. ‘So I suppose that’s all right.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Meg, what about some bread and ham for the lad?’
Mrs Munroe nodded and silently set about her work, while her husband readied himself. He found oilskins for all of them and waterproof boots for himself, by which time a parcel of sandwiches and flask of tea sat waiting.
Rebus stared at the flask, knowing Jack was doing the same, both gasping for a drink.
But there was no time for that. They were off.
It was a small boat, freshly painted and with an outboard motor. Rebus had had visions of them rowing across.
‘There’s a jetty,’ Briony said when they were underway, rising and falling against the choppy water. ‘A ferry usually takes visitors across. We’ll have a bit of a hike, not much.’
‘It’s a bleak spot to choose,’ Rebus yelled above the wind.
‘Not that bleak,’ she said with the ghost of a smile.
‘What’s that?’ Jack said, pointing.
It stood on the edge of the island, next to where sloping strata of rock eased down into the dark water. Sheep grazed on the grass around the structure. To Rebus, it looked like some gigantic sandcastle or upturned flower-pot. As they got closer he saw it had to be over forty feet high, maybe fifty feet in diameter at its base, and was constructed from large flat stones, thousands of them.
‘Mousa Broch,’ Briony said.
‘What is it?’
‘Like a fort. They lived there, it was easy to defend.’
‘Who lived there?’
She shrugged. ‘Settlers. Maybe a hundred years BC.’ There was a low-walled area behind the broch. ‘That was the Haa; it’s just a shell now.’
‘And where’s Jake?’
She turned to him. ‘Inside the broch, of course.’
They landed, Munroe saying he’d circle the island and be back for them in an hour. Briony carried the bag of provisions, and struck out towards the broch, watched by the slow-chewing sheep and a few strutting birds.
‘You live in a country all your life,’ Jack was saying, the hood of his oilskin up to protect him from the wind, ‘and you never even know stuff like this is out there.’
Rebus nodded. It was an extraordinary place. The feel of his feet on the grass wasn’t like walking across lawn or field; it was like he was the first person ever to walk there. They followed Briony through a passageway and into the heart of the broch itself, sheltered from the wind but with no roof to protect them from threatening rain. Munroe’s ‘one hour’ was a warning: any later and they’d be in for a rough if not dangerous crossing.
The blue nylon one-man tent looked incongruous pitched in the broch’s central court. A man had risen out of it to hug Briony. Rebus bided his time. Briony handed over the bag of tea and sandwiches.