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.’