‘Thank you.’ Anna reached out and touched Evelyn’s shoulder. ‘I hope this doesn’t change things between us.’
There was a brief pause before Evelyn said, ‘Of course not. Why should it?’
Hattie had the impression that suddenly Evelyn was very pleased with herself, but she couldn’t work out why. She’d never been any good at picking up unspoken communication. Sometimes she felt lost, a stranger in a foreign country, only half understanding the language. I shouldn’t be here, she thought. She had to control an impulse to turn and run away.
‘Have you heard about the find at Setter?’ Evelyn took a seat at the table where Anna had been sitting.
No chance of keeping it secret then! Hattie didn’t know what to say. She thought Evelyn had used her as an excuse to be there. She wanted to make her own excuse and leave, but couldn’t think of a way of doing it with any sort of dignity.
‘Tell me all about it.’ Anna leaned against the trestle and Hattie could see the swelling around her belly where the baby had been. Hattie mumbled an explanation of the significance of the coins. The baby started crying, a griping grizzle as if he was in pain. Anna lifted him out of his basket, rocked him in her arms. Suddenly she held him out to Hattie, a kind of challenge. ‘Would you mind taking him while I tidy this away? He’s got colic and he’ll scream the place down if I put him back in his basket.’ She gave a tight little smile. ‘Actually he’s been driving me mad today.’
Hattie found the baby in her arms before she could object. She held him gingerly, slightly away from her body. He seemed very light and fragile. She had a moment of panic when she imagined herself dropping him; in her imagination she deliberately opened her arms wide and he slipped from her grasp and his head cracked on the floor like one of Mima’s big white eggs. There’d be a puddle of blood. The picture was so vivid that she was surprised that there was no sound, no crying and shouting, but the two island women were chatting about the next forum meeting and seemed to take no notice of her. The baby smelled very sweet. When the time came to hand him back, Hattie wanted to protest and to hold on to him. Perhaps after all it wouldn’t be so terrible to be a mother.
Evelyn seemed to have forgotten her decision to invite the archaeologists to supper, and Hattie was pleased. She couldn’t bear the thought of another meal in the Utra kitchen, forcing herself to eat to keep Evelyn happy. She knew Sophie wouldn’t be back for hours. She’d be in Artemis with the boys, drinking and flirting, the nearest she’d get to her wild London social life here in Whalsay. Hattie wondered what else she’d be getting up to.
She started walking down the road towards the Bod. It was the beginning of dusk, what Shetlanders called ‘the darkenin’’, but there was still light enough to make out the colours of the stone in the wall and the peat on the hill. She began to think of Mima again, recalled their conversation sitting outside the house of Setter, Mima’s anger and her loud words shouted into the telephone.
Chapter Nineteen
Perez woke early. He’d been dreaming about Fran, turned and panicked when he found the bed next to him was empty. He lost the details of the dream on waking but was left with a sense of unease, a premonition of danger that he knew was ridiculous. He had to lose the notion that life away from the islands was risky. He’d seen too many parents reluctant to give their children the freedom to move away. Another week and Fran and Cassie would be home.
But he couldn’t return to sleep. He found himself running over the details surrounding Mima’s death. It was absurd to let the incident haunt him. Ronald must have killed the old woman in a freak accident. Any other explanation seemed so melodramatic that it was ludicrous. The Fiscal had been right. He didn’t really believe Sandy’s stay in Whalsay would result in fresh information. He thought they would be left with the worst possible outcome: not really knowing what had happened. He would have to live with that, but knew he would find it hard to stomach.
He’d heard Sandy talk about Mima so much that he felt he knew her well. In fact he’d only met her once, at Sandy’s birthday party on Whalsay. He remembered a tiny, bird-like woman with a surprising belly laugh. She’d matched the men drink for drink but apart from flushed cheeks hadn’t shown any sign of inebriation. It hadn’t affected her ability to dance the most intricate of steps.
He wondered what there was about her that might have invited violence. Had that sharp tongue provoked one of the Whalsay folk to kill her in a rage? Or was it something she knew? Something she’d seen? But perhaps, after all, her death was simply an accident and he should accept this most obvious explanation. What was it in his nature that forced him to question the accepted version of events? Fran said he was too sympathetic to be a cop, that he always saw the best in people, but he knew that not to be true. Everyone was capable of violence, he thought, even of killing a harmless old woman. He was capable of it himself.
Perez got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make tea. It was too early for the heating to have come on and the house was cold. He imagined the damp seeping in through the stone walls, could almost smell it. He opened the curtains and sat in the window seat looking out at the harbour, drinking coffee. Eventually he came to a decision and set off for the ferry terminal.
Paul Berglund was one of the last passengers off the Aberdeen ferry. If the archaeologist had left earlier Perez might have missed him. Some people ignored the bright voice on the PA system announcing the arrival of the NorthLink to Lerwick, they stayed in their bunks and had breakfast in the cafeteria before making their way ashore. Berglund sauntered down the gangplank almost as soon as Perez arrived. Perez wasn’t sure what he would have done if Berglund hadn’t disembarked now. Would he have waited in the cavernous terminal until the stragglers emerged? How could he justify that?
Berglund could have been a squaddie home on leave. His hair was cropped and he carried about him the sense that he could look after himself in a fight. That at least was how he came across to Perez. It seemed an odd image and Perez thought he shouldn’t make up his mind about the man without knowing him. He had no reason to think of Berglund as an aggressive man. The academic was wearing jeans and a Gore-Tex jacket, heavy trainers. He carried a small rucksack, in one of its pockets was a small archaeologists’ trowel and in the other a big knife in a sheath. Perez supposed they were tools of the trade. He wondered what excuse he could give for being here to meet Berglund. It seemed a disproportionate gesture.
‘Mr Berglund.’ As soon as he spoke he realized he’d got the title wrong. Berglund was a professor. But Berglund stopped and turned slowly, curious but not offended. At first he didn’t recognize Perez and seemed confused. Not far away a family was welcoming back a young man, a student, and there was a lot of noise. Everyone was there – both parents and a couple of children. The returning teenager seemed embarrassed by the attention, the hugs and the shrieking voices.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ Perez said. ‘I wonder if I could have a few words. It won’t take long. It’ll save me a trip to Whalsay.’
Now Berglund did recognize him. ‘Of course: you’re the detective.’ A pause and a frown. ‘What’s happened now?’
It seemed a strange question. Perez wanted to ask, What were you expecting to happen? ‘I just need to complete my report for the Fiscal. Routine. I’m sure you understand. She’s satisfied Mrs Wilson’s death was an accident, but as you were on the island when it happened…’ It sounded an unconvincing explanation to Perez, but Berglund shrugged and nodded his agreement.
They had breakfast together in a small and steamy cafe by the harbour. Bacon rolls and tea in thick china mugs. There was nobody to overhear them. Berglund shrugged off his heavy coat and Perez saw he was wearing a hand-knitted sweater in a pattern he didn’t recognize.