He put his boots on at the door, and called to Vaila. Walking up the track his mind wandered and suddenly he found himself near the top of the hill looking down to the sea. A bonxie dived at him, just missing the crown of his cap. They were always aggressive this time of year when they had young. But he was used to the skuas on the hill and he didn’t miss a step. He never had to worry about where he was putting his feet. The hill was so familiar and the way he took was the same every evening. If I had paint on my boots, he thought, there’d be one set of footprints on the grass even after a week, because I never vary my path.
It was a clear evening, so still that he fancied he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks at the foot of the hill. There were cars outside the Herring House. Martin opened the café there for dinner on Friday night. It seemed having a murder so close by hadn’t put people off coming.
Tonight he thought he would walk on a little further, break the usual routine, check how many sheep there were up near the Pit o’ Biddista. And because he knew the hill so well, his thoughts ranged again.
I was nearly unfaithful with Jimmy Perez’s mother. I sat on a white beach at the North Haven on Fair Isle in midsummer and held her hand. Her lips were warm and tasted of salt. We told each other we were in love.
He caught his breath, thinking how close he had come to leaving Edith. He had almost thrown away what was now most dear to him.
I could have been Jimmy Perez’s stepfather.
He’d completely forgotten that summer, hadn’t thought about it for years, but now, because of the death of a stranger, Jimmy Perez had come into his life again and the memories had returned. He’d never told Edith about it. He wondered briefly if he should, but after all this time it had no importance. Why hurt her?
Now he was on the highest part of the hill, close to the cliff-edge. There was still no wind so the walking had been easy. But he felt a strain in his knee, a dull pain which came occasionally, and he was a little bit breathless. Five years ago he could have done the walk faster. He stopped to look back at his land and despite the familiarity he felt a pride in it.
The grass here was cropped very short by sheep and rabbits. In places there were rough piles of rock; he’d never known whether they were natural or the remains of some ancient people who’d had the land before him. He stood on the rocky bridge between the sea and the Pit o’ Biddista. The Pit was a great gouge out of the land all the way down to sea level. When they were children, Willy had told them a story about how it had been made. He said it had been formed by a giant who lost his heart to a Shetland lass. She’d been frightened of him, not realizing he only meant her well, and running way from him, she’d fallen over the cliff. In his grief and rage, the giant had scooped out a hole in the rock and flung the debris into the sea, where it formed the stacks that ran away from the coast. Kenny thought it looked more like the core had been taken out from a huge apple, but a lovesick giant made a better story for children. Willy had entertained generations of them with his stories.
It wasn’t a sheer drop into the Pit on all sides. The side nearest to the sea was all rock, an almost flat cliff, cut with ledges where the kittiwakes nested. But the landward side was grass all the way down, pink with thrift and crossed by rabbit tracks. At the bottom of the seaward side a tunnel ran out to the beach and with a very high tide the water was funnelled through it, churning and boiling with the pressure, spitting spray almost to the top. They’d played there when they were children, sliding down the grass slope to the bottom, so their pants were stained green and their knees covered with mud. But never at high water. Then they lay on their stomachs and peered into the hole below.
Looking down, he saw that a ewe had somehow managed to get almost to sea level. She was trapped on a ledge, too stupid to turn round and make her way back. Sometimes he thought sheep were the dumbest creatures in the world. Her fleece was thick and ragged, so heavy that it almost seemed to be falling off her back. She should be clipped with the others the next day.
He began to edge down the slope towards her. He’d try to get behind her and persuade her to scramble up. Although the grass was dry enough it was still greasy underfoot; he was glad of the texture of the thrift to give him grip. He felt suddenly, startlingly, very happy. The pain in his knee was forgotten, it was a fine summer evening and Edith would be home all weekend. And he could still climb down the Pit o’ Biddista as he had when he was a boy.
He circled round the back of the sheep, moving slowly so he shouldn’t scare her. He didn’t think he’d have any chance of bringing her up if she went any deeper. Then he was there, right behind her, standing on the same ledge, arms outstretched so she wouldn’t get past him.
‘Go on, girl. Up you go.’
All of a sudden she scrambled up, not following the tracks but taking the direct route to the top, floundering, her feet somehow getting purchase. All he could see was the mucky behind, the loose curls of fleece. Then she was over the edge and invisible to him.
He stood where he was and looked down. Here everything was in shadow, the sun too low to reach this depth. Very few people in the world had seen this view. The only child in Biddista now was Alice Williamson, and her family didn’t let her run loose on the hill. Martin and Dawn would have a fit if she climbed down here, though Bella hadn’t been much older when she’d first made it to the bottom. She’d been as reckless as any of the boys. Kenny could see the round boulders which had been carried in on full tides, the puddle of brackish water left behind when the sea retreated.
Then he saw a splash of colour against the grey of the rocks. Because he’d been thinking about Alice Williamson, there was a heart-stopping moment when he thought it could be her. That she’d finally broken free from the protective parents, run up on to the hill and lost her footing. He imagined her tumbling over and over down the slope, her head smacking on a boulder, her skull smashing like an eggshell.
But it couldn’t be the child lying down there. The figure was too big. His eyes must be playing tricks. Edith was always telling him he needed glasses and he’d been aware of it himself. He shouldn’t be so proud. He should get himself into Lerwick for an eye test. It was probably one of those blue plastic sacks the fertilizer came in. He was tempted to turn his back on it and return up the slope to where the dog was lying on the grass waiting.
As he was thinking that he was slithering further down. The light faded the further he went. There was the smell of rotting seaweed.
Roddy Sinclair was dead. Kenny didn’t need new glasses to tell him that. The body was twisted and his head was smashed on a rock, just as he’d imagined Alice Williamson’s to be. He knew he should get to the surface again as soon as he could. He should run back to the house and get on the phone to Jimmy Perez. But he wasn’t sure how he’d do it. His legs had turned to water and he was exhausted. Only the horror of being here, next to the broken body of the boy, set him on his way.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Perez had spent the day in Lerwick, a frustrating round of phone calls and emails trying to track Booth’s movements since his arrival in Shetland. The incident room was airless and overheated and despite the impetus given to the investigation by the identification of the victim, by late afternoon he felt little had been achieved. After work he set off to Ravenswick, to Fran’s house. He hadn’t phoned in advance to say he was coming and felt ridiculously nervous. He’d been looking forward to seeing her all day and worried, as he always did, that he wouldn’t live up to her expectations.