Ann Cleeves

(2006)

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2006

It is a cold January morning and Shetland lies buried beneath a deep layer of snow. Trudging home, Fran Hunters eye is drawn to a vivid splash of colour on the white ground, ravens circling above. It is the strangled body of her teenage neighbour Catherine Ross. As Fran opens her mouth to scream, the ravens continue their deadly dance. The locals on the quiet island stubbornly focus their gaze on one manloner and simpleton Magnus Tait. But when police insist on opening the investigation a veil of suspicion and fear is thrown over the entire community. For the first time in years, Catherines neighbours nervously lock their doors, whilst a killer lives on in their midst

RAVEN BLACK

By ANN CLEEVES

First published 2006 by Macmillan

an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www. panmacmillan. com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4050-5472-0

ISBN-10: 1-4050-5472-7

Copyright @ Ann Cleeves 2006

The right of Ann Cleeves to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The extract from 'Fire and lee' on p.283 is from

The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem, published by Jonathan Cape, copyright @

1923,1969 by Henry Holt and Company, copyright @ 1951 by Robert Frost, and is reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC, and the Random House Group Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

3579864

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For Ella. And her grandfather.

It was foolhardy to attempt a book set in Shetland while living in West Yorkshire. It would have been impossible without the help and support of Shetlanders. Thanks to Bob Gunn, to everyone at the Shetland Arts Trust, especially Chrissie and Alex, to Morag at Lerwick Library, to Becky and Floortje for an insight into what it is to be young, and to Becky again for her detailed advice on the script. A special mention for Fair Isle, where it all started and for our friends there. Despite this help, there will probably be inaccuracies. They are all mine.

Scanned & proofed by;

Twenty past one in the morning on New Year's Day, Magnus knew the time because of the fat clock, his mother's clock, which squatted on the shelf over the fire. In the corner the raven in the wicker cage muttered and croaked in its sleep. Magnus waited. The room was prepared for visitors, the fire banked with peat and on the table a bottle of whisky and the ginger cake he'd bought in Safeway's the last time he was in Lerwick. He could feel himself dozing but he didn't want to go to bed in case someone should call at the house. If there was a light at the window someone might come, full of laughter and drams and stories. For eight years nobody had visited to wish him happy new year, but still he waited just in case.

Outside it was completely silent. There was no sound of wind. In Shetland, when there was no wind it was shocking.

People strained their ears and wondered what was missing. Earlier in the day there had been a dusting of snow, then with dusk this was covered by a sheen of frost, every crystal flashing and hard as diamond in the last of the light, and even when it got dark, in the beam from the lighthouse. The cold was another reason for Magnus staying where he was. In the bedroom the ice would be thick on the inside of the window and the sheets would feel chill and damp.

He must have slept. If he'd been awake he'd have heard them coming because there was nothing quiet in their approach. They weren't creeping up on him. He'd have heard their laughter and the stumbling, seen the wild swaying of the torch beam through the uncurtained window. He was woken by the banging on the door.

He came to with a start, knowing he'd been in the middle of a nightmare, but not sure of the details.

'Come in,' he shouted. 'Come in, come in.' He struggled to his feet, stiff and aching. They must already be in the storm porch. He heard the hiss of their whispers.

The door was pushed open, letting in a blast of freezing air and two young girls, who were as gaudy and brightly coloured as exotic birds. He saw they were drunk. They stood, propping each other up. They weren't dressed for the weather yet their cheeks were flushed and he could feel the health of them like heat. One was fair and one was dark.

The fair one was the prettier, round and soft, but Magnus noticed the dark one first; her black hair was streaked with luminescent blue. More than anything, he would have liked to reach out and touch the hair, but he knew better than to do that. It would only scare them away.

'Come in,' he said again although they were already in the room. He thought he must sound like a foolish old man, repeating the same words, making no sense at all. People had always laughed at him. They called him slow and perhaps they were right. He felt a smile crawl across his face and heard his mother's words in his head.

Will you wipe that stupid grin from your face. Do you want folk to think you're dafter than you really are?

The girls giggled and stepped further into the room. He shut the doors behind them, the outside door which had warped with the weather and led into the porch, and the one into the house. He wanted to keep out the cold and he was frightened that they might escape. He couldn't believe that such beautiful creatures had turned up on his doorstep.

'Sit down,' he said. There was only the one easy chair, but two others, which his uncle had made from driftwood, stood by the table and he pulled these out. 'You'll take a drink with me to see in the new year.'

They giggled again and fluttered and landed on the chairs. They wore tinsel in their hair and their clothes were made of fur and velvet and silk. The fair one had ankle boots of leather so shiny that it looked like wet tar, with silver buckles and little chains. The heels were high and the toes were pointed. Magnus had never seen footwear like it and for a moment he couldn't take his eyes off them. The dark girl's shoes were red. He stood at the head of the table.

'I don't know you, do I?' he said, though looking at them more closely he knew he'd seen them passing the house. He took care to speak slowly so they would understand him. Sometimes he slurred his speech. The words sounded strange to him, like the raven's croaking. He'd taught the raven to speak a few words. Some weeks, he had nobody else to talk to. He launched into another sentence. 'Where are you from?'

'We've been in Lerwick.' The chairs were low and the blonde girl had to tip back her head to look up at him. He could see her tongue and her pink throat. Her short silk top had become separated from the waistband of her skirt and he saw a fold of flesh, as silky as the material of her blouse and her belly button.

'Partying for Hogmanay. We got a lift to the end of the road. We were on our way home when we saw your light!

'Shall we have a drink, then?' he said eagerly. 'Shall we?' He shot a look at the dark girl, who was staring at the room, moving her eyes slowly, taking it all in, but again it was the fair one who replied.

'We've brought our own,' she said. She pulled a bottle from the woven shoulder bag she'd been clutching on her knee. It had a cork jammed in the top and was three-quarters full. He thought it would be white wine, but he didn't really know. He'd never tasted wine. She pulled the cork from the bottle with sharp, white teeth. The action shocked him.

When he realized what she intended doing he wanted to shout to her to stop. He imagined the teeth snapped off at the roots.

He should have offered to open it for her. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. Instead, he only watched, fascinated. The girl drank from the bottle, wiped the lip with her hand, then passed it on to her friend. He reached out for his whisky. His hands were shaking and he spilled a couple of drops on to the oilcloth when he poured himself a glass. He held out his glass and the dark girl clinked the wine bottle against it. Her eyes were narrow. The lids were painted blue and grey and were lined with black.

'I'm Sally: the blonde girl said. She didn't have the dark one's capacity for silence. She'd be one for noise, he decided. Chatter and music. 'Sally Henry!

'Henry: he repeated. The name was familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. He was out of touch. His thoughts had never been sharp, but now thinking took an effort. It was like seeing through a thick sea fog. He could make out shapes and vague ideas but focus was difficult. 'Where do you live?'

'In the house at the end of the voe: she said. 'Next to the school!

'Your mother's the schoolteacher!

Now he could place her. The mother was a little woman. She'd come from one of the north isles. Unst. Yell, maybe. Married a man from Bressay who worked for the council. Magnus had seen him driving around in a big 4x4.

'Aye,' she said and sighed.

'And you?' he said to the dark girl, who interested him more, who interested him so much that his eyes kept flickering back to her. 'What do they call you?'

'I'm Catherine Ross: she said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was deep for a young lassie, he thought. Deep and smooth. A voice like black treacle. He forgot where he was for a moment, picturing his mother spooning treacle into the mixture for the ginger cakes she'd made, twisting the spoon over the pot to catch the last sticky threads, then handing it to him to lick. He ran his tongue over his lips, became embarrassingly aware of Catherine staring at him.

She had a way of not blinking.

'You're not local! He could tell by the accent.

'English?'

'I've lived here for a year!

'You're friends?' The idea of friendship was a novelty. Had he ever had friends? He took time to think about it. 'You're pals. Is that right?'

'Of course we are,' Sally said. 'Best friends.' And they started laughing again, passing the bottle backwards and forwards, throwing back their heads to ' drink, so their necks looked white as chalk in the light of the naked bulb hanging over the table.

Five minutes to midnight. They were all on the streets of Lerwick around the market cross and it was jumping. Everyone was steaming, but not fighting drunk, just mellow and you felt that you belonged, you were a part of the laughing, drinking crowd.

Sally thought her father should have been here. He'd have realized then that there was nothing to get uptight about.

He might even have enjoyed it. Hogmanay in Shetland. Like, it wasn't New York, was it? Or London. What was going to happen? Most of the people here she recognized. .

The thud, thud of a bass came up through her feet and rolled around her head, and she couldn't work out where the music was coming from, but she moved along with it like everyone else. Then came the bells for midnight and 'Auld Lang Syne' and she was hugging the people on either side of her. She found herself snogging a guy and realized in a moment of clarity that he was a maths teacher from Anderson High and he was more pissed than she was.

Later, she wouldn't remember what happened next. Not exactly and not in sequence. She saw Robert Isbister, big as a bear, standing outside The Lounge, a red tin in his hand, looking out at them all. Perhaps she'd been looking out for him. She saw herself sauntering up to him in rhythm to the music, hips swaying, almost dancing. Standing in front of him, not speaking, but flirting all the same.

Oh certainly flirting, she was sure of that. She put her hand on his wrist, didn't she? And stroked the fine golden hair on his arm as if he was an animal. She'd never have done that if she'd been sober. She'd never have had the nerve to approach him at all, though she'd been dreaming of this for weeks, imagining every detail. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows although it was so cold and he wore a wristwatch with a gold bracelet. She'd remember that. It would stick in her head. Perhaps it wasn't real gold, but with Robert Isbister, who could tell?

Then Catherine was there, saying she'd wangled them a lift home, as far as the Ravenswick turning, at least. Sally was all for staying, but Catherine must have persuaded her because she found herself in the back of a car. It was like her dream too, because suddenly Robert was there too, sitting next to her, so close that she could feel the denim of his jeans against her leg and his bare forearm on the back of her neck. She could smell the beer on his breath. It made her feel sick, but she knew she couldn't allow herself to throw up. Not in front of Robert Isbister.

Another couple was crushed into the back of the car with them. She thought she recognized them both. The lad was from South Mainland somewhere and was away in college in Aberdeen. The girl? She stayed in Lerwick and was a nurse in the Gilbert Bain. They were devouring each other.

The girl was underneath, the lad lying on top of her, nibbling at her lips and her neck and her earlobes, then opening his mouth wide as if he intended to swallow her piece by piece. When Sally turned back to Robert, he kissed her, but slowly and gently, not like the wolf from Red Riding Hood. Sally didn't feel that she was being eaten up at all.

Sally couldn't see much of the lad who was driving. She was directly behind the driver's seat and all she could make out was a head and a pair of shoulders clad in a parka. He didn't talk, either to her or to Catherine who was sitting beside him.

Perhaps he was pissed off about giving them a lift. Sally was going to chat to him, just to be friendly, but then Robert kissed her again and that took up all her attention. There was no music playing in the car, no noise at all except for the engine which sounded really rough and the slobbering of the couple squashed beside her.

'Stop!' That was Catherine. It wasn't loud, but coming out of the silence it shocked them all. Her English voice jarred on Sally's ears. 'Stop here. This is where Sally and me get out. Unless you want to give us a lift down to the school!

'No way, man! The student broke away from the nurse just long enough to comment. 'We're missing the party as it is!

'Come with us: Robert said. 'Come on to the party!

His invitation was seductive and meant for Sally, but Catherine answered. 'No, we can't. Sally's supposed to have been at our house. She wasn't allowed into town. If we're not back soon, her parents will come looking!

Sally resented Catherine speaking for her, but knew she was right. She mustn't blow it now. If her mother found out where she'd been, she'd go ape. Her father was reasonable left to himself, but her mother was crazy. The spell was broken and it was back to the real world. She untangled herself from Robert, climbed over him and out of the car.

The cold took her breath away, made her feel light-headed and euphoric as if she'd had another drink. She and Catherine stood side by side and watched the taillights of the car disappear.

'Bastards,' Catherine said, with so much venom that Sally wondered if something had gone on between her and the driver. 'They could have given us a lift! She felt in her pocket, brought out a thin torch and shone it on the path ahead of them. That was Catherine for you. Always prepared.

'Still,' Sally felt a soppy smile spread over her face, 'it was a good night. A fucking good night! As she slung her bag over her shoulder something heavy banged against her hip. She brought out a bottle of wine, opened, with a cork stuck in the top. Where had that come from? She didn't even have a fuzzy memory. She showed it to Catherine in an attempt to lift her gloom. 'Look. Something to keep us going on the way home!

They giggled and stumbled down the icy road.

The square of light seemed to come from nowhere and surprised them. 'Where the shit are we? We can't be back yet! For the first time Catherine seemed anxious, less sure of herself, disorientated.

'It's Hillhead. The house at the top of the bank! 'Does anyone live there? I thought it was empty!

'It belongs to an old man,' Sally said. 'Magnus Tait.

He's daft in the head, so they say. A recluse. We were always taught to stay away from him!

Catherine wasn't frightened now. Or perhaps it was just bravado. 'But he's there, all alone. We should go in and wish him happy new year!

'I've told you. He's soft in the head!

'You're scared,' Catherine said, almost a whisper. I am, shit-scared, and I don't know why. 'Don't be dumb!

'I dare you! Catherine reached into Sally's bag for the bottle. She took a swig, replaced the cork and handed it back.

Sally stamped her feet to show how ridiculous this was, standing out in the cold. 'We should get back. Like you said, my folks will be waiting!

'We can just say we've been first-footing the neighbours. Go on. I dare you!

'Not on my own!

'All right. We'll both go: Sally couldn't tell if this was what Catherine had intended from the beginning, or if she'd boxed herself into a position she couldn't escape from with her pride intact.

The house was set back from the road. There was no real path. As they approached Catherine shone her torch towards it and the beam hit the grey slate roof, then the pile of peats to one side of the porch. They could smell the smoke coming out of the chimney. The green paint on the porch door rose in scabs over bare wood.

'Go on then,' Catherine said. 'Knock!

Sally knocked tentatively. 'Perhaps he's in bed, just left the light on!

'He's not. I can see him in there! Catherine went into the porch and thumped with her fist on the inner door. She's wild, Sally thought. She doesn't know what she's messing with. This whole thing's crazy. She wanted to run away, back to her boring and sensible parents, but before she could move there was a sound from inside and Catherine had the door open and they stumbled together into the room, blinking and blind in the sudden light.

The old man was coming towards them and Sally stared at him. She knew she was doing it but couldn't stop herself.

She'd only seen him before at a distance. Her mother, usually so charitable in her dealings with the elderly neighbours, usually so Christian in her offers to go shopping, to provide broth and baking, had avoided any contact with Magnus Tait.

Sally had been hurried past the house when he was outside. 'You must never go there,' her mother had said when she was a child. 'He's a nasty man. It's not a safe place for little girls! So the croft had held a fascination for her. She had looked across at it on her way to and from the town. She had glimpsed his back bent over the sheep he was clipping, seen his silhouette against the sun as he stood outside the house looking down to the road. Now, this close, it was like coming face to face with a character from a fairy tale.

He stared back at her and she thought he really was like something from a picture book. A troll, she thought suddenly. That's what he looked like, with his stumpy legs and his short, thick body, slightly hunchbacked, his slot-shaped mouth with the teeth jumbled and yellow inside. She'd never liked the story of the Billy Goats Gruff.

When she was very small she'd been terrified to cross the bridge across the burn to get to her house. She'd imagined the troll living underneath, his eyes fiery red, his back bent as he prepared to charge her.

Now she wondered if Catherine still had her camera with her. The old man would make some picture.

Magnus looked at the girls with rheumy eyes which seemed not quite to focus. 'Come in,' he said. 'Come in! And he pulled his lips away from his teeth to smile. ,.

Sally found herself chattering. That was what happened when she was nervous. The words spilled out of her mouth and she didn't have an idea what she was saying. Magnus shut the door behind them, then stood in front of it, blocking the only way out. He offered them whisky but she knew better than to accept that. What might he have put into it? She pulled the bottle of wine from her bag, smiled to appease him and carried on talking.

She made a move to stand up, but the man had a knife, long and pointed with a black handle. He was using it to cut a cake which had been standing on the table.

'We should go,' she said. 'Really, my parents will be wondering!

But they seemed not to hear her and she watched in horror as Catherine reached out and took a piece of cake and slipped it into her mouth. Sally could see the crumbs on her friend's lips and between her teeth. The old man stood above them with the knife in his hand.

Sally saw the bird in the cage when she was looking round for a way out.

'What’s that?' she asked abruptly. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them.

'It's a raven! He stood quite still, watching her, then he set the knife carefully on the table.

'Isn't it cruel, keeping it locked up like that?'

'It had a broken wing. It wouldn't fly even if I let it go!

But Sally didn't listen to the old man's explanations. She thought he meant to keep them in the house; to lock them in like the black bird with its cruel beak and its injured wing.

And then Catherine was on her feet, dusting the cake crumbs from her hands. Sally followed her. Catherine walked up to the old man so she was close enough to touch him. She was taller than him and looked down on him. For an awful moment Sally was afraid that she intended to kiss his cheek. If Catherine did that she would be obliged to do it too. Because this was all part of the same dare, wasn't it? At least that was how it seemed to Sally. Since they had come to the house, everything had been a challenge. Magnus hadn't shaved properly. Hard, grey spines grew in the creases in his cheeks. His teeth were yellow and covered in saliva. Sally thought she would rather die than touch him.

But the moment passed and they were outside, laughing so loud that Sally thought she would piss herself, or that they would collapse together into a heap of snow. When their eyes got used to the dark again they didn't need the torch to show them down the road. There was a near-full moon now and they knew the way home.

Catherine's house was quiet. Her father didn't believe in new year celebrations and had gone to bed early.

'Will you come in?' Catherine asked.

'Best not! Sally knew that was the answer she was supposed to give. Sometimes she could never tell what Catherine was thinking. Sometimes she knew exactly. Now she knew Catherine didn't want her going in.

'I'd better take that bottle from you. Hide the evidence!

'Aye!

'I'll stand here, watch you to your house,' Catherine said.

'No need!

But she stood, leaning against the garden wall and watched. When Sally turned back she was still there.

If he'd had the chance, Magnus would have liked to explain to the girls about ravens. There were ravens on his land, always had been, since he was a peerie boy, and he'd watched them. Sometimes it was as if they were playing. You could see them in the sky wheeling and turning, like children chasing each other in a game, then they'd fold up their wings and fall out of the sky.

Magnus could feel how exciting that must be, the wind rushing past, the speed of the dive. Then they'd fly out of the fall and their calls sounded like laughter. Once he'd seen the ravens in the snow sliding down the bank to the road on their backs, one after another, just as the boys from the post office did on their toboggans until their mother shouted them away from his house.

But other times ravens were the cruellest birds. He'd seen them peck the eyes from a new sickly lamb. The ewe, shrieking with pain and anger, hadn't scared them away. Magnus hadn't scared the birds off either. He'd made no attempt. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off them, as they prodded and ripped, paddling their talons in the blood.

In the week after new year he thought about Sally and Catherine all the time. He saw them in his head when he woke up in the morning, and dozing in his chair by the fire late at night he dreamed of them. He wondered when they would come back. He couldn't believe that they would ever return but he couldn't bear the idea that he would never talk to them again. And all that week the islands remained frozen and covered in snow. There were blizzards so fierce that he couldn't see the track from his window. The snowflakes were very fine and when the wind caught them they twisted and spiralled like smoke. Then the wind would drop to nothing and the sun would come out and the reflected light burnt his eyes, so he had to squint to see the world outside his house. He saw the blue ice on the voe, the snowplough cutting a way down from the main road, the post van, but he didn't see the beautiful young women.

Once he did catch a glimpse of Mrs Henry, Sally's mother, the schoolteacher. He saw her come out of the schoolhouse door. She had fat fur-lined boots on her feet. A pink jacket on, with the hood pulled up. She was a lot younger than Magnus, but she dressed like an old woman, he thought.

Like a woman who didn't care what she looked like, at least. She was very small and moved in a busy way, scuttling as if time was important to her. Watching her, he was suddenly scared that she intended to come to him. He thought she had found out that Sally had been in the house at new year. He imagined her making a scene, shouting, her face thrust so close to his that he'd smell her breath, feel the spit as she screamed at him. Don't you dare go near my daughter. For a moment he was confused. Was that scene imagination or memory? But she didn't come up the hill towards his house. She walked away.

On the third day he had run out of bread and milk, oatcakes and the chocolate biscuits he liked with his tea. He took the bus into Lerwick. He didn't like leaving the house. The girls might come when he was out. He imagined them climbing the bank, laughing and slipping, knocking at the door and finding no one at home. The worst thing was that he would never know that they had been. The snow was packed so hard there that they would leave no footprints.

He recognized many of the other passengers on the bus. Some of them he had been to school with. There was Florence who had cooked in the Skillig Hotel before she retired. They had been pals of a kind when they were young. She had been a pretty girl and a fine dancer. There'd been one dance in the hall at Sandwick. The Eunson boys had been playing and there'd been a reel when the music had gone faster and faster and Florence had stumbled.

Magnus had caught her in his arms, held on to her for a moment until she'd run off laughing to the other girls.

Further down the bus was Georgie Sanderson, who'd hurt his leg in an accident and had had to give up the fishing.

But Magnus chose a seat on his own and none of them spoke to him or even acknowledged his presence. That was how it always was. Habit. They probably didn't even see him. The driver had turned the heat full on. Hot air blew from under the seats and melted the snow on everyone's boots until water trickled down the central aisle, backwards and forwards depending on whether the bus was going up or downhill. The windows were covered in condensation, so he only knew it was time to get out because everyone else did.

Lerwick was a noisy place now. When he was growing up he'd known everyone he met in the street. Recently even in the winter it was full of strangers and cars. In the summer it was worse. Then there were tourists. They came off the overnight ferry from Aberdeen, blinking and staring, as if they'd arrived at a zoo or a different planet, maybe, turning their heads from one direction to another looking all around them.

Sometimes huge cruise ships slid into the harbour and sat there, towering over the buildings. For an hour their passengers would take over the town. It was an invasion. They had eager faces and braying voices, but Magnus sensed they were disappointed by what they found there, as if the place had failed to live up to their expectations.

They had paid a lot of money for their cruise and felt cheated. Perhaps Lerwick wasn't so different after all from the places they had come from.

This morning he avoided the centre and got off the bus at the supermarket on the edge of the town. Clickimin Loch was frozen and two whooper swans circled it searching for a patch of open water to land. A jogger ran along the path towards the sports centre. Usually Magnus enjoyed the supermarket. He liked the bright lights and the coloured notices. He marvelled at the wide aisles and the full shelves. Nobody bothered him there, nobody knew him.

Occasionally the woman on the checkout was friendly, commenting on his purchases. And he'd smile back and remember what it was like when everyone greeted him in a friendly way. After completing his shopping he would go to the cafe and treat himself to a mug of milky coffee and something sweet - a pastry with apricots and vanilla or a slice of chocolate cake, so sticky that he had to eat it with a spoon.

Today he was in a hurry. There was no time for coffee. He wanted to get the first bus home. He stood at the stop with two carrier bags at his feet. Although the sun was shining there was a flurry of snow, fine like icing sugar. It settled on his jacket and on his hair. This time he had the bus to himself. He took a seat near the back.

Catherine got on twenty minutes later when they were halfway to his home. At first he didn't see her. He'd rubbed a clear circle in the mist on the window and was looking out. He was aware of the bus stopping but was lost in his dreams. Then something made him turn round. Perhaps it was her voice when she asked for her ticket, though he hadn't consciously heard it. He thought it was her perfume, the smell she'd brought with her into his house on New Year's Day, but it couldn't be, could it? He wouldn't smell her from the front of the bus. He lifted his nose into the air but all that reached him then was diesel and wet wool.

He didn't expect her to acknowledge him. There was enough excitement in seeing her. He had liked both the girls, but Catherine had been the one who fascinated him more. She had the same blue streaks in her hair, but was wearing a long coat, a big grey coat which reached almost to her ankles and which was wet and slightly muddy at the hem.

Her scarf was hand knitted, bright red, red as new blood. She looked tired and he wondered who she could have been visiting. She slumped on the front seat without noticing him, too exhausted, it seemed, to walk further up the bus.

He couldn't quite see from where he was sitting, but he thought she had her eyes closed.

She got out at his stop. He stood back to let her out first and still, it seemed, she wouldn't recognize him. How could he blame her? All old men would look alike to her, just as all tourists did to him. But she stood at the bottom of the steps and turned and saw him. She smiled slowly and held out her hand to help him down. She was wearing woollen gloves so he couldn't feel her skin against his but the contact gave him a thrill all the same. He was surprised by his body's response to her, hoped she didn't sense his excitement.

'Hello,' she said, in her black treacle voice. 'I'm sorry about the other night. I hope we didn't disturb you.'

'Not at all.' His voice was breathless with nervousness. 'I was glad that you came by.'

She grinned at him as if he'd said something to amuse her.

They walked on for a few steps in silence. He wished he knew what to say to her. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as it did when he'd worked too long singling turnips, bent over the hoe in the field in the sun, when the breath came in pants.

'We're back at school tomorrow,' she said suddenly.

'It's the end of the holidays.'

'Do you like school?' he asked.

'Not really. It's a bore.'

He didn't know how to answer that. 'I didn't like school either: he said after a while, then he added for something to say, 'Where have you been this morning?'

'Not this morning. Last night. I stayed with a friend. There was a party. I got a lift to the bus stop!

'Sally didn't come with you?'

'No, she wasn't allowed. Her parents are very strict!

'Was it a good party?' he asked, genuinely interested. He'd never gone much to parties.

'Oh,' she said. 'You know. . !

He thought she might have had more to say. He even had the sense that she might tell him something secret. They had reached the place where he would have to turn to climb the bank to his house and they stopped walking. He waited for her to continue speaking, but she just stood.

There was no colour on her eyes this morning, though they were still lined with black, which looked smudged and dirty as if it had been there all night. At last he was forced to break the silence.

‘Won't you come in?' he asked. 'Take a dram with me to keep out the cold. Or some tea?'

He didn't for a minute think she would agree. She was a well brought-up child. That was obvious. She would have been taught not to go alone into the house of a stranger. She looked at him, weighing up the idea.

'It's a bit early for a dram,' she said.

'Tea then?' He felt his mouth spread into that daft grin which had always annoyed his mother. 'We'll have some tea and chocolate biscuits!

He started up the path to the house, quite confident, knowing she would follow.

He never locked his door, but he opened it for her and stood aside to let her in first. As he waited for her to stamp her boots on the mat he looked around him. Everything was quiet outside. No one was around to see. No one knew he had this beautiful creature to visit him. She was his treasure, the raven in his cage.

Fran Hunter had a car but she didn't like using it for short trips. She cared about global warming and wanted to do her bit. She had a bike with a seat on the back for Cassie, had brought it with her on the Northlink ferry when she moved. She prided herself on travelling light and it had been the only bulky item in her luggage. In this weather though a bike was no good.

Today she wrapped Cassie up in her dungarees and coat and the wellingtons with the green frogs on the front and pulled her to school on a sledge. It was January 5th, the first day of the new school term. When they set off it was hardly light. Fran knew Mrs Henry already disapproved of her and didn't want to be late. She didn't need more knowing looks and raised eyebrows, the other mothers talking about her behind her back. It was hard enough for Cassie to fit in.

Fran rented a small house just off the road into Lerwick. It stood next to a stern brick chapel, and was low and unassuming in comparison. There were three rooms, with a basic bathroom built more recently on the back. They lived in the kitchen, which was much as it had been since the house had been built. It had a range where they burned the coal brought every month in a lorry from the town. There was an electric cooker too, but Fran liked the idea of the range.

She was a romantic. The house had no land now, though once it must have been attached to a croft. In the season it became a holiday let and by Easter Fran would have to make a decision about her and Cassie's future. The landlord had hinted that he might be prepared to sell. She was already coming to think of it as home and a place to work. Her bedroom had two big skylights and a view to Raven Head. It would do as a studio.

In the grey dawn Cassie chattered and Fran responded automatically, but her thoughts were elsewhere. .

As they rounded the bank near Hillhead, the sun was rising, throwing long shadows across the snow, and Fran stopped to look at the view. She could see across the water to the headland beyond. It had been right to come back, she thought. This was the best place to bring up a child. Until that moment she hadn't realized how unsure she had been about the decision. She was so good at playing the part of aggressive single mother that she'd almost come to believe it.

Cassie was five and as assertive as her mother. Fran had taught her to read before she started school and Mrs Henry had disapproved of that too. The child could be loud and opinionated and there were times when even Fran wondered, despising herself for the dreadful suspicion, if she had created a precocious monster.

'It would be nice; Mrs Henry said frostily at the first parents' evening, 'if occasionally Cassie did as she was told first time. Without needing a detailed explanation of why I'd asked her to do it: Fran, expecting to be told that her daughter was a genius, a delight to teach, had been mortified. She had hidden her disappointment with a spirited defence of her philosophy of child rearing. Children should have the confidence to make their own choices, to challenge authority, she'd said. The last thing she wanted was a child who was a meek conformer.

Mrs Henry had listened.

'It must be hard: she had said when Fran ran out of steam, 'to bring up a child on your own!

Now Cassie, perched on the sledge like a Russian princess, was beginning to get restive.

'What is it?' she demanded. 'Why have you stopped?'

Fran's attention had been caught by contrasting colours, the possibility for a painting, but she pulled the rope and continued. She, like the teacher, was at the whim of Cassie's imperious demands. At the top of the bank she stopped and climbed on to the back of the sledge. She wrapped her legs around her daughter's body and held a loop of rope firmly in each hand. Then she dug her heels into the snow and launched the sledge down the hill.

Cassie shrieked with fear and excitement. They bounced over the icy ruts and picked up speed as they reached the bottom. The cold and the sunlight burned Fran's face. She tugged on the left-hand rope to guide them into a soft snowdrift piled against the playground wall. Nothing, she thought, will compare with this. This is about as good as it gets.

For once they were early. Fran had remembered Cassie's library book, her packed lunch and a change of shoes. Fran took Cassie into the cloakroom, sat her on the bench and pulled off the wellingtons. Mrs Henry was in the classroom, sticking a series of numbers on to the wall. She was perched on her desk but still found it hard to reach.

She was wearing trousers of some man-made fibre, slightly shiny, puckered at the knees, and a cardigan, machine knitted, with a vaguely Norwegian pattern. Fran noticed clothes. She had worked as assistant fashion editor on a woman's magazine after leaving university. Mrs Henry was ripe for a makeover.

'Could I help you?' She felt ridiculously afraid of being rejected. She'd managed photographers who could make grown men cry, but Mrs Henry made her feel like a nervy six-year-old. Usually she arrived at school just before the bell. Mrs Henry was already surrounded by parents and seemed to be on personal terms with them all.

Mrs Henry turned round, seemed surprised to see her. 'Would you? That would be kind. Cassie, come and sit on the mat, find a book to look at and wait for the others!

Cassie, inexplicably, did just as she was told.

On the way back up the hill dragging the sledge behind her, Fran told herself it was pathetic to be so pleased. Was it such a big deal? She didn't even believe in learning by rote, for Christ's sake. If they'd stayed south she'd have considered Cassie for a Steiner school. Yet here she was, thrilled to bits because she'd stuck the two-times table on the classroom wall. And Margaret Henry had smiled at her and called her by her first name.

There was no sign of the old man who lived in Hillhead. Sometimes when they were going past he came out to greet them. He didn't often speak. Usually it was just a wave and once he'd thrust a sweetie in Cassie's hand. Fran didn't like Cassie having sweets - sugar was nothing but wasted calories and think of the tooth decay - but he'd seemed so shy and eager that she'd thanked him. Then Cassie had thrust the slightly dusty striped humbug into her mouth, knowing Fran wouldn't stop her in front of the old man and Fran could hardly ask her to spit it out after he'd gone back inside.

She stopped there to look down at the water again, hoping to recreate the image she'd seen on the way to the school.

It was the colours which had caught her attention. Often the colours on the islands were subtle, olive green, mud brown, sea grey and all softened by mist. In the full sunlight of early morning, this picture was stark and vibrant.

The harsh white of the snow. Three shapes, silhouetted. Ravens.

In her painting they would be angular shapes, cubist almost. Birds roughly carved from hard black wood. And then that splash of colour. Red, reflecting the scarlet ball of the sun.

She left the sledge at the side of the track and crossed the field to see the scene more closely. There was a gate from the road.

The snow stopped her pushing it open so she climbed it. A stone wall split the field in two, but in places it had collapsed and there was a gap big enough for a tractor to get through. As she grew nearer the perspective shifted, but that didn't bother her. She had the painting fixed firmly in her mind. She expected the ravens to fly off!

had even been hoping to see them in flight. The sight of them aloft, the wedge-shaped tail tilted to hold each steady, would inform her image of them on the ground.

Her concentration was so fierce, and everything seemed unreal here, surrounded by the reflected light which made her head swim, that she walked right up to the sight before realizing exactly what she was seeing. Until then everything was just form and colour. Then the vivid red turned into a scarf. The grey coat and the white flesh merged into the background of the snow which wasn't so clean here. The ravens were pecking at a girl's face. One of the eyes had disappeared.

Fran recognized the young woman, even in this altered, degraded state. The birds had fluttered away briefly as she approached but now, as she stood motionless, watching, they returned. Suddenly she screamed, so loudly that she could feel the strain in the back of her throat and clapped her hands to send the birds circling into the sky. But she couldn't move from the spot.

It was Catherine Ross. There was a red scarf tight round her neck, the fringe spread out like blood on the snow.

Magnus watched from his window. He had been there since first light, before that even. He hadn't been able to sleep.

He saw the woman go past, dragging the little girl on the sledge behind her and felt the stirrings of envy. He had grown up in a different time, he thought. Mothers had not behaved that way with their children when he was a boy.

There had been little time for play.

He had noticed the little girl before, had followed the two of them up the road on one occasion to see where they were staying. It had been in October because he'd been thinking of the old days, when they used to go guising for Hallowe'en in masks, carrying neepy lanterns. He thought a lot about the old days. The memories clouded his thoughts and confused him.

The woman and the girl lived in that house where the tourists came in the summer, where the minister and his wife once stayed. He had watched for a while, though they hadn't seen him looking through the window. He had been too clever to get caught and besides, he hadn't wanted to frighten them. That was never his intention. The child had sat at the table drawing on big sheets of coloured paper with fat crayons. The woman had been drawing too, in charcoal with quick fierce strokes, standing next to her daughter, leaning across her to reach the paper. He'd wished he'd been close enough to see the picture. Once she'd pushed her hair away from her face and left a mark like soot on her cheek.

He thought now how pretty the little girl was. She had round cheeks, red from the cold, and golden curls. He wished the mother would dress her differently though. He would like to see her in a skirt, a pink skirt made of satin and lace, little white socks and buckled shoes. He would like to see her dance. But even in trousers and boots, there was no mistaking her for a boy.

He couldn't see down the brow of the hill to where Catherine Ross lay in the snow. He turned away from the window to brew tea, then took his cup back with him and waited. He had nothing to get on with. Nothing urgent. He had been out the night before with hay for the croft sheep. He had few animals on the hill now. On these freezing days when the ground was hard and covered with snow, there was little else for him to do outside.

The devil makes work for idle hands. The memory of his mother saying those words was so sharp that he almost turned round, expecting to see her sitting in the chair by the fire, the belt filled with horsehair round her waist, one needle stuck into it, held firm, while the other flew. She could knit a pair of stockings in an afternoon, a plain jersey in a week. She was known as the best knitter in the south, though she'd never enjoyed doing the fancy Fair Isle patterns. What point is there in that? she'd say, putting the stress on the last word so she'd almost spit it out. Will it keep dee any warmer?

He wondered what other work the devil might find for him.

The mother came back from the school, pulling the empty sledge behind her. He watched her from right at the bottom of the hill, leaning forward, trudging like a man. She stopped just below his house and looked back across the voe. He could tell that something had caught her attention. He wondered if he should go out and call her in. If she was cold she might be distracted by the thought of tea. She might be tempted by the fire and the biscuits. He still had some left and there was a slice of ginger cake in the tin.

He wondered briefly if she baked for her daughter. Probably not, he decided. That would be another thing to have changed. Why would anyone go to all that trouble now? The beating of sugar and marge in the big bowl, turning the spoon as it came out of the tin of black treacle. Why would you bother with that, when there was Safeway's in Lerwick, selling pastries with apricot and almond and ginger cake every bit as good as the one his mother had baked?

Because he'd been preoccupied with thoughts about baking, he missed the moment when he could have invited the woman into the house. She'd already wandered away from the road. There was nothing he could do now. He could just see her head - she was wearing a hat, a strange knitted bonnet - as she slid down the dip in the field, then she was lost to view altogether. He saw the three ravens, scattering as if they'd been shot at, but he was too far away to hear the woman screaming.

Once she'd disappeared from view he forgot about her. She wasn't important enough to feature as a picture in his head.

The teacher's man drove up the road in his Land Rover. Magnus recognized him but had never spoken to him. It was unusual for him to be so late, leaving home. Usually he left the schoolhouse early in the morning and returned after dark.

Perhaps the snow had altered his plans.

Magnus knew the movements of everyone in the valley. There had been nothing else to take his interest since the death of his mother. From overheard gossip in the post office and the bus, he had learned that Alex Henry worked for the Islands Council. He was something to do with the wildlife. Magnus had heard the men complaining. A local man should know better, they said. Who did Henry think he was, laying down the law to them?

They blamed the seals for taking fish and thought they should be allowed to shoot them. They said people like Henry cared more for animals than men's livelihoods. Magnus liked to see the seals - he thought there was something friendly and comical about the way they stuck their heads out of the water - but then he'd never gone to the fishing. The seals made no difference to him.

When the car stopped, Magnus had a repeat of the panic he'd experienced when he'd seen Margaret Henry. Perhaps Sally had talked. Perhaps the father was here to complain about Magnus taking the girls into the house. He thought Henry had even more to be angry about now. The man was frowning as he climbed down from the car. He was middle-aged, big, thickset. He wore a Barbour jacket, which was tight across his shoulders, heavy leather boots. If there was a fight, Magnus wouldn't stand a chance.

Magnus moved away from the window so he couldn't be seen, but Henry didn't even look in his direction. He climbed over the gate and followed the line of footsteps made by the woman. Now Magnus was interested. He would have liked a view of the scene which was being played out at the bottom of the hill. If it had just been the woman he would have gone out to look. He thought she must have waved at the teacher's husband, called for him to stop his car.

And then just as he was imagining what might be happening, the young mother came back, stumbling slightly as she reached the road. He could tell she was upset. She had a dazed and frozen look which Magnus had seen before.

Georgie Sanderson had looked like that when he'd had to give up his boat and his mother had been the same way after the death of Agnes. She hadn't been frozen when Magnus's father had died. Then, it had seemed that life would carry on as normal. It’ll just be you and me now, Magnus. You’ll have to be a big boy for your mother. She had spoken briskly, even cheerfully. There had been no tears.

Magnus thought now that the woman had cried, though it was hard to tell. Sometimes the cold wind brought tears to your eyes. She got into the driver's seat of the Land Rover and started the engine, but the car didn't move off. Again he wondered if he should go out to her. He could tap on the windscreen - she wouldn't hear him approaching over the sound of the diesel engine and the windows had steamed up so she wouldn't see him. He could ask her what had happened. Once she was in the house, he could suggest that she might like to come back for a visit with the little girl.

He began to plan what he might get for the girl to eat and drink. Those round little biscuits with the pink sugar icing, chocolate fingers. It would be quite a tea party with the three of them. And there was still a doll in the back which had once belonged to Agnes. The fair-haired child might like to play with it. He couldn't give it her to keep, that wouldn't be right. He had kept all the toys which had belonged to Agnes. But he couldn't see there would be any harm in her holding it and tying a ribbon into its hair.

His dreams were interrupted by the sound of an engine. It was another Land Rover, this time a navy blue one - and it was driven by a man in a uniform. The sight of the heavy waterproof jacket, the tie, the cap which the man put on his head when he got out of the vehicle, threw Magnus into a panic. He remembered the last time. He was back in the small room with the shiny gloss paint on the walls, he heard the furious questions, saw the open mouth and the fat lips. There had been two of them wearing uniforms then. They had come to the house for him early in the morning. His mother had wanted to come with them, had hurried away to find her coat, but they'd said there was no need.

That had been later in the year, not so cold, but damp, a squally westerly full of rain.

Had only one of them spoken? He could only remember the one.

The memory made him shake so violently that the cup rattled in the saucer he was holding. He could feel his mouth form the grin his mother had hated so much, the grin which had been his only defence to the questions and which had irritated his interrogator beyond endurance.

'Is it funny?' the man had shouted. 'A young lass missing. You think that's a joke? Do you?'

Magnus hadn't thought it a joke, but the grin stuck, petrified. There had been nothing he could do about it. Neither could he reply.

'Well?' the man had screamed. 'What are you laughing at, pervert?' Then he had lifted himself slowly to his feet and while Magnus watched confused, as if he was nothing but an observer, he'd drawn his hand into a fist and smashed it down on Magnus's face, forcing back his head with a jolt that rocked the chair. There was blood in his mouth and chips of broken tooth. The man would have hit him again if he hadn't been stopped by his partner.

Now Magnus thought that blood tasted of metal and ice. He realized he was still holding the saucer and set it carefully on the table. He knew it couldn't be the same policeman. That had been years ago. That policeman would be middle-aged by now, retired maybe. He returned tentatively to the window, resisting the first impulse, which had been to hide in the back room with his eyes shut. When he had been a boy he had imagined that if he shut his eyes, nobody could see him. His mother had been right. He had been a very foolish child. If he shut his eyes now, the policeman would still be there, outside his house, the ravens would still be in the sky, tumbling and calling, their claws stained with blood. Catherine Ross would still be lying in the snow.

Alex Henry had sent her back to sit in the Land Rover. She'd still been screaming when he came up to her about the birds. She couldn't leave Catherine there with the birds.

'I won't let them back,' he'd said. 'I promise.'

For a while she sat upright in the front seat of the Land Rover, remembering Catherine as she'd last seen her. There'd been a PTA meeting, the AGM, and Fran had asked Catherine to babysit. Fran had given her a glass of wine and they'd chatted before she'd gone down to the school. Catherine had a poise and confidence which made her seem older than she really was.

'How have you settled into Anderson High?' Fran had asked.

There'd been a brief pause, a slight frown before Catherine had answered. 'Fine.'

Despite the difference in their ages Fran had hoped they might become friends. There weren't that many young women in Ravenswick after all. Now it was sweltering in the Land Rover. The heater was pumping out hot air. Fran shut her eyes to push out the picture of the girl in the snow. She fell suddenly and deeply asleep. A reaction to the shock, she thought later. It was as if a fuse had blown. She needed to escape.

When she opened her eyes, the scene around her had changed. She had been aware of car doors banging and voices but put off the return to full consciousness for as long as possible. Now she saw there was drama, a show of brisk efficiency.

'Mrs Hunter! Someone was knocking on the window of Alex Henry's Land Rover. 'Are you all right, Mrs Hunter?'

She saw the face of a man, the impressionist image of a face, blurred by the mist and muck on the glass, wild black hair and a strong hooked nose, black eyebrows. A foreigner, she thought. Someone even more foreign than me.

From the Mediterranean perhaps, North Africa even. Then he spoke again and she could tell he was a Shetlander, though the accent had been tamed and educated.

She opened the door slowly and climbed out. The cold hit her.

'Mrs Hunter?' he said again. She wondered how he knew her name. Could he be an old friend of Duncan's? Then she thought that Alex Henry would have told the police who had found Catherine when he phoned them. Of course he would. This wasn't a time for paranoia.

'Yes! Even here, seeing him in the clear, there was something unformed about his face. There were no sharp lines. A stubble of beard broke the silhouette of the chin, his hair was slightly too long for a police officer, not brushed surely, and it was a face which was never still. He wasn't wearing uniform. Underneath the heavy jacket, she knew the clothes would be untidy too.

'My name's Perez: he said. 'Inspector. Are you ready to answer some questions?'

Perez? Wasn't that Spanish? It was a very odd name, she thought, for a Shetlander. But then, he seemed a very odd man. Her attention began to wander again. Since seeing Catherine lying in the snow, it had been impossible to focus on anything.

They were stringing blue and white crime-scene tape, to block the gap in the wall where she had walked down the hill after stopping on her way back from school. Was the girl still lying there? She had the ridiculous notion that Catherine must be freezing. She hoped someone had thought to bring a blanket to cover her.

Perez must have asked her another question, because he was looking at her, obviously waiting for an answer.

'I'm sorry: she said. 'I don't know what's wrong with me!

'Shock. It'll pass! He looked at her, as she might once have looked at a model during a photo shoot. Appraising, dispassionate. 'Come on. Let's get you home!

He knew where she lived, drove her there without asking, took her keys and opened the door for her. 'Would you like tea?' she said. 'Coffee?'

'Coffee’: he said. 'Why not?'

'Shouldn't you be down there, looking at the body?' He smiled. 'I'd not be allowed anywhere near it. Not until the crime scene investigator is finished. We can't have more people than necessary contaminating the site!

'Has someone told Euan?' she asked.

'That's the girl's father?'

'Yes, Euan Ross. He's a teacher:

'They're doing that now.'

She moved the kettle on to the hotplate and spooned coffee into a cafetiere.

'Did you know her?' he asked.

'Catherine? She came occasionally to look after Cassie when I went out. It didn't happen often. There was a lecture in the town hall by a visiting author I enjoy. A PTA meeting at the school.

Once, Euan invited me down to his house for a meal.'

'You were friendly? You and Mr Ross?'

'Neighbourly, that's all.

Single parents often stick together. His wife had died. Cancer. She was ill for a couple of years and after her death he felt he needed a change. He'd been headmaster of a big inner-city school in Yorkshire, saw the job here advertised and applied on a whim:

'What did Catherine think about that? It would be a bit of a culture shock:

'I'm not sure. Girls that age, it's hard to tell what they're thinking:

'What age was she?'

'Sixteen. Nearly seventeen:

'And you?' he asked. 'What brought you back?' The question made her angry. How could he know that she'd lived here before?

'Is that relevant?' she demanded. 'To your enquiries?'

'You found a body. The body of a murder victim. You'll have to answer questions. Even personal questions which seem to have no relevance: He gave a little shrug to show that it was part of the system, beyond his control. 'Besides, your husband, he's a big man round here. People gossip. You can't have expected that you could slip back to Shetland unnoticed:

'He's not my husband,' she snapped. 'We divorced:

'Why did you come back?' he asked. He was sitting in the chair by the window, his crossed legs stretched in front of him. He'd taken off his boots at the door. His socks were made of thick white wool and were bobbled from washing. His jacket was hanging on the hook on the wall, next to one of Cassie's and he was wearing a crumpled red plaid shirt. He leaned back in his chair, a mug in his hand, looking out. He seemed entirely relaxed. She itched to get a large sheet of paper and a stick of charcoal to sketch him.

'I love it here,' she said. 'Because I stopped loving Duncan, it seemed contrary to deprive myself of the place. And it means that Cassie can maintain contact with her father. I enjoyed London, but it isn't a good place to bring up a child. I sold my flat there and that gave me enough to live for a while: She didn't want to tell him about her painting, the dream that it could support them, the failed relationship which had triggered the move. How she'd grown up without a father and hadn't wanted to do that to her daughter.

'Will you stay?'

'Yes,' she said. 'I think I will:

'What about Euan Ross? Has he settled?'

'I think he still finds it hard, coping without his wife:

'In what way?'

She struggled to find the words to describe the man. 'I don't know him well. It's hard to judge: 'But?'

'I think he might still be depressed. I mean, clinically depressed. He thought the move would change things, solve things. How could it, really? He's still without the woman he was married to for twenty years! She paused. Perez looked at her, expecting her to continue. 'He called in the day I arrived to introduce himself. He was very kind, charming. He brought coffee and milk, some flowers from his garden. He said we were almost neighbours.

Not quite, with Hillhead in the way, but he lived down the hill between here and the school. I'd never have realized on that first meeting that anything was wrong, that there was any sadness at all in his life. He's a very good actor. He hides his feelings very well. When he saw Cassie, he said he had a daughter too, Catherine. If ever I needed a babysitter she was always desperate for cash. That was it. He didn't mention his wife at all. Catherine told me about that, the first time she came to look after Cassie.

'When he invited me for a meal, I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, a single woman of my age, sometimes men hit on you, think you're desperate, try it on. You know what I mean. I hadn't picked up any of those signals, but sometimes you get it wrong!

'You went anyway, even though you were unsure of his motives?'

'Yeah,' she said. 'I don't have much of a life, you know. Sometimes I miss adult company. And I thought, anyway, would it be so awful? He's an attractive man, pleasant, unattached. There aren't so many of those around here!

'Was it a good night?' He smiled at her, in an encouraging, slightly teasing way. The style was fatherly, almost, though there could scarcely be any difference in their ages.

'To start with. He'd gone to a lot of effort. It's a lovely house. Do you know it? There's that new extension, all wood and glass, with wonderful views down the coast. Lots of photos of his dead wife. I mean they were everywhere, which seemed a bit spooky. I wondered what it must be like for Catherine, growing up with that. I mean, would you think you were second best, that he wished you had died instead of your mother? But then I thought everyone deals with grief in their own way. What right did I have to judge?

'We sat down to eat almost immediately. The food was mind-blowing, I mean as good as any I've had anywhere. We managed to keep the conversation going OK. I told him the story of my divorce. Kept it light and amusing. I've had plenty of practice. Pride. It's hard to admit to the world that your husband has fallen passionately in love with a woman who's almost old enough to be your mother. Plenty there to joke about. He was drinking quite heavily, but then so was I. We were both rather nervous!

She could see the scene quite clearly in her head. Although it had been dark outside he hadn't drawn the blinds, so it was as if they were a part of the night-time landscape, as if the table was set on the cliff. The room was softly lit by candles; one lamp shone on a big photograph of the dead woman, so Fran had almost believed that she was present at the meal too.

Everything was slightly elaborate - the heavy cutlery, engraved glasses, starched napkins, expensive wine. And then he started to weep. Tears ran down his cheeks. It had been silent at first. She hadn't known how to react so she'd continued eating. The food after all was very good. She'd thought that given a little time, he might pull himself together. But then he began to sob, embarrassing, choking sobs, wiping the snot and the tears on one of the pristine napkins, and pretence had been impossible. She'd got up and put her arms around him, as she might have done if Cassie had woken suddenly from a bad dream.

'He couldn't hack it,' she told the detective now. 'He broke down. He wasn't ready for entertaining.' The enormity of the tragedy of Catherine's death suddenly hit her. 'Oh God, and now he's lost his daughter too.' It'll push him over the edge, she thought. No one will be able to save him now.

'How did they get on?' Perez asked. 'Did you have any sense of tension, friction? It must be hard for a man bringing up a teenage girl. Just the wrong age. They're rebellious then anyway. And they hate being different.'

'I don't think they ever argued,' Fran said. 'I can't imagine it. He was so wrapped up in his own grief that I think he just let her get on with things. I don't mean he neglected her. Not that. I'm sure they were very fond of each other.

But I can't see him making a big deal over the clothes she wore or the time she went to bed or whether or not she'd done her homework. He had other preoccupations.'

'Did she talk to you about him?'

'No. We didn't talk about anything important. I probably seemed as old as the hills to her. She always seemed very self-contained to me, but then I think most young people are like that. They never confide in adults.'

'When did you last see her?'

'To talk to? New Year's Eve, in the afternoon. I'd left a message on her mobile. There's a concert I'd like to go to in a couple of weeks' time. I asked if she'd be able to babysit. She called in to say that would be fine.'

'How did she seem?'

'Well. As animated as I'd known her. Quite forthcoming. She said she was going into Lerwick with her friend that evening to see in the new year.'

'Which friend?'

'She didn't say, but I presumed it would be Sally Henry. She lives at the school. They seem to knock around together.'

'And that was the last time you saw her?'

'To speak to , yes. But I did see her yesterday. She got off the lunchtime bus. She walked down the road with the strange old guy who lives in Hillhead.'

The police came to Magnus at the only moment that day when he wasn't looking out for them. He was in the bathroom when they knocked at the door. His mother had got Georgie Sanderson to build a bathroom at the back of the house. It was when Georgie's leg was so bad that he couldn't go to the fishing any more. A sort of favour, because he hated being idle and she would pay him for the work. Georgie was a practical kind of a man, but there would have been better people to ask. The bath had never fitted properly against the wall. The light had fused soon after Magnus's mother died and Magnus had never bothered getting it fixed. What would be the point? He shaved in the sink by the kitchen and he could see the toilet from the light in the bedroom.

He'd been aware for some time of the need to relieve himself, but he'd not been able to leave his post at the window.

More people had arrived. Constables in uniform. A tall man in a suit. An untidy chap had gone up to the young woman sitting in Henry's Land Rover and taken her away in his car.

Magnus hoped she wasn't in the room with the shiny walls in the police station. At last he hadn't been able to put off the visit to the bathroom any longer, and it was at that moment, when he was standing there, like a peerie boy, with his trousers and his pants round his ankles, because he'd been in too much of a hurry to fiddle with zips and flies, that the knock came. He was thrown into a panic.

'Just wait,' he shouted. He was in midstream. There was nothing he could do about it. 'I'll be there in just a minute.'

He finished at last and pulled on his pants and his trousers all in one go. The trousers had an elasticated waist. Now that he was decent again the panic began to subside.

When Magnus went back to the kitchen the man was still waiting outside. Magnus could see him through the window. He was standing quite patiently. He hadn't even opened the door into the porch. It was the scruffy-looking man who had driven away the young woman. He couldn't have taken her all the way into Lerwick then. Maybe just up to the house by the chapel. Magnus thought the police probably dealt differently with women.

Magnus opened the door and stared at the man. He didn't know him. He didn't live round here. He didn't look like anyone Magnus knew, so he probably didn't have relatives round here either.

'Whar's du fae?' he demanded. It was what came into his head. If he'd thought about it, he'd have used different words, as he had with the girls, so if this stranger had come from the south he would have understood. But it seemed he understood anyway.

'Fae Fair Isle: the man said, echoing the rhythm of Magnus's words. Then, after a beat, 'Originally. I trained in Aberdeen and now I'm working out of Lerwick.' He held out his hand. 'My name's Perez.'

'That's a strange kind of name for a Fair Isle man! Perez smiled but he didn't explain. Still Magnus didn't take the hand. The old man was thinking he'd never been to Fair Isle. There was no roll-on roll-off ferry even now.

The trip took three hours in the mail boat from Grutness, the harbour in the south close to the airport. He'd seen pictures once of the island. It had a big craig on its east side.

The minister who'd lived in that house next to the chapel had been preacher on Fair Isle. There'd been a slide show in the community hall and Magnus had gone with his mother. But he couldn't remember any more details.

'What like is it there?' he asked.

'I like it fine!

'Why did you leave then?'

'Oh you know. There's not an awful lot of work! Magnus saw the hand then and reached out and shook it.

'You'd best come in; he said. He looked past Perez down the bank and saw a constable in uniform staring up at him.

'Come away in; he said, more urgently.

Perez had to stoop to get through the door and once he was inside the room, he seemed to fill it.

'Sit down; Magnus said. It made him nervous, seeing this tall man towering over him. He pulled out a chair from the table and waited for Perez to take it. He'd been expecting the police to come to his house all morning and now he didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think.

'Sit down! It was the raven. It stuck its beak through the bars of the cage and repeated the words, running them into each other. 'Sitdownsitdownsitdownsit.'

Magnus took an old jersey and threw it over the cage. He was afraid the interruption would make the policeman angry. But Perez seemed only amused. 'Did you teach it to do that? I didn't know ravens could speak.'

'They're clever birds! Magnus could feel the smile appearing, could do nothing about it. He turned his head, hoping it would go away of its own free will.

'Did you see the ravens down the hill this morning?'

'They're always there; Magnus said.

'There's been a death. A young girl!

'Catherine! He couldn't help it. Like the daft grin, the words had come out despite his efforts to stop them.

Tell them nothing his mother had said. Her last words to him when the two policemen came to take him into Lerwick all that time ago. You've done nothing, so tell them nothing.

'How did you know she was dead, Magnus?' Perez was speaking very clearly and very slowly. 'How did you know it was Catherine who was on the hill?'

Magnus shook his head. Tell them nothing.

'Did you see what happened to her down there?

Did you see how she died?'

Magnus looked wildly around him.

'Perhaps you saw the ravens and wondered what had disturbed them!

'Yes; he said gratefully.

'And you went out to look?'

'Yes! Magnus nodded violently.

'Why didn't you tell the police, Magnus?'

'She was already dead. I couldn't have saved her! 'But the police should have been told!

'There's no phone in the house. How could I tell you?'

'One of your neighbours would have a phone. You could have asked them to call for you.'

'They don't speak to me.'

There was a silence. Underneath the jersey the raven scratched and scuffled.

'When did you see her?' Perez asked. 'What time was it when you went down the hill to look?'

'After the bairns had gone into school. I heard the bell as I left the house.' Magnus thought that was a clever answer.

His mother wouldn't have minded him telling that.

There was another pause while Perez wrote some words in a notebook. At last he looked up. 'How long have you lived here on your own, Magnus?'

'Since my mother died.'

'When was that?'

Magnus tried to find an answer. How many years would it have been? He couldn't guess.

'Agnes died too,' he said, so he wouldn't have to

work out the number of years in his head.

'Who was Agnes?'

'She was my sister. She caught the whooping cough. It was more bad than anyone realized. She was ten.'

He shut his mouth tight. It was none of the policeman's business.

'It must have been lonely here, after your mother died.'

Magnus didn't answer.

'You'd be glad of some company.'

Still he said nothing.

'Catherine was a friend of yours, wasn't she?'

'Yes,' Magnus said. 'A friend.'

'You met her yesterday on the bus from town.' 'She'd been to a party.'

'A party?' Perez said. 'All night? Are you sure?' Had she? That was right, wasn't it? Magnus had to think about it. He couldn't remember. She hadn't said much at all.

'She looked tired,' he said. 'She'd stayed out all night. I think she said it was a party.'

'How was she dressed?'

'Not in fancy clothes,' Magnus admitted, 'but then they don't dress up much for going out these days.'

'When you went out to look at her on the hill you'd have seen what she was wearing. Had she changed since you saw her yesterday?'

'I don't think so.' Then he wondered if he should have given a different answer, if the question had been a trick. 'I remember the red scarf.'

'Did she tell you where the party was?'

'She didn't say. She didn't notice me then. Only later when we both got off the bus together.'

'How did she seem?' Perez asked.

'Tired, I said.'

'But sad tired or happy tired?'

'She came into the house,' Magnus said suddenly.

'For tea.'

There was a silence. Magnus knew he'd made a mistake. He continued quickly, 'She wanted to take my photo. For a project. She wanted to come.'

'Did she take the photo?'

'She took several.'

'Had she been in the house before?' Perez asked.

He didn't seem troubled by what Magnus had told him. There was no fuss, no threat, no outrage.

'New Year's Eve. Catherine and Sally. They were on their way home. They saw the light and called in to wish me happy new year!

'Sally?'

'Sally Henry, the teacher's lass!

'But yesterday Catherine was on her own?'

'On her own. Yes!

'Did she stay long?'

'She took some cake,' Magnus said. 'A cup of tea! 'So she wasn't here all afternoon?'

'No. Not long!

'What time was it, when she left?'

'I can't say for sure!

Perez looked around the room. 'That's a fine clock' 'It belonged to my mother!

'It keeps good time?'

'I check it with the wireless every night!

'You'd have noticed what time the girl left, surely.

The clock, sitting there on the shelf. You'd have glanced at it when she went out. It would be automatic!

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. His thoughts seemed frozen, sluggish.

'I don't remember,' he said at last. 'Was it light when she left you?' 'Oh yes, it was still light!

'Because this time of the year, it gets dark so early. . ! Perez paused," looked towards Magnus as if expecting him to change his mind. When there was no response he continued, 'Where was she going?'

'Home!

'Did she say that was where she was going?'

'No, but that was the direction she was headed in. 'To that house halfway down the bank where the building work was done. The one with all the glass at the front. She lives there!

'Did you see her go in?'

Was that another trick? Magnus looked at the policeman. He became aware that his mouth was open and he shut it.

'It'd only be natural,' Perez said. 'You'd watch her go down the hill, wouldn't you? Nothing wrong with watching a pretty young girl anyway. But you must spend a lot of time sitting here looking at the view.

This weather, there's not much else to do!

'Yes,' Magnus said. 'I saw her go in!

They sat. The silence lasted for such a long time that Magnus wondered if that was it, if the policeman would go now and leave him alone. Suddenly he wasn't even sure that was what he wanted. 'Would you like some tea?' he asked. He frowned, imagining how it would be in the house, with the policeman gone, and only the noise of the ravens calling from the hill outside.

'Yes,' Perez said. "Tea would be fine!

Neither of them spoke until the tea was made and they were sitting together back at the table.

'Eight years ago,' Perez said, 'a girl went missing. She was younger than Catherine, but not that much younger.

Catriona, she was called. Did you know her, Magnus?'

Magnus wanted to shut his eyes to shut out the question, but knew that if he did, he'd imagine himself back in the police station with the fist pulling back from his face, the taste of blood in his mouth.

He stared into space.

'You did know her, didn't you Magnus? She came to visit you for tea too. Like Catherine. She was very bonny, I hear!

'She was never found,' Magnus said. He tried to compose the muscles in his jaw to stop the dreadful smile. He fixed his lips tight shut and remembered his mother's words. Tell them nothing.

Perez drove back to Lerwick after leaving Magnus Tait's house. He wanted to talk to Catherine's father and knew that the man was still at the high school. There might not be much he could do at this stage the man would be in shock - but it seemed respectful to introduce himself and explain the procedures. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a child.

Not really. Sarah, his wife, had had a miscarriage, and that for a while had seemed like the end of the world. He'd tried not to show how much it hurt him. He hadn't wanted Sarah to feel that he loved her any less, or blamed her for the loss of the baby. Of course it had been himself he'd blamed. Himself and the weight of his family's expectations. He'd felt that almost physically, pictured it as a crushing pressure, which made it impossible for the baby to survive. It would have been a boy. The pregnancy had been sufficiently advanced for them to know that. There would have been another Perez to carry on the family line.

Perhaps he'd played the role too skilfully. Perhaps Sarah had thought he really didn't care. Though surely she must have known him well enough to realize it was an act for her benefit. It was from the miscarriage that he charted the breakdown of his marriage. Sarah grew grey and distant. He spent more time at work. When she told him she was leaving, it was almost a relief. He couldn't bear to see her looking so miserable.

Now she was married to a GP and living somewhere in the Borders. It seemed she'd had no problems conceiving with her new partner. There were already three children and the Christmas card - it had been a very civilized divorce and they still kept in touch informed him that there was another baby on the way. He imagined her sometimes living in one of those solid country houses he'd glimpsed from the train south. He'd see her in a kitchen which looked out over woods and a meadow.

She'd be giving the kids their tea, a baby on her hip, laughing. Not being part of that seemed a sort of bereavement.

Bad enough. What must it be like for Catherine's father to lose a real child?

Euan Ross was sitting in the head teacher's office, on an easy chair, next to a round coffee table. This would be where the head would sit when he came out from behind his desk to put anxious parents or nervous students at ease. The female uniformed officer beside him looked as if she longed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Ross was an angular man in his mid-forties, greying. When he saw Perez, he reached into his pocket for a pair of spectacles. He wore dark trousers, a jacket and tie, everything smart, too smart for most of the teachers Perez had come across.

If he hadn't known, Perez would have put him down as a lawyer or accountant. There was a tea tray on the table. It was untouched and looked as if it had been there some time.

Perez introduced himself.

'I want to see my daughter,' Ross said. 'I've tried to explain how important that is.'

'Of course, But I'm afraid that will be later. No one is allowed to disturb her now. We have to preserve the crime scene.'

Ross had been sitting very upright, but now he collapsed and put his head in his hands. 'I can't believe it. Not until I see her.' He looked up. 'I was with my wife when she died. She'd been ill for months and we'd been expecting it. But even then I couldn't quite believe it. I kept expecting her to turn her head to me and smile.'

Perez didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet. 'How did Catherine die?' Ross asked. 'No one will tell me anything.' He looked at the policewoman. She pretended not to hear.

'We believe she was strangled,' Perez said. 'We'll know more when the team from Inverness arrives. They have more experience of serious crime than we do.'

'Who would want to kill her?'

He didn't seem to be expecting an answer, but Perez took advantage of the question. 'We're hoping you'll have the information to help us discover that. There isn't anyone who comes immediately to mind? A boyfriend she's recently dumped? Anyone who might be jealous, angry?'

'No. At least there might be, but I'm not the person to ask. You'd think we'd be close. There are only the two of us after all. But she didn't confide in me, Inspector. I know very little of what she got up to. We lived under the same roof, but sometimes I thought we were strangers.'

'I suppose that's how it is with teenagers,' Perez said. 'They resent their parents' prying.' Though how would I know?

I don't have children and when I was that age I was boarding out at the hostel. I'd have loved to have my parents to talk to every night. 'But you'll be able to give me the names of her friends. They'll be able to help.'

There was a moment of silence before Ross answered. 'I'm not sure Catherine was very close to anybody. She didn't need people. Liz, my wife, was very different. She had so many friends. At her funeral the church was packed, people standing at the back, people I'd never met but who felt close to her, touched by her warmth. I don't know who will come when we bury Catherine. Not many people.'

The statement almost took Perez's breath away. It seemed such a sad and chilling thing to say. He wondered if that was how it had always been. If Catherine had always been compared to Euan's wife and been found wanting.

'Didn't she hang around with Sally Henry?' he said at last.

'The teacher's daughter? Yes, she did. They came into school on the bus together. I didn't usually bring Catherine in.

I leave the house too early and get back too late for her.' He gave a little smile which made Perez at last feel some sympathy for him. 'Besides, it wouldn't have been very cool, would it? Getting a lift with your Dad? Sally was often in the house. I was pleased that Catherine had the company. I'm not sure though how close they were.'

'Had she a regular boyfriend since you moved to Shetland?'

'I don't think she's ever had a regular boyfriend,' Ross said. 'And I'm not sure I'd know about it if she had.'

Perez left him, sitting in the head's office, staring into space. He couldn't tell if it was his daughter Ross was grieving for or his wife. Outside the school he looked down at the familiar town. He'd moved back to Shetland after Sarah had left. He'd seen it as a failure, an act of running away. It had been a sort of promotion, but it wasn't real policing, was it?

That was what his colleagues in Aberdeen had said. A bit young for retirement, aren't you, Jimmy lad? After losing the baby and separating from Sarah, he hadn't really cared. The big cases hadn't excited him any more. He'd stopped caring about the glory. And now he had a big case on his own patch and he felt something of the old thrill. Nothing to make a song and dance about just yet. But something stirring in his guts so he felt a bit more alive. The possibility of getting it right.

When Fran arrived at the school to collect Cassie, a crowd of adults was already there. This was unusual.

Most of the children - even the younger ones - were allowed to make their own way home. Fran stood apart for a moment watching the group. There was something intimidating about them, gathered in a circle. It was almost dark and it was hard to make out individuals.

They stamped their feet against the cold and talked in low, intense voices in a dialect she had problems understanding. Then she thought she had as much right to be there as they did. And when she approached them, they welcomed her, said how much of a shock it must have been to come across the body like that. They were sympathetic and she was the centre of attention. Inside the school the lights were on. They shone on the playground, reflecting from the ice where boys had made a slide and a half-built snowman.

At first their curiosity offended her but she thought none of them had really known Catherine. It wasn't as if she'd grown up there. They saw the girl as a character, someone they might have seen on TV. They crowded around Fran asking for details. Was it true that the birds had ripped out both the eyes? That Catherine had been naked? Was there blood? Despite herself Fran answered.

'1 saw that detective from Fair Isle was in Magnus 'Tait's house.' Fran didn't recognize the speaker. It was a sharp-faced, pinched little woman. In her forties, she could have been a mother or a young grandmother. She continued shrilly, breaking in on the conversation around her, 'Perhaps this time they'll put him away where he belongs.'

'What do you mean?'

'Didn't you know? It's not the first time it's happened. A girl was killed here before.'

'Now, Jennifer, we don't know she was killed.'

'Well, she'd not have disappeared into thin air, would she? And although it was summer, it was stormy that week. I mind it fine. There were no planes or boats south for days. Not that Catriona could have got on to either without someone realizing it was odd for a young girl to be on her own.'

'Who was she?' Fran told herself this was malicious gossip. She should stand apart from it and not get involved. But it didn't prevent the question.

'Catriona Bruce. Eleven years old. The family lived in the house where Euan Ross stays now. Some coincidence huh? They had to move. How could they stay there with reminders of her everywhere and not knowing for certain what happened to her? I think it was a worse crime than killing her, not letting on what he'd done with the body.'

'But if Magnus was never charged,' Fran's Guardian values reasserted themselves, 'you can't be certain it was him.'

'It was him all right. We always knew he was daft in the head. He was like a child himself. Everyone thought he was harmless. We were more innocent in those days, maybe. People thought they were doing a kindness, letting their children in to talk to him. We know better now!

I let Cassie talk to him, Fran thought. Nobody warned me not to. She remembered Magnus hurrying out of his house to greet them, almost stumbling in his eagerness to catch up with them, before they'd walked on. She shivered.

Inside the school a bell rang and the children ran out.

By the time they arrived home it was quite dark. This time of year once the sun fell below the horizon night came very quickly. She went in and drew the curtains before switching on the lights. She'd hurried Cassie past Magnus's house, tugging on the mittened hand, jollying her along with the promise of treats at home. She'd wondered how she'd react if Magnus came out, but wasn't put to the test. She'd glanced once towards Hillhead, thought she'd glimpsed a pale, staring face and had looked quickly away. Perhaps she'd imagined it; perhaps he'd already been arrested.

Now she imagined what Euan must be going through. The police would have gone to the high school and told him about Catherine's death. Surely they wouldn't expect him to look at the body? Not lying where it was in the field.

Perez had told her that it would be there all night. But perhaps he would want to see his daughter. Perez had said a team would come from Inverness and the detectives and scene of crime officers would need to see the body on site.

He'd thought it hardly likely they'd make the three o'clock plane from Aberdeen. More likely the six-thirty. But she supposed there would be questions for Euan. Perhaps that would be a distraction of a sort. She thought the worst time would be returning to the big glass house and his dreams of two dead women.

She considered phoning to check if he was home. It wasn't having to confront the image of Catherine's death which prevented her. She hated seeming like the relatives waiting by the school gate. What if Euan thought her prurient and intrusive? What if her motives had more to do with curiosity than an attempt to provide support?

There was a knock at the door. Cassie was engrossed in a television programme and hardly looked up. The tension and excitement outside the school seemed to have passed over her head. Usually Fran would just have shouted, It's open, come in. Today she hesitated, opened the door a crack, thought in the moment of opening it What if it's the old man? Would I turn him away?

Euan stood outside. He was wrapped up in a long black overcoat, but he was shaking.

'I was on my way home,' he said. 'They offered to send someone with me. I told them I preferred to be on my own.

But now I can't face going into the house. I don't know what to do!

She felt she should offer him comfort, put her arms around him as she had when he'd broken down talking. about his wife. But now he was too cold and distant. She thought it would be like attempting to hug a formidable headmaster if you were still at school. Impossible.

'Come in,' she said. She sat him by the fire and poured him whisky.

'I was teaching a group of third years. A Midsummer Night's Dream. Maggie came in. She's in charge of RE. Maybe they thought that was appropriate. Could she have a word? I could tell it was serious, but I thought one of the kids in my class. . ! He stopped. 'I don't know what I thought. But not that!

'I'll phone Duncan,' Fran said. 'He's always wanting extra time with Cassie. She can spend the night with him. Then I can come back with you to the house, see you in. I can spend as long there as you need!

At first she wasn't sure if he'd heard, but eventually he nodded. He sat with his coat still on while she made the arrangements, but after a few moments set the whisky carefully on the table and took off his gloves with great concentration.

Duncan arrived with a flourish, his palm on the horn. She took Cassie out to him although on other occasions this loutish behaviour would have kept her in the house, forcing him out of the comfort zone of his 4x4 to knock at the door.

'Shall we go?' she said to Euan. He had sipped the whisky, but barely touched it.

He stood up without a word. She was reminded of a visit to a psychiatric hospital to see one of her London friends who was being treated for anorexia. Euan had the same stiff gait and immovable features of some of the other patients in the day room, drugged up she'd supposed, to keep them quiet and safe.

Automatically polite, he opened the passenger door for her, and drove slowly down the hill. At his house he braked a little sharply, forgetting the snow and the car skidded for a few yards before stopping.

She walked into the house before him and switched on all the lights. He hesitated before following. He stood in the hall, apparently bewildered. It was as if this place was strange to him.

'What would you like me to do?' she asked. 'Would you prefer to be alone?'

'No!' he said sharply. 'I'd like to talk about Catherine. If you can bear it! He turned to face her. 'They said you found her body!

'Yes! She held her breath, dreading that he would ask what Catherine had looked like, but he just stared at her for a moment and moved on. She realized she was trembling.

He led her through to the back of the house, to a room she hadn't seen on her previous visit. It was small. The walls were painted deep red and there were a couple of posters for art-house movies. At one end stood a desk with television and DVD player and a rack of DVDs. Against the wall was a small sofa which looked as if it let down into a bed. There was a book face down on the sofa. A paperback anthology of Robert Frost's poetry. Fran supposed it was a school set text.

'This is where Catherine brought her friends,' Euan said. 'She liked her privacy, kept her bedroom to herself. The police have already been in here. I gave them a key earlier. She'd have hated that, the thought of them going through her things! He looked around him. 'It's not usually this tidy. Mrs Jamieson came in yesterday to clean!

'Do the police have any idea what happened?'

'They didn't tell me anything. I'm to have someone attached to me to keep me informed. But apparently until the specialist team arrives from Inverness tonight, there's nothing to say!

'Who did you see?'

'Perez, the local guy. He's in charge until the team from the mainland arrives! He paused. 'He was sensitive enough, but the questions he asked made me realize how little attention I'd given Catherine recently. I was so wrapped up in myself. Self-pity. Such a destructive emotion. And now it's too late. I could tell the inspector thought I was a dreadful father, that I didn't care!

She wished she could say that of course he'd been a good father, but he'd have seen through the lies.

'I'm sure Catherine understood,' she said.

'He asked me about her friends. Did she have a boyfriend? I know about Sally, of course. The two of them met up as soon as we arrived here. But I couldn't put a name to any of the others she hung out with. Only the ones I teach. Sometimes there were boys in the house, but I never asked if there was anyone special. I didn't even know where she was the night before she died. It didn't occur to me to worry about her.

This is Shetland. It's safe. Everyone knows everyone else. The only crime comes out of binge drinking in Lerwick on a Friday night. I thought I had time. I could allow myself the space to get over Liz's death and then I could get to know my daughter!

He still spoke in the impassive tone he'd used since he'd turned up on her doorstep. She thought it wasn't real yet. He was trying to convince himself. He needed to feel in his gut that Catherine was dead.

'Have you got anything to drink?' She was finding the tension unbearable.

'In the kitchen. Wine, beer in the fridge. Whisky in the pantry!

'Which would you prefer?'

He considered as if it was a matter of great importance.

'Red wine, I think. Yes. That's in the pantry too! He didn't offer to get it. Perhaps he was incapable of moving.

In the kitchen she laid a tray. Two glasses. The bottle, opened. A plate with a lump of Orkney cheddar she'd found in the fridge, a tin of oatcakes, two small blue plates and a couple of knives. She realized she hadn't eaten all day and she was hungry.

When she returned he was sitting in exactly the same position as when she'd left him. She didn't want to squeeze on to the sofa with him and sat on the floor next to a low table. She poured the wine for him and offered the cheese, which he refused. At last, to break the silence - after all, he had said that he wanted to talk about Catherine - she asked, 'When do the police think she was killed?'

'I've told you. I don't know anything! He must have realized that he sounded rude. 'I'm sorry. It's not your fault. That was unforgivable. It's guilt again! He twisted the stem of his glass. 'I didn't see Catherine last night. I hadn't seen her for two days. That wasn't unusual. You know what it's like here. Transport is difficult. Last night I was late home.

I'd been in school all day, although term didn't start for the kids until this morning!

He looked up at her. 'We'd had a training session. And in the evening all the staff went out for a meal together. It's the first social event that I've gone along to. They've invited me before of course but I've always managed to refuse.

This time I couldn't say no. The meal was almost an extension of the training day. Team building. You know the sort of thing?'

She nodded quickly. Now that he'd started talking, she didn't want to interrupt.

'It was actually a very pleasant evening. We sat talking over coffee. It was later than I realized when I got back.

There'd been a text message from Catherine sent in the morning. Don't worry if you don't see me tonight. Might stay out again! He paused, punishing himself. 'Lots of love. Catherine. She'd been to a party the night before. When she wasn't home when I got back from Lerwick, I assumed she was staying out again and that she'd go straight to school this morning!

'Where was the party?'

'I don't know. I never asked! He stared into his wine. 'But in one sense it doesn't matter. We know she did come home at lunchtime. The police told me that much. She was seen on the bus and by that old man who lives at Hillhead! And by me, Fran thought. I saw them together. Euan continued. 'They seem to think she was killed close to where her body was found.

They won't let me see her. I can't bear that.'

'What did the police say about the old man?' 'Nothing. Why?'

She hesitated only briefly. He would hear the rumours eventually. Better that the information come from her.

'There was a lot of gossip when I picked Cassie up from school this afternoon. You know how parents talk. A young girl went missing a while ago. She was called Catriona Bruce and she lived in this house.

The old man, Magnus Tait, was suspected of having a hand in her disappearance. People are saying that he killed Catherine!

He sat very still. He seemed frozen, incapable of moving. 'I don't think it matters who killed her,' he said at last. 'Not yet. Not to me. Later it might seem important, but it doesn't now. All that matters now is that she's dead!

He reached out and poured himself another glass of wine. Fran wondered at the difference in his mood tonight, and when he'd broken down talking about his wife. She supposed this was shock. It didn't mean that he cared less for his daughter. Had he been this calm in his dealings with the police? What would Perez have made of it?

Soon after she said she would go home. He made no objection, but looked up just as she was about to leave the room. 'Will you be all right? Should I walk up with you?'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'There are police all over the valley!

And it was true. As soon as she was on the road she could hear the distant chug of a generator and as she approached Hillhead, she saw that the crime scene was illuminated by big arc lights. A constable standing by the farm gate nodded to her as she walked past.

When Sally got in from school her mother told her about Catherine Ross, but rumours had been flying around Anderson High since midday and it was all anyone had been talking about on the bus. Sally pretended it was a surprise though. She spent her life pretending to her mother. It had become a habit. They discussed it, sitting together at the kitchen table, so Sally knew something was wrong.

Her mother didn't like sitting without something to do - a pile of mending or her knitting or the ironing. Or preparation for her work in the school. Often the table was spread with shiny white card while her mother wrote out lists of words in thick black felt pen under various headings. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. Margaret despised inactivity.

It wasn't in her nature to make a drama out of the incident, but Sally could tell she was concerned. As close to agitated as she could get.

'Your father drove past after Cassie Hunter's mother found the body. She was in quite a state apparently. Hysterical.

He had to call the police. She refused to move!

Margaret poured tea and waited for a response from her daughter. What does she expect from me? Sally thought.

Does she think I should cry?

'Your father thinks she was strangled. He heard a couple of police talking! Margaret set down the teapot, fixed her gaze on her daughter. 'They'll want to speak with you, because you were friends. They'll want to know who she knocked about with, boys. But if it's too upsetting you must say. They can't force you to speak to them!

'Why would they want to know that stuff?'

'She was murdered. Of course there'll be questions.

Everyone's saying that Magnus Tait must have done it, but there's one thing knowing who killed her and another proving it!

Sally found it hard to focus on her mother's words. She found her thoughts slipping back to Robert Isbister. But that wouldn't do. It was important to concentrate. 'When I speak to the police, will you be there?'

'Of course. If you'd like us to be!

Sally could hardly say then that it was the last thing she wanted.

'I was never sure about that Catherine! Her mother stood up. She sliced a loaf and began buttering the bread, making smooth, easy motions with the knife. She had her back to Sally. Margaret could never keep quiet if she felt there was something needed saying. It was a matter of pride with her.

'What do you mean?' Sally felt her face flush and was pleased her mother wasn't looking.

'I thought she was a bad influence. It changed you going round with her. Maybe Magnus didn't kill her, whatever people think. Maybe she was the sort of woman who brings violence on herself'

'That's a dreadful thing to say. It's like saying some women ask to be raped.'

Margaret pretended not to hear that. 'Your father phoned to say he'd be late.

A meeting in town. We'll eat without him.'

Sally thought there'd been more and more meetings in town lately. She wondered sometimes what he was up to. Not that she blamed her father. She hated mealtimes at home and tried to avoid them if she could. It would have been different if there'd been brothers and sisters, if her mother was less intrusive. All she got was questions. How was school today, Sally? What mark did you get for that English course work? Her mother picking away at her, probing.

Margaret should have joined the police, Sally thought. Really, after fending off a lifetime of her mother's questions she had nothing to fear from a detective.

They ate the meal as always at the kitchen table. No television. Even when her father was with them, even on a special occasion, there was no alcohol. Margaret often said with pursed lips that parents should set an example. How could you blame children for drinking themselves stupid in Lerwick on a Friday night when the parents could scarcely go a day without a drink? Self-control was an old-fashioned virtue, Margaret said, which should be practised more often. Until recently, Sally had presumed that her father shared these views. He never disagreed with them. Occasionally, though, she thought she caught a glimpse of a more relaxed individual underneath. She wondered what kind of man he'd have turned out to be if he'd married someone else.

The meal was over. Sally offered to wash the dishes, but Margaret waved a hand, dismissing the idea. 'Leave them.

I'll see to them later.'

Like sitting down before tea was prepared, this was another indication that a seismic shift had taken place somewhere in her mother's consciousness. Margaret couldn't bear to see dirty dishes standing. It was as if she had a physical response to them. Like some people had allergies which brought them out in lumps.

'I'll go and start my homework then.'

'No,' her mother said. 'Your father will be in just now and we want to talk to you.'

And that sounded serious. Perhaps she'd found out about New Year's Eve. This place you couldn't fart without the whole of Shetland knowing about it. Sally wondered what else it could be that kept her mother in her seat, with dirty plates still on the draining board. She steeled herself for questions, began to rehearse the lies in her head.

Then there was a knock on the door and Margaret jumped up to get it, as if she'd been expecting it all the time.

There was a blast of cold air and a man came in, followed by a young woman in uniform. Sally recognized the woman, who was a kind of second cousin on her father's side. So Margaret would have been expecting the call; Morag would have warned her.

That was how things worked with families. Sally tried to remember what else she knew about the woman. She'd joined the police after working in a bank for a while. Margaret had had things to say about that too. She always was a flighty 'young madam. Now she greeted the constable as if she was a bosom pal. 'Morag come away in by the fire.

It must be freezing out there!

Sally looked at Morag critically and thought she'd put on weight. Sally was aware of how people looked. She knew it mattered. Didn't you' have to be fit to work for the police? And there was nothing flattering about that uniform.

The man was very big. Not fat, but tall. He stood just inside the door waiting for Morag to speak. Sally saw him nod towards her, encouraging her to take the initiative.

'Margaret, this is Inspector Perez. He'd like to ask Sally some questions!

'About yun girl that died?' Margaret was almost dismissive.

'She was killed, Mrs Henry,' the detective said. 'Murdered. You have a daughter the same age. I'm sure you want him caught'

'Of course. But Sally was a close friend of Catherine's. She's had a bad shock. I don't want her upset!

'That's why I brought Morag, Mrs Henry. A friendly face. Now, why don't we take Sally into another room, so we don't disturb you?'

Sally expected her mother to object, but something about him, the authoritative, easy tone, the assumption that he'd get his own way, must .have made her realize there was no point in putting up a fight.

'Through here,' she said stiffly. 'I'll just put a match to the fire. Then I'll let you get on with it!

The room was tidy, of course. Margaret couldn't abide clutter. She allowed the music stand and Sally's fiddle to stay out, either to encourage spontaneous practice or to give the impression to guests that they were a cultured family, but everything else was in its place. She never let her marking or preparation for school escape into here. Perez folded himself into a seat with his back to the window, stretched out his long legs. Margaret had already closed the curtains.

It was a ritual. One of many. In winter, as soon as she came in from school, she shut the curtains in every room in the house.

Morag sat beside Sally on the sofa. Sally thought this was a pre-arranged move. Perhaps she was there to offer comfort Oh my God, Sally thought. I hope she doesn't touch me. Those fat, fleshy hands. I couldn't bear it.

Perez waited until Margaret had left the room before speaking.

'It must be a terrible shock,' he said. 'The news about Catherine!

'They were talking about it in the bus on the way home. But I couldn't believe it Not until I got home and my mum said what happened!

'Tell me about Catherine,' he said. 'What was she like?'

Sally hadn't been expecting that She thought there'd be specific questions: When did you last see Catherine? Did she mention a row with anyone? How did she seem?

She hadn't practised the answer to this.

He saw her confusion. 'I know,' he said. 'It probably isn't relevant. But I'd like to know. It seems the least I can do for her, treat her as an individual'

Still, Sally didn't quite understand.

'She came from south,' she said. 'Her mother had died. It made her. . . different from the rest of us!

'Yes,' he said. 'I can see that it would!

'She seemed very sophisticated. She knew about films and plays. Different bands.

People I'd not heard of. Books.'

Perez waited for her to continue.

'She was very smart. At school she seemed way ahead of us.'

'That wouldn't have made her popular. With the teachers maybe, but not with the kids.'

'She didn't care about being popular. At least that was the impression she gave.'

'Of course she cared: he said. 'Everyone does to some extent. We all want to be liked.'

'I suppose so.' Sally wasn't convinced.

'But you were friends. I've spoken to her teachers today and to her father. They all say she got on better with you than with anyone else.'

'She lived just up the bank: Sally said. 'We got the bus into town every day. There's no one else of my age / lives here.'

There was a silence, broken by the clatter of plates in the room next door. The inspector seemed to be giving Sally's words more significance than she thought they deserved. Morag shifted in her seat as if it was torture for her to keep quiet, as if there were questions she was dying to ask.

'I went to the Anderson,' Perez said at last. 'I expect things are different now. Then it was all cliques. We had to stay in the hostel. I came from Fair Isle and us and the Foula kids, we couldn't even get home at weekends. Then there were the people who came in by ferry every week from Whalsay and Out Skerries. The lads from Scalloway were always fighting with the Lerwick boys. It wasn't that you didn't make friends from a different group, but you knew where you belonged.' He paused again. 'As I said, I expect things are different now.'

'No: she said. 'Not very different.'

'You're saying you two were thrown together then.

You didn't hang around because you had much in common.'

'I don't think she was close to anyone. Not to me, not to her father. Perhaps her mother. . . I had the impression the two of them were more like friends. . . Perhaps after that. . .'

'Aye: Perez said. 'After that, it would be difficult to trust anyone.'

The fire cracked and spat sparks.

'Did she have a boyfriend?'

'I don't know.'

'Come on. She'd have talked to you about stuff like that, even if it wasn't common knowledge. She'd have wanted to tell someone.'

'She didn't tell me.'

'But?'

She hesitated.

'This is confidential: he said. 'I'll not tell anyone and if it gets back to your parents Morag gets the sack’.

They all laughed, but there was enough of a threat in his voice for Morag to take it seriously. Sally could tell that.

'New Year's Eve: she said. 'Yes.'

'I wasn't allowed into town. My parents disapprove of bars. But all my friends would be there. I told them I was at Catherine's house but we both went to the market cross. Catherine's father never seemed to mind what she did. We got a lift back. I thought maybe ,Catherine knew the lad who was driving.'

'Who was it?'

'I couldn’t see. I was sitting in the back of the car.

There were four of us, all crushed in. You couldn't see a thing. They were all off to a party except Catherine and me. Catherine was in the front with the driver. They weren't talking but it seemed like they knew each other.

Perhaps because they weren't talking. There was none of that polite conversation you get with strangers. Maybe that's silly.'

'No: he said. 'I know just what you mean. Who else was in the car?'

She named the student and the nurse.

'And the fourth person?'

'Robert Isbister.' She didn't need to say anything else. Everyone in Shetland knew Robert. His family had made a shedload of money when the oil first came ashore. .His father had been a builder, ended up with most of the construction contracts, still owned the biggest building firm in the place. Robert had a pelagic fishing boat - the Wandering Spirit - which went out of Whalsay. Tales of the boat were told in every bar on the island. When he'd first bought it he'd brought it into Lerwick and thrown it open for people to look round.

The cabins had leather seats and televisions with Sky TV. In the summer he took groups of his friends to Norway. There were wild parties as they sailed up the fjords.

'Robert wasn't Catherine's boyfriend?' he asked. 'No: she said, too quickly.

'Only, I've heard he has a taste for younger lasses.' She knew better than to answer.

'Maybe you fancy him yourself?' His voice was joky and she could tell he didn't mean it, but still she felt herself blushing.

'Don't be daft,' she said. 'You don't know what my mother's like. She'd kill me.'

'You really can't remember anything about the car or the driver?'

She shook her head.

'Catherine was supposed to be at a party the night before she went missing. Were you there too?'

'I've told you.' Her voice was bitter. 'I'm not allowed at parties.'

'Did you know anything about it?'

'I wasn't invited. People have stopped bothering to ask me. They know I'll not be going.'

'Didn't anyone mention it at school today?'

'Not to me.'

He sat looking into the fire. 'Is there anything else you think I should know?'

She didn't answer immediately, but he waited.

'That night we came back from Lerwick,' she said.

'Early New Year's Day.'

'Yes.'

'We went up to see the old man. Magnus. We'd both been drinking and his light was on. It was a sort of dare, to knock on the door and wish him happy new year.'

Perez showed no surprise. Perhaps she'd been hoping to surprise him. 'Did you go in?'

'Yes, for a while.' She paused. 'He seemed obsessed with Catherine. He couldn't stop staring at her. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.'

When he left the school at Ravenswick Perez set back towards Lerwick. He thought he might just fit in a visit to Robert Isbister before the plane arrived from Aberdeen. There'd been delays at the airport and the Loganair people weren't sure when it would get in. It seemed he'd spent all day driving backwards and forwards down the same bit of road, but he wanted to show the team from Inverness that he'd made some progress, that he hadn't just been sitting waiting for them to arrive.

Perez never quite knew what to make of Robert Isbister. He'd been spoiled, that was clear. His father was a good man, who had been surprised by his sudden affluence. He was generous to his friends and family in a discreet, almost embarrassed way. Robert worked hard enough at the fishing, but everyone knew he hadn't paid for that showy big boat by himself.

Michael Isbister would have given him the money. And then everyone knew too that Robert's parents hadn't much of a marriage. It can't have been easy growing up in that family, despite the wealth. It must have been hard knowing that everyone talking about them had a kind of smile on their face, which was half sneer and half sympathy.

Throughout his life, Robert would be compared to his father. It was lot to live up to. Perez knew something of what that was like. His father was skipper of the Fair Isle mail boat. Before any decision was made about life on the Isle he was consulted. But for Robert it was worse. Although he was a quiet and unassuming man, Michael Isbister was famous everywhere in the islands. He was a musician, an expert in the dialect words and traditional songs. He'd been on the Up Helly Aa committee since he was a young man. This year he'd been awarded the honour of being made Guizer Jarl. It meant a lot to him.

More than an honour from the Queen. He would lead the procession of the fire festival, appear on television, give radio interviews. For this year, at least, he would represent Shetland to the rest of the world. Robert would be in the Jarl's squad, dressed like a Viking, the same as his father. A sign that he hoped to follow in his father's footsteps. And everyone in Shetland would be watching to see if he measured up.

Robert wouldn't be at home this early in the evening. He might be out with the boat, but Perez didn't think so. When the inspector visited friends at Whalsay earlier in the week, the Wandering Spirit had still been there, dominating all the other vessels at the mooring. Perez drove through the town and out towards the docks. He pulled into a side street, parked and got out to a cold which took his breath away, the smell of fish and oil.

He hoped Robert would be on his own. He didn't want an audience of the man's cronies for this conversation.

As he pushed open the door to the bar, the warmth hit him. There was a coal fire, banked up hard. Only a small grate, but it was a small room, walls stained brown by tobacco and coal smoke. On the walls there were smeared photos of long-past Up Helly Aa squads, groups of men staring out, self-conscious but earnest. The academics might deride the tradition, but these men were deadly serious. They believed they represented the islands' culture, their way of life.

And in the corner of the gloomy bar sat Robert Isbister. His wild white hair seemed to light up the room.

He was pouring a bottle of Northern Light into a glass, concentrating as if he'd already had a few. He didn't notice Perez come into the room. Behind the bar a tiny, skinny woman sat on a high stool, reading a paperback book which she'd bent back at the spine and held in one hand as if it was a magazine. She forced her eyes from the print.

'Jimmy. It's early for you. What are you having?' You could tell she wasn't that thrilled to see him. He'd not be good for business.

'Coke please, May: He paused, looked at Robert.

'I'm driving:

Neither she nor Robert made any response.

Perez took his glass and sat at Robert's table. May returned to her book. She was lost immediately. Sarah had read like that. There could be a volcano under the house and she'd not notice. Robert looked up, nodded.

'Have you heard about the body they found at Ravenswick?' Perez said. No point in being subtle. Not with Robert.

'May said something when I came in: The words were slow, careful. Was that the beer or another sort of caution? Robert enjoyed a few pints with the lads but he didn't usually drink heavily this early on a week day.

'A friend of yours, I understand:

Robert set down the glass. 'Who was it?'

'A young lass. Catherine Ross. You did know her?'

The pause was a beat too long. 'I'd seen her about.'

'Only sixteen. A bit young even for you, Robert: It was a standing joke that Robert went for younger women. Perez thought it was because he'd never grown up. The big boat was to prove he was a man.

He continued. 'New Year's Eve. . :

'What about it?'

'After the market cross you went to a party:

'Aye. The Harvey girls' place in Dunrossness: 'You gave Catherine Ross a lift home. As far as the Ravenswick turn off.'

Robert turned his head so Perez was looking into the pale blue eyes. Bloodshot. Worried.

'I wasn't driving,' Robert said. 'I'm not that stupid:

'Who was?'

'I don't know his name. A young lad. Still at schoo1.'

'Friend of Catherine's?'

'I don't know. Maybe:

'Any idea where he comes from?'

'Somewhere in the south. Quendale? Scatness?

The family haven't been in Shetland long:

'You said you'd seen Catherine around. Where had you seen her?'

'Parties. Bars in town. You know how it is:

'She was the sort of girl you'd notice then. The sort of girl you'd pick out in a crowd:

'Oh yes,' Robert said. 'You'd notice her. She didn't say much. She was always watching, weighing you up.

But you couldn't help noticing her! He picked up his glass, took a drink.

Suddenly he seemed more relaxed.

'How did she die?' he asked. 'Hypothermia, was that it? Too much to drink and passing out in the cold?'

'Did she drink a lot?'

Robert shrugged. 'They all drink too much, don't they, those young girls? What else is there for them to do in the winter?'

'It wasn't hypothermia: Perez said. 'It was murder!