Wild Fire

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘But Margaret dumped him for Neil Riddell.’

  ‘Of course! He was an assistant bank manager, with prospects and a chance of a cheap mortgage. That seemed better than the life of a crofter’s wife, animals to care for and peat to cut.’

  ‘So, Dennis Gear was free again. He must have come to his senses and come back to you.’ Sandy thought of Lottie, all alone except for her elderly parents.

  ‘Oh, he did that! Dressed in his fine Sunday clothes, knocking at this door and saying what a mistake he’d made and asking me to take him back.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t?’ Sandy knew the answer already. He could tell by the fierce look in her eyes and the straightness of her spine.

  ‘I might have been a glorified housemaid, but I had some pride. And he’d deserted me once. How would I know that he wouldn’t do it again? I suppose I was like Margaret. I thought I could do better.’ She sighed. ‘And I didn’t want her cast-off.’

  ‘Only nobody came along?’

  ‘There were one or two, but no one who would write soppy love letters. And by the time I came to my senses, Dennis was already courting somebody else. He got married not long after.’ Lottie paused. ‘They seemed settled enough.’

  ‘And after she died?’ Sandy wished he could change the history of the couple. He would have loved a happy ending.

  ‘He was a different man by then. Drinking too much. The centre of a party, wherever he went. He’d always been a fine musician, but now it was all about performing. He wasn’t playing for the music itself. There was a kind of desperation about him, a need to be admired. I wouldn’t have wanted to be with a man like that.’ She set down the mug she’d been clinging to.

  ‘But Margaret would?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘I told you – Margaret always wanted whatever other folk had, and what she couldna have.’

  They sat in silence.

  ‘You were still friends with Margaret? After what she did to you?’

  Lottie looked up, surprised by the question. ‘We were family. And maybe she did me a favour. Maybe Dennis would have turned out that way – kind of stupid and demanding – even if I’d married him.’

  ‘Magnie thinks Margaret was obsessed with the new family at Hesti. That it had become a sickness. We even wondered if she was stalking them. After all, she took your letters and pretended they’d been written to her.’ Sandy nodded to the envelope that still lay on the table.

  ‘I don’t think Margaret was sick,’ Lottie said, ‘unless envy is a kind of sickness. She saw that grand new house, a happy family, the wife famous for her knitting – and Margaret was always known here for her fine knitting – no money troubles at all. And Margaret hated them for it. It was the same with the letters. She was jealous that Dennis had written them to me, not to her. That was why she took them. Envy was burning inside her.’

  Sandy wondered what it would be like to be consumed with jealousy. He thought that might turn your mind. ‘She was seen outside the Moncrieff house on Wednesday night. That was the night she disappeared, the night of the fog. Do you know why she was there?’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  Sandy got to his feet. ‘What will you do with yourself, now she’s gone? She must have been company at least.’

  ‘I’ll be able to please myself, won’t I? And Magnie will still need looking after.’

  Sandy moved towards the door, but Lottie stood in his way.

  ‘Do you have a woman in your life?’

  ‘Yes, she lives in Yell. Teaches in Unst.’ He couldn’t help smiling just at the thought of Louisa.

  ‘Don’t let her escape,’ Lottie said, playful and serious all at the same time. ‘Hold on to her and don’t let her go.’

  Chapter Forty

  Helena was loading the dishwater after dinner when the phone went. It was Belle Moncrieff, and Helena paused for a moment before answering, worried that Belle would be hassling her again about doing a press piece or needing more information for London Fashion Week in September. But it seemed that Belle didn’t have work on her mind.

  ‘The forecast tomorrow is brilliant. We wondered if you felt like a day on the beach. An escape from Deltaness. We’re going to head out to Burra and thought you might fancy it too. Let the kids run wild for a bit. Take a picnic. You know, real Swallows and Amazons stuff. We don’t get the weather to do that very often.’

  Helena’s first thought was that she’d have to leave Christopher at home with Daniel. He hated the outside. Even more he hated the beach; the texture of sand on his feet and the constant noise of the waves seemed to blow a valve in his brain. Then she thought she couldn’t take the decision for Christopher. He might enjoy it, or at least learn to tolerate the new experience. Perhaps he’d feel left out if he wasn’t included in the party. Sam and he got on well enough and he’d once told Helena he thought Martha was cool. He could sit on a rug, keep on his shoes and socks. Helena would charge his iPad and he could plug himself in, with headphones to block out the sound of the wind and waves.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Sounds brilliant.’

  The next day felt like an adventure and, as Belle had said, like an escape. Let the police and the forensic scientists do their dirty work, Helena thought. For one day the Fleming family could at least try to forget about murder. She packed up a picnic and they loaded the car with so much kit that Daniel asked if they were going away for a fortnight. But even Daniel looked the part in shorts, T-shirt and espadrilles. Helena remembered again the holiday in Greece, Daniel’s body, brown and strong. He seemed himself again, lighthearted, joking with the children as he drove down the track, leading them in some daft song that Ellie had learned at school. By the time they left Northmavine and headed south down the long, thin spine of Shetland mainland, they were singing at the tops of their voices, even Christopher. They followed the Moncrieffs’ people-carrier and there were always glimpses of the sea, of mussel buoys and salmon cages and distant uninhabited islands.

  At Scalloway they crossed the bridge to the isle of Trondra and then another to Burra. Two new islands. This was unexplored territory for the Flemings, gentler than they were used to and more fertile. They followed Robert into a small car park and piled out. Soon they were all heading down a narrow grassy path towards the sea, the adults loaded with surfboards and windbreaks and wetsuits, and the younger children charging ahead, whooping and laughing. Charlie and Martha sauntered between the groups, followed by Christopher with his tight robot gait. At first the teenagers seemed to consider themselves above the childish behaviour, but they became wilder and more enthusiastic the closer they got to the water. There were some stone steps cut into a shallow cliff and they were there, at a perfect cove that looked, to Helena, more like Cornwall than Shetland.

  They set up base above the tideline, where there were flat rocks to sit on, rock pools for the young ones and white fine sand. Helena had brought Christopher his own rug and he sat there, a little apart from the others, tucked behind the windbreak, his knees to his chest. Not happy exactly – he needed to have his discomfort recognized – but not anxious or flapping. Helena thought this was just what they needed: air that seemed more intoxicating than wine, the laughter of the children carried from the water’s edge, the companionship of friends.

  They didn’t mention the murders or the police investigation. There had been no formal agreement beforehand that the subject was off-limits, but it seemed that none of the adults wanted to be reminded of Deltaness with its claustrophobia and gossip, with its army of police officers and scientists and press. Instead they shared indiscretions of their youth, talked about the travelling they’d done, and finally they came to Daniel’s commission for the eco-hotel.

  ‘Of course you’ll need someone to manage publicity for you . . .’ This was Belle, only half-joking. ‘If we get the word out properly, you’ll have enough work to see you through until retirement.’

  Daniel had rolled onto his side, his head supported by his hand. ‘Hey, how o
ld do you think I am?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! You could still be working until you’re eighty. People will be queuing up for commissions.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mock-dismissive, but Helena could tell he was loving the flattery and the banter. He seemed happier than she could remember. Happier perhaps than at any time since the kids were born.

  People don’t tell you what children can do to a relationship. They make it all sound so easy.

  Today, it did seem easy. The children scattered, forming small shifting groups, poking in rock pools, building castles, only returning to base for food and drink. The teenagers slid into wetsuits and went into the sea, lying on surfboards, idling and waiting for the perfect wave, then powering into shore as sleek as seals. When they came out they were shivering with cold, but joyous. They pulled on jeans and jerseys and gathered together the young ones for a game of rounders. Christopher pulled out his earplugs and turned round to watch, clapping occasionally at a particularly good hit.

  Helena wondered if it had taken the murders to make them appreciate this. Would the children have played so well, so uncomplainingly, if they hadn’t lived through almost a week of parental tension and anxiety? Usually outings like this one seemed a wonderful idea in prospect, but often ended in disappointment and tears.

  Time passed without her really noticing. She lay on her back on a towel, reading and dozing. The tide came in and afternoon turned to early evening. Robert decided this was the time they should all go in the sea. He stood up and stretched and would take no opposition. The water had crossed the warm sand, he said, and surely couldn’t be as chilly as when they had first arrived. Part of Helena resented his attempt to take charge, the male arrogance that assumed they’d all fall in with his plans, but the water looked inviting and, in the end, wasn’t it just a bit of fun?

  Most of the other families had left the cove, clambering in groups up rough steps and along the path to the road. The Moncrieffs and Flemings climbed into swimming costumes, with much joking and pretend horror.

  ‘No wetsuits!’ Robert said. ‘That’s cheating.’

  They spread out, holding hands, so they were like a string of beads across the mouth of the bay. Their shadows were long on the sand. Helena was at the end of the line, standing next to Charlie. He seemed like a Viking prince with the sun on his face, very tall and strong. Daniel was in the middle of the group with Ellie on one side and Belle on the other. Helena heard the sand shift behind her and Christopher was there, stripped to his underpants, reaching out to take her other hand.

  She was going to ask if he was OK, if he was sure he wanted to do this, but he was staring towards the water and she could tell he was looking forward to the iciness of it, the sharp tingle of the cold on his skin, so she just grinned at him. Robert had taken charge again and was counting down from ten. They all joined in. ‘Go!’

  They ran forward in a ragged but unbroken line and jumped the small waves until the adults were knee-deep, gasping with the shock of the cold, splashing. Beside her, Christopher started giggling, the sound loud and unrestrained, as he jumped high and hard. Helena let go of Charlie’s hand and swung her son into the air. She saw the drops of water from his body in slow-motion as gold sparks in the sunlight. Ice and fire, she thought. He loves them both and probably feels them as the same sensation.

  Even when they were all dry and dressed, they didn’t want to go home. The picnic food had been eaten and they’d already decided they’d stop for fish and chips in Frankie’s in Brae on the way back to Deltaness. But Belle produced a couple of bags of marshmallows, and Robert started scavenging for driftwood and called the children to help. They found three chunks of pitch pine and a twisted branch that looked more like bone than wood, because it had been in the water for so long. The colour was seeping from the grass at the top of the cliff and from the sea, and the scene looked like a sepia photograph. Helena thought Ellie at least would be asleep before they got to Brae, but the idea of a bonfire and roasted marshmallows was exciting and kept even the young ones going. Christopher stuck by Robert and, when the fire was lit, sat as close to it as he could get, seeming not to care about the sand in his shoes or the background sound of the retreating tide.

  Chapter Forty-One

  At first Christopher hadn’t been sure about the fire. He was afraid it would remind him of his confusion when he’d wandered down to the beach at Deltaness, the noise and the big kids jeering. But he found he loved it. It was smaller than the one Charlie and his friends had built on the shingle beach at Deltaness, but still he was drawn into it; he could feel himself a part of the flames and the heat. He was hardly aware of the others, saw them as shadows, heard them as faraway whispers.

  Charlie had found wire, part of a disintegrating lobster pot that had been washed up on the rocks. He’d twisted the wire until it snapped into long pieces, and the others were threading marshmallows onto the ends and holding them towards the fire. Christopher would have preferred to be alone here, but he reined in his irritation. He could cope with them. When someone offered him a marshmallow he shook his head, trying to be polite, but too resentful to quite manage it.

  The light had almost gone now and that made the fire more dramatic. He watched the sparks that flew from it until they disappeared, until they seemed to join the stars that were just starting to appear in the sky above him.

  He needed a pee. He’d known for a while that he’d have to go, but pissing in the open air always freaked him out. Now it was dark, it wasn’t so scary. Nobody would see. He stood up and backed away from the fire, his attention still drawn to it, then turned slightly and saw his mother’s face, half golden and half in shadow. Two-faced. He whispered to her what he was planning and she nodded to show him that was fine.

  Away from the bright contrast of the fire, it didn’t seem so dark. He could make out where he was going, once his eyes got used to the strange half-light. He stood tucked into a crack in the cliff, so nobody would see him, even if they were very close, and pissed, being careful not to drip onto his clothes or his feet. He was still not wearing shoes, still getting used to the feeling of sand and small splinters of shell on his bare feet. It felt brave to be standing here like this. He could hear the liquid splash against the rock. Then there was a sound behind him, like a footstep in the sand, and he wondered if someone had followed him – Charlie perhaps, intent on making fun of him, or one of the grown-ups come to check on why he was away.

  He turned quickly, had a sense of movement on the beach in front of him, but his sight was restricted by the rocky outcrop and, when he moved further out, everyone still seemed gathered around the fire. They’d built it just below the high-water mark, with its kelp and shells, so the ash would be carried away by the sea on the next high tide. He could see the whole party as a group silhouette and it was hard to make out individuals. Nobody was moving much now. It was as if they were all as mesmerized by the flames as he had been.

  He didn’t head straight for the fire, but for the edge of the sea. He thought he’d walk along the shore towards the rest of the group. The water would feel good on his bare feet. He was looking out to the horizon, to a big ship, fully lit, moving slowly south, when he tripped on something. He thought it might be a bucket or spade left behind by the littlies. His mother would be pleased if he picked it up and took it back. They’d packed everything up, ready to take home, and Robert and his father had already carried most of the things into the cars, so there wouldn’t be much to do when they decided to leave. Christopher hoped they’d leave soon. Now he was ready for his room and his computer screen. He’d socialized enough for one day.

  He bent down and saw a pair of shoes, made of leather, shiny like the kind of sandals Ellie wore to parties. But these were too big for Ellie; they belonged to a grown-up. They’d been placed carefully as a pair, the toes facing the water. They had pointed heels. One of them had fallen on its side, where he’d tripped. He bent down and looked more closely at the shoes and the sand around them.
There was too little light to make out the colour, but they were pale and he thought they might be yellow. Emma Shearer had owned yellow shiny shoes with pointed heels. She’d often worn them with the dress she’d had on when he found her in the barn. He couldn’t see how the shoes could be here, so many miles from Deltaness. That idea – the distance, the space they’d covered that morning in the car and his memory of Emma, twisting at the end of the rope in the Hesti byre – made him dizzy. He began to panic. He didn’t feel brave any more. He put his hands over his ears and screamed for his mother.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  When Perez arrived home on Saturday evening, the house seemed quiet and empty. Cassie was still at her father’s. Perez stood just inside the door and allowed himself a moment of self-pity. This was Fran’s house. She should be here, sitting at the kitchen table, her glasses, always too loose, slipping down her nose as she worked at her laptop. He could picture the scene exactly. She would look up and smile, still a bit distracted.

  ‘Had a good day, Jimmy? Have you set the world to rights?’

  And he would talk to her. They would share a bottle of wine and some food, and then they would share the bed where he now slept alone.

  But honesty made him admit it hadn’t always been like that. There’d been arguments. When Fran was working on a painting she was engrossed by it. It was at the centre of her mind for days. He and Cassie might not have existed. He could be equally self-obsessed. He’d thought some of her arty friends pretentious, and she’d considered that some of his colleagues were bores. He’d thought himself in love with Sarah, his first wife, but when she’d struggled to have children, he hadn’t been there to give her the support she needed. Or so she’d said. Perhaps his relationship with Fran would have disintegrated too, fallen apart when his work took over.