‘A firework?’ He glanced at Sergeant Peterson’s notes.
‘That’s what Anders said afterwards. Someone had balanced the rock so that it a touch would put it over, and put a firework under it. When the firework went off, the rock fell.’
‘Simple. Ingenious. But it’s not firework time of year, so that should be traceable. Did Mr Johansen mention timed fuses?’
‘No. Somebody will have kept the bits though, so you’ll be able to see them. The other thing is, it had to be somebody who was there, and there was only us.’ I explained about the road blocks, and the motor launch on guard.
‘Sabotage,’ DI Macrae said thoughtfully. ‘Or was it aimed at Favelle?’
‘Yesterday, I didn’t think so,’ I said. ‘Today, though –’ I paused, wondering just how wild my surmises were. A man who’d seen a big cat would accept a wild surmise.
He nodded. ‘Don’t worry if it sounds far-fetched. Leave us to sift that out.’
‘It could have been a murder attempt,’ I said. ‘Elizabeth stuck the running order up all over the place. That shot, the one with everyone going up the hill, well, it was obvious that Ted and Favelle would be in the lead at that point. It was the big ‘landing in a new world’ scene. So they’d be the likely ones to be hit.’
‘Likely, but rather a hit-and-miss method. A murderer who didn’t care if he got it wrong.’
‘Favelle had a long dress on,’ I said. ‘Green velvet, floor-length, very heavy.’ His eyes, Alain’s eyes, sharpened; I could see he was thinking as I was. ‘I can’t believe the real Gudrid went anywhere near a ship wearing something like that. It tangled round ropes and trailed everywhere.’
‘So,’ he finished, ‘she would be slower to get out of the way.’
I nodded.
‘How did she escape?’
‘She nearly didn’t,’ I said. I could see it all in my head, Anders scooping Favelle up in a swirl of green velvet. ‘She was stumbling over her dress, and the rock was coming straight at her. She had Anders beside her, and his reactions are like lightening. He just swung her up into his arms, as if it’d been rehearsed, and carried her out of the way. Otherwise I think it would have hit her.’
‘How did she come to have Anders beside her? You just said she and Ted should have been in the lead.’
‘The other unexpected factor,’ I said. ‘Peerie Charlie. The little boy that’s their boy in the film.’ I smiled. ‘He wouldn’t leave the beach, so they had to re-jig the story and change the order. Ted went ahead, and Favelle came with Anders.’
‘Whose choice was that?’
‘Ted’s,’ I said positively. ‘She was leaning on the captain’s arm, but he was too tall for her and it didn’t look right. Anders was shorter. Anyway, that delayed the start of shooting the scene, re-arranging the people. Not by much, but by enough for the cast to be at the bottom of the hill, furthest away from where the rock fell, instead of at the top, right underneath it.’
My memory gave a little kick. ‘They had a cigarette break in between rehearsals, up at the old house. Could you light a fuse with a cigarette, like on the movies?’
‘Let’s assume you can. Who was last back on set?’
I tried to re-visualise it. ‘I wasn’t really watching. Ted would know, he was rounding them up. Elizabeth, Michael, the other cameramen, they stayed up there.’
Elizabeth . Once the cameras started rolling, everyone else would be glued to the viewfinder. She could easily have lit the fuse then. I thought of the hunger in her eyes as she watched Ted, the way they changed from cool efficiency when she was talking to him to blatant adoration when he turned away. She hadn’t known about the change-over. The film captain had reactions like tar. He wouldn’t have saved Favelle the way Anders had.
Had Elizabeth’s hatred of Favelle risen to such a pitch that to get rid of her she’d have risked Ted’s life?
Chapter Ten
Sergeant Peterson came back in then, nodded confirmation at the inspector, and sat down again.
‘Ms Lynch is telling me about her rock, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Of course it could have been general sabotage of the film. From what you say, there was a reasonable chance that the people would get out of the way. Could it have been aimed at your longship?’
‘I suppose it could. They all knew exactly where she’d be beached, from the rehearsal, and it came straight for her.’ I remembered the wind and the bang of it passing by, glanced down at my ankle. The bruise was an interesting blue.
He followed my gaze. ‘It hit you?’
I shook my head. ‘It missed me.’
I drew my foot back under the chair. ‘I thought it was going to smash Stormfugl’s bows in. It hit another rock at the very last minute, and that deflected it just enough.’
‘Would wrecking the boat put paid to the film?’
I considered that one. ‘Not now, I don’t think. I’m sure they’d have enough shots to be able to cobble something together in a studio.’
‘So that’s a less likely motive.’
‘Yeah –’ I said slowly. ‘But we had two more days after that, of Favelle doing a promotional video for the wind farm, and one of the protestors was up there too.’
He looked across at Sergeant Peterson. ‘Mr Lynch’s company wants to build a very large wind farm here on Shetland,’ she answered.
He nodded and made a note. ‘Who would have a list of who was on set?’
‘Elizabeth,’ I said. ‘I can give you a list of my rowers.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Maree – was she there?’
That was a good question. She’d gone from the tent into Favelle’s white limo, and been driven off for the swap. At Jessie’s, she’d have taken off her wig and her film-star coat. After that she could have come back as herself, walking over the hill or flashing her film ID photo at the police road block, in which case she’d have been there, able to go up among the camera-man at the old house for a quick fag while the actors were down below. She could have pressed the lit end of her cigarette against the fuse that would smoulder up to the granite boulder and make it fall towards her double, the woman who robbed her of a life of her own. If she hated Favelle enough to kill her, she wouldn’t have cared if Ted died too.
Michael would know if she’d been there.
I didn’t want to spoil the friendlier atmosphere by going back to evasion. ‘Can I ask you to talk to Ted about that? I’m not sure how much I should be saying about Maree’s role in the film.’
‘The police can be discreet,’ he said. ‘You’ve made up your mind to be helpful now; keep going. If it doesn’t concern the murder, I won’t spread it further.’
‘It’s surmise on my part, you understand that?’ I glanced at Sergeant Peterson. ‘Please don’t write it down. Maree was the official double for the filming before Favelle arrived. That’s standard practice. The big stars like Favelle only do the close stuff. But I think she was still doubling for Favelle in the scenes on board the boat when we were at sea, unofficially, because Favelle was no good aboard boats, and Maree was the athletic twin. They were alike enough to pull it off. I’ve no proof of it, though, and Ted may well deny it. He wouldn’t want to spoil Favelle’s reputation.’ Suddenly, a wave of disbelief swept over me. Favelle, living and beautiful on widescreen, had become a crumpled body aboard Stormfugl.
‘Has anyone told Maree that Favelle’s dead?’ I asked.
He looked across at Sergeant Peterson. ‘We’ve tried to break the news ourselves, sir, but it’s spreading like wildfire. I think all of the people staying at Busta know now.’
‘She’s not staying at Busta,’ I said. Michael would have let her know, if he knew himself. No, Michael had been on Ronas Hill filming the midnight sun with Ted. Michael thought Maree was dead. ‘She’s staying at the B&B just above the marina here, Efstibister. That way, they could swap Maree and Favelle on the way to filming.’
DI Macrae nodded. ‘Very well.’ He smiled again, and this time I smiled back. Entente cor
diale. ‘If you think of anything else you want to tell me, you can contact me through any of my officers.’ He stood up, and I followed, stretching. How long had I been sitting in that chair? My back felt stiff. ‘However –’ He was interrupted by a rattling at the door downstairs and Dad’s voice, in determined businessman mode. An officer came in.
‘Gentleman downstairs, sir, a Mr Lynch. He has his lawyer with him, and insists on seeing Ms Lynch.’
‘That’s fine,’ DI Macrae said. ‘Bring him up.’
There was no sign of a hangover. Dad was impressively corporate in a dark suit, his hair sleeked back, and his club tie giving off ‘solid citizen’ signals at fifty paces. He was accompanied by a younger man, short and round-faced, with gold-rimmed glasses. Dad came straight up to DI Macrae.
‘Dermot Lynch, Inspector. Cassandre’s father. This is my lawyer, Mr Cheyne.’
DI Macrae rose and held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Lynch. Perhaps you’d like to give us your statement now, and then we won’t need to trouble either of you further.’ He turned his head back to me. ‘Except, Ms Lynch, as I was about to say, that we’d like permission to search your boat.’
‘Stormfugl?’ I said. ‘I’d assumed that’d be automatic, as she’s a crime scene. But, yes, of course.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Your own boat.’
I felt like he’d poured a bucket of icy water over me. ‘Search Khalida?”
‘Your warrant, sir?’ Mr Cheyne said sharply.
DI Macrae shook his head. ‘With Ms Lynch’s permission, of course.’
‘You don’t have to give it,’ Mr Cheyne said to me.
‘If Ms Lynch will let Forensics examine her boat,’ the DI said, ‘it’s a further step in clearing her of all involvement in this crime.’
Mr Cheyne bristled like an indignant guillemot. ‘There is no suggestion, sir, that Ms Lynch is involved in this crime. Any examination of her boat will be entirely a gesture of goodwill.’
‘If it’ll help clear me,’ I said, ‘go ahead. May I be present?’
‘If you wish.’
‘Anders is living in the forepeak, though, and I can’t give you permission to search his stuff. You’ll have to ask him.’ I hoped Rat was stashed away somewhere safe.
‘We’ll ask him,’ DI Macrae said. He turned to Mr Cheyne. ‘As the person who discovered the body, Ms Lynch will naturally be of interest to the press. I would have no objection to her speaking at the police press conference later, should she wish to make a single statement.’
‘I’d prefer that,’ I said.
He gave me an approving nod. ‘The conference is set up for two o’clock.’ He gave the clock above the bar a quick glance. It was ten to one. ‘Can you find suitable clothes for Ms Lynch before then, Mr Cheyne? We’ll want to take what she’s wearing.’
Mr Cheyne nodded. ‘Cassandre, both the girls are about your size. Why not come back to my house for breakfast and a shower, and let Frances see what she can find for you?’
‘Off you go, Cassie,’ Dad added, ‘and get your statement thrashed out.’
I didn’t like leaving him in the hands of the police, but there wasn’t an alternative. I’d told the truth; I hoped he’d do the same.
The press conference was hellish. We’d had enough bother driving out through the cameras on the way out, and the number seemed to have doubled in the time I’d been at Mr Cheyne’s house. I ducked my head back behind the car door frame, and wished I was wearing my own navy jacket instead of Mrs Cheyne’s disconcertingly elegant green blazer and cream top. I’d washed my hair, looped my plait up on my head, and even added a touch of make-up, but instead of giving me confidence, it only made me feel more ill-at-ease. A policeman took us to the committee room, where DI Macrae was twitching the cuffs of his green jacket. He looked grim and tired. I wondered if he’d been woken at 4 a.m.; if he’d be glad or sorry if the case was given to somebody more senior.
He turned as I came in. ‘All set?’
Just as I nodded there was a stir at the door and Ted entered. His tanned face was lined and grey, and there was such a bleak desolation in his eyes that even looking felt like an intrusion.
We went in single file up the stairs: DI Macrae, another policeman, Ted, me. I clutched my paper with sweating hands. We went through the door labelled ‘No wet clothes in the clubroom’, and into the scrum.
They’d set out tables in front of the fireplace wall, and there were four rows of faces leaning towards us, eyes avid. A phalanx of cameras bristled behind the chairs and in the aisle to each side. I remembered the press after Alain’s death, and wanted to be sick, but now wasn’t the time, any more than you had time to lean over the rail when you were at the helm, however strong the rolling and pitching got.
DI Macrae did an opening statement in a fusillade of flashes, and then introduced me: ‘The skipper of Stormfugl, Ms Lynch, who discovered the body, will now make a statement.’
I read out what we’d prepared as naturally as I could. ‘I was returning from a night sail. I found Favelle lying dead on board Stormfugl. I phoned the police, then remained with the body until they arrived.’
Of course they weren’t satisfied with that. ‘How did you feel finding the body?’
‘It was very upsetting,’ I said. ‘A shock.’
Then they all began speaking together.
‘What did Favelle look like dead?’
‘Is there any truth in the rumour that the gulls pecked her hands off?’
‘What was she like to work with on set?’
I grasped at the last one. ‘She was very good to work with. Completely professional.’
‘What was she doing on board your Viking boat? Did you sleep there?’
DI Macrae cut in there. ‘Investigations are proceeding on that point. We can’t say any more at this stage.’
A greasy-looking man in the front row leaned forward. ‘Cass, did you see any tension between Favelle and Ted?’
I shook my head. ‘None.’ Smile, charm them. ‘Except when they were acting.’
It got a brief laugh.
‘Cass, do you have a boyfriend?’
‘What?’ I asked, startled.
‘How did you get on with Ted?’ a voice asked from the back.
‘My concern was with the boat side,’ I said. ‘He gave very clear instructions.’
They found this funny. I heard their penguin cackle echo round the room and wished the floor would swallow me.
Ted rescued me. ‘Cassandre has been a great skipper. The success of the ship scenes was very much in her hands.’
That diverted them. ‘Ted, how do you feel?’
‘Devastated,’ he said simply. ‘Not just my personal loss – I can’t talk about that yet – but at the loss to cinema too. Favelle was a great star already and she was taking off in a new direction. Who knows what she’d have created if it hadn’t been for this tragedy.’
‘What was she doing on the longship?’
DI Macrae came in smoothly. ‘Investigations are ongoing with regard to that.’
‘Where were you when she was killed, Ted?’
I straightened indignantly.
‘My director of photography and I were filming up on Ronas Hill,’ he answered. ‘We were getting footage of sunset and sunrise on the ocean horizon. It was a perfect night for it.’ His voice faltered and died; he ducked his head away and covered his eyes with one hand.
It didn’t stop them. ‘Ted, are you going to release the film?’
He lifted his face, the tears glinting in their flash guns. ‘It’ll be her memorial. The shooting here in Shetland was the last piece, and it was all but finished. We can make her immortal –’
He broke down then, and they filmed avidly as Sergeant Peterson came forward and led him away. DI Macrae leaned forward.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you.’
Dad was waiting when I got out of there, my heart beating as if I’d just reached port after a rollercoaster dead run
.
‘Cassie, I can’t get hold of Maree at all. Her mobile’s switched off, going straight to answer-phone. She left Jessie’s last night, just said she’d be away a few days. The DI’s checked the boat and airport, and nobody of that name has left Shetland today. She’s just gone.’ His face was drawn. ‘Cassie, I’m afraid the murderer’s taken her.’
It wasn’t like Dad to give way to panic. I thought of the way he’d waited for my mother all these years, and realised he’d switched all that longing over to Maree and the possible son.
‘We have no reason to believe that, sir,’ DI Macrae said from behind me.
‘Then where is she?’ Dad retorted. ‘Her sister’s death is being blazoned all over the wireless.’
‘There are still people who leave the TV and radio off during the day,’ DI Macrae said.
‘Come on, Dad,’ I said. ‘Let’s get home. That’s where she’ll phone, when she hears the news.’
But we waited in the house all that long afternoon, and the phone remained silent.
I hadn’t forgotten about Anders though. We had a lunch of toast and pâté, then I took my mobile into my bedroom.
Time-warp. Whatever Maree had said, the redecoration hadn’t started yet. It could have been just yesterday that I’d dragged my kitbag out from under the bed and flung the minimum into it. Posters of a fleet of old Gaffers racing in the Thames estuary were still blu-tacked beside a sixties-bearded Robin Knox-Johnston arriving home. The trophies sat in their row on the chest of drawers, in front of my well-thumbed copies ofSwallows and Amazons and Missee Lee along with my later reading, Bernard Moitessier, The Last Grain Race, Elvestrom’s Dinghy Sailing. My buoyancy aid and my dry-suit still hung in the cupboard. The same duvet cover was on the bed, and the little folding clock with the beep-beep-beep alarm was set neatly in the middle of the bedside cabinet, its battery long since dead. I sat as I used to sit on the window-seat, one leg curled up beneath me and the voe spread before me. The wind was rising; Papa Little was ringed with white, and the near lines of mussel buoys had waves breaking over the black sea-serpent humps.
I wondered if the inspector had really seen a black cat. It would be nice to know that in this crowded Britain there was a breeding population of large cats. Maybe, though, he was softening me up, using a sprat to catch a whale.
Death on a Longship Page 13
