Death on a Longship

by Marsali Taylor

  He left a silence for the question to echo in, and I heard the answer echo bleakly in my head. Because I don’t deserve it. I took another swig of his beer and felt the warm nuttiness of it soothe my throat. ‘Do you think of your parents as people on a ship?’

  ‘Recently, I have begun. I need to know, you see, why my father wants for me what he does, and how I can get what I want in a way that will not disappoint him.’

  Dad had wanted a university education for me. Maman had wanted an elegant French daughter. ‘I disappointed both of mine.’

  ‘No,’ Anders said. ‘No. At least, I do not know your mother but your father is very proud of you, do you not know that? When we met in the Co-op it was of you he talked. I would bet you anything that he could tell you everywhere you have been, every ship you have been on, and for how long.’

  I considered this one. I thought of the way he’d known where Maman was singing and suddenly felt sorry for him, knowing how his family was doing through an advert online here, a mention in a blog there. I imagined him at his desk googling our names, with Jessie gone home to cook tea for Gibbie and the house quiet around him, and felt guilty.

  Anders gave me his glass, rose, held out a hand to Rat. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘not everyone needs to be good at people. You are very restful, Cass, you just accept people as they are and do not ask questions.’ Sometimes people need that too.’

  I felt myself going red again, and shrugged the compliment away.

  ‘Well, if you are taking over, I will go. But you will be careful? I am used to you being as tough as any man, but now you look very small and fragile.’

  ‘Looks are deceptive,’ I said briskly, ‘and the sooner I get out of these clothes the better, if they’re going to turn you into a fuss-pot.’

  Anders shrugged. ‘No hurry.’

  There was every hurry, if people were going to start treating me as a girl. I gave him a minatory look. ‘Did you talk to the police?’

  He shrugged, spread his hands. ‘I’m going to. They’ve been along at Busta all afternoon, interviewing everyone, from the best boy’s runner upwards. Michael had an hour with them, he said, re-living every moment of the rock falling, and then the night on the hill. Where had he been, where had the others been, who had he seen, who had the minibus keys, could he prove any of it? Then they asked Ted and James Green all the same questions.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if Michael mentioned that he saw Elizabeth up there?’

  ‘He didn’t say. The cops spent until after eight along there, and then they headed back to the station, in a convoy, and did a mass order from the Indian takeaway.’

  ‘Anders,’ I said abruptly, ‘what was between Michael and Maree? Were they lovers?’

  His face closed against me. ‘I do not know. It is none of our business.’

  True, although I didn’t see why he was so defensive about it. ‘Off you go and get a decent night’s sleep,’ I said. ‘I’ll watch from Khalida’s cockpit, and call the police from behind the washboards if there’s trouble.’

  He laughed out at that, throwing his head back. ‘You will come charging out, a tigress defending her cub with whatever weapon is to hand.’

  Physical courage was easy. ‘I’ve got more sense.’

  ‘Good. I do not wish to have to bail you out from the police cells in Lerwick for assault.’ Anders yawned and fell back to his proper age. ‘You will phone me on my mobile if anything happens?’

  I nodded. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good watch.’

  He turned to go, then paused and spoke so softly over his shoulder that I barely caught the words. ‘You should wear make-up more often, Cass. You do not need to use your scar as a barbed-wire fence.’

  He walked swiftly off. I watched him climb the steep gravelled drive beside the boating club, turn to the left, and head along the road that led to Busta House. He grew fainter until the dusk swallowed him, but I was pretty sure that he hadn’t turned into any of the houses along the roadside. My last glimpse of him was a moving shadow walking quickly along the empty stretch of road between the last house and Busta itself.

  Busta. I wondered which of the super-slender groomed Californian blondes was his friend. I couldn’t envisage him with any of them, yet what did I know? Talking tonight was the closest we’d come to intimacy: You don’t need to wear your scar as a barbed-wire fence.

  It wasn’t a barbed-wire fence. It was the mark of Cain.

  I stip-stepped my way back to Khalida to change out of this womanly gear, hung the dress up beside my oilskins, rubbed my ankle, which was protesting about the heels, and sat down in the cockpit to think. There were too many feelings jostling in me, and they were driving out rational thought. I shoved them away: Maman, Dad, Anders. Think the way you can think. Then ask why, ask why.

  Favelle first. Wasn’t the victim the most important point in a murder, the key to it all? I’d put her as a deckhand, and make sure she had a sympathetic and patient watch-leader. She’d be willing, but only able to carry out very precise orders. Her last day. We’d done the entry into the Hams all morning, so she’d have spent the morning at Jessie’s. She couldn’t have annoyed Gibbie with her pro-eco stance, for Gibbie had been on board ship. Late morning, the limo took Maree away and brought Favelle back. Lunchtime: flirting with Anders. That was the only thing that lent colour to an otherwise improbable story – she had seemed very taken with him. Taken to the point of sneaking on board Stormfugl for an hour of steamy passion? Okay, Anders was a very good example of a handsome Norwegian, but she’d filmed with Brad Pitt, for goodness’ sake. Yet I had to choose. Either Anders’ story was true, or he was our killer, and I didn’t believe that.

  What, I wondered, did we public really know about our film idols? What the publicity machine chose to show us was Favelle, the intrepid activist. What I’d seen was the woman of principle who thought as simply as a two-year-old, the action woman who was so unsteady on boats that she had to get her sister to stand in. Was the cosy Ted-and-Favelle marriage just as fake? Anders had thought it was. Maybe leaping into bed with the hired help was a Favelle habit. I was sure that Ted hadn’t acted that grief. If he wasn’t truly and genuinely shocked and devastated by her death, I’d give up the sea and take to rabbit farming in the middle of a desert.

  Noise; I heard a scrunch on the gravel by the boating club. My head whipped around. Someone was moving in the dimness, coming down towards Stormfugl. I froze. Only movement would give me away, shrouded in the dark of Khalida’s cockpit. It was a man’s height and walk. As he came into the street-lights, I saw that it was Ted Tarrant. He went straight to Stormfugl’s jetty and stood there, gazing across the criss-cross of police tape at the deck where Favelle had died. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but I turned my head away. It must have been ten minutes he stood there. When I heard his footsteps again I looked round. He was coming around the long curve to the marina gate, head turned towards Khalida. I stood up, and he put a hand to the locked gate.

  ‘Coming,’ I said. I swung the heavy gate open, and we walked down together in the soft air, with the water rippling under our feet. The tide had ebbed away all evening, and was now flowing again, and the sliver of returning moon hung in the navy sky. I gestured him on board Khalida.

  ‘Have that cushion to sit on. She’s not quite the luxury yacht you’re used to.’

  ‘She’s your home,’ he said. ‘The luxury yachts I’ve been on’ve mostly been for tax avoidance. Bought by people who didn’t know whadda get next. This one …’

  ‘Come and look,’ I invited. I went further into the cabin, so that he could descend without the embarrassment of brushing against me. He’d have plenty of girls inviting that. Beautiful girls, tall, tanned Californian girls, rich prep school girls. I was practical Cass, the one you called if you needed a longship sailed. I struck a match and lit the tea-light in the little brass lantern. Immediately the cabin was bathed in flickering golden light.

  ‘She’s ne
at,’ he said. His face was bone-white under the tan, his eyes shadowed, but he managed a smile. ‘I love all the wood, and the brass, like a real ship.’

  ‘Tea, coffee?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I won’t sleep.’

  He didn’t look like a man who was going to sleep much anyway.

  ‘I’ve got herbal tea.’

  ‘That’d be neat,’ he agreed, and folded himself down on the seat, at the head of my quarterberth. I filled the kettle and set it on the hob, then busied myself with the mugs and teabags.

  ‘How far have you taken this baby?’

  The phrase grated. Khalida was a fellow adult. ‘Antigua, for the cruising season, then I got out before the hurricanes began.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘By myself.’ I turned my head to smile at him. ‘It uses less stores. You’d have difficulty storing water for two for two weeks aboard. Two litres a day, four times fourteen – fifty six litres. No margin for missing the Trades and drifting for a fortnight.’

  ‘And you just plan and then go?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, thinking of the struggle to save enough just to buy food for the voyage. Once I was there I’d always found work; it was the getting there. ‘Mostly.’

  He leaned back with a sigh. ‘I’m envious. Do you know that? I truly am. No snoopers, no cameras, nobody worrying about me. Even now, I hadda tell half a dozen people I was off for a walk, and at least two of them followed me.’

  I made a face.

  ‘It’s what you pay for fame; I know. I wouldn’t give it up.’ He smiled at me, and I felt a sudden sense of shock that he was here in my cabin, like a film come alive, with me the heroine. ‘You’re very easy to visit with, Cass.’ A sudden wash of pain distorted the smile. ‘Favelle surely liked you. She said she felt safe aboard, you knew what you were doing. Oh, God –’ He dropped his head into his hands, and the chestnut hair fell forward to hide his trembling mouth. A moment’s silence, then he raised his head again. ‘You recognised Maree, that last day. The police lieutenant asked about that.’

  I sat down opposite him. ‘How did it come about, the swapping?’ I asked.

  ‘Favelle couldn’t swim,’ he said simply. ‘It was a phobia, you know? She was terrified in swimming pools. Her parents wangled extra dancing lessons in the school swimming times, just so she wouldn’t be teased about it. A teenager standing on the steps at the shallow end, shaking with fear.’

  ‘So how, why, put her into it? Why do all the activist films?’

  ‘It was an accident,’ he said. ‘He pushed his hair back in one smooth hand movement. ‘I met the producer, and the screenplay just seemed made for Favelle. A new image, to get rid a the teen-movies stuff. It’s the hardest move, you know? So I accepted it. She didn’t wanna tell me how shit-scared she was, so she tried to get over it by herself. We had a pool in the grounds, and day after day she went in. And then one day I came home early and found her standing up to her waist in water, with the tears streaming down her face. She’d worked herself into such a state that I phoned Maree and asked her to come and stay. Maree always soothed Favelle. We all knew that Favelle couldn’t do it, so we worked out a way to double. And then the public liked it.’

  ‘But …’ I said, ‘how come nobody noticed? Or does everyone know but the punters?’

  ‘Hardly anyone knows,’ he said. He sighed with a simmering anger that surprised me. ‘We’re movie stars. We spend most of our time with people who don’t know us. Fans, coming for an autograph. Other actors, on the lot for two days. Cameramen and make-up people who’re hired for six weeks. They all know what Favelle looks like, and they know how they expect her to behave, and part of the expectation is that she’ll behave differently every day, depending on what part of the movie is being shot. Romantic heroine, action girl. An actor makes them two different people.’

  ‘So for anything that required action,’ I said slowly, ‘you planted Maree in some nice anonymous motel, between your house and the film lot.’

  His eyes rose swiftly to mine.

  ‘I guessed,’ I said. ‘That’s the location of Jessie’s house, where she’s staying. Nicely between Busta and the marina. You and Favelle drove to the lot together, and on the way Favelle hopped out and Maree hopped in.’

  ‘I guess that’s about it,’ he agreed. ‘How did you tell, though?’

  The kettle began to whine gently. I switched the gas off before it could move to full whistle and poured the boiling water into the cups. Steam misted a curve on the plastic window, shutting out the darkening hills opposite. I slotted the little table into its plastic hinges and set the mugs on it. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘A cookie? No.’ He shook his head and cupped his hands around the mug as if he wanted to crush it. ‘How did you know about the substitution?’ he repeated.

  ‘Maree came over one evening,’ I said. ‘The way she swung herself onboard then – well, you can always tell someone who’s used to boats. Sometimes Favelle was like that, and other times she was really awkward. The graceful one was only in long shots, and the awkward one did all the close-ups. If it hadn’t been for knowing about Maree I wouldn’t have guessed anything so bizarre.’

  His lids flickered, as if he was weighing options, then his hand came across the table to cover mine. ‘Favelle’s dead. You won’t say anything to spoil her memory?’

  ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ His hand curled briefly around mine, then withdrew delicately and cupped his mug once more.

  I thought of what I’d been working out earlier. ‘Where was Favelle, that morning, while Maree was filming?’

  He looked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘When someone dies, like that, then the reason is supposed to be in them. I wondered what Favelle had done that day.’

  His face froze, expression unreadable, and I feared that I’d really put my foot in it. Then he smiled again, eyes crinkling. ‘She spent the morning at Jessie’s house. I expect she was knitting, or telling Jessie stories about the movies, or just flipping through a magazine. There’s nothing Favelle would have done to annoy anyone. She was so gentle. Everyone loved her. I think it must have been the maniac who sent the letters …’ He spoke bleakly to the pale green infusion. ‘I can’t stay long. I just wanted to ask what Favelle was doing out that night. What she was doing aboard Stormfugl.’

  I couldn’t say it, with his trembling hands clutching the mug so tightly that the knuckles jutted like tacks on a seaman’s chest. I took a deep breath.

  ‘I wasn’t here. I took Khalida out for a sail. While I was out I had a text from Maree. She and Dad had had a row, and she wanted to talk to me. Maybe when she couldn’t get me, she phoned Favelle instead.’

  Ted nodded. ‘Of course. She couldn’t come to Busta, and Favelle couldn’t go to her lodgings. The two of them could never be seen together. They needed somewhere like Stormfugl where they could talk in private. Where’s Maree now?’

  Something prickled down my spine. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. It was true enough, if we were talking exact co-ordinates. ‘But I think –’ I jerked my head around. ‘What was that noise?’

  He was on his feet instantly, and out of the companionway. I would never have thought such a big man could move so swiftly. I swung out of the forrard hatch and onto the foredeck. The night was dark now, with the silver halfpenny of moon highlighting the masts with a ghost double. There was a long pause while we both stared into the darkness.

  At last Ted shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Over there,’ I breathed. ‘Against the beach, on the far side.’ Something was moving in the shadows. Hooves clattered on pebbles, sheep startled into wakefulness. ‘One of your minders?’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re in the bar.’

  I was very aware of his breathing, quicker now as he looked around. He gave a last sigh. ‘I gotta be going. Thanks, Cass. We’ll need to get together to talk business. Tomorrow maybe. I wanna finish this movie. Favelle�
��s memorial.’

  ‘I’m at your service,’ I said formally.

  He looked quickly around, then bent his head to mine. I was breathing in the scent of his aftershave. Nobody else could have heard his voice in my ear. ‘Maree. Got to find her. Where do you think she is?’

  But I wasn’t going even to whisper the answer, here in the night where sounds carried across the water. I stepped back, and spoke clearly, for any listeners. ‘I don’t know where Maree is.’

  He stepped back. ‘Yeah, mebbe you’re smart. We’ll talk tomorrow. What time would suit you?’

  ‘You’re more likely to have calls on your time,’ I said. I would need time to find Maree. ‘I’ll be around all day.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  I let him out of the marina and watched him go back up the drive. I heard the click of the limo’s door, then the purr of its engine making its way around the curve, along past the standing stone and over the little bridge to Busta. A last snick echoed back, the door closing, then there was silence again.

  I brought my downie and under-cushion up from the cabin and dozed in the cockpit. I had half an hour of sleep, then I was woken by people leaving the club in a babble of drunken, cheerful voices. They reminded me that I had to talk to Magnie tomorrow. I stayed awake long enough to hear all the footsteps receding, then, once the barman had cleared up, the door banging and his car driving away. Once the silence had returned I slept again, but not deeply; on my next waking I surfaced suddenly, with the sense of something wrong.

  It was too early for law-abiding people. I closed my hand around my mobile and listened. I heard nothing, but there was the echo of a splash in my head. I laid the downie aside and sat up. From very far off there was a sharp snap, like a breaking twig. Someone on the shore? What air there was stirred from the south-west, so the sound must have come from the Busta road. Would I really have heard a twig cracking among the Busta trees from here? Perhaps, if the little bay hidden from me behind the cat’s-paw of headland had amplified the noise. There would be wood on that shore, dry and brittle enough to snap like that underfoot.