North Star (26 page)

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. ‘You asking me!’ The bloody nerve of it! ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you.’ And I cursed myself for a fool. But you couldn’t help liking him, and he knew how to handle men. ‘It could only have been done by a ship towing a grapnel. I can’t think of any other way. If a grapnel were towed just the rig side of one of the anchor buoys it would be bound to grab hold of the cable. The device could then have been slipped down the grapnel line. A good lead weight on top of that, then cut the line adrift and let it sink.’

‘And how do you set it off – delayed action?’

‘Either that, or fasten a thin connecting wire to the side of the anchor buoy so that you can detonate by radio signal.’ Even as I said it, thinking the method out as I went along, the real reason for the presence of that fishing boat flashed into my mind. ‘Since they needed a gale to make the operation worthwhile, radio signal would be the sensible method of triggering the bomb off.’

‘So we inspect the buoys, a daily routine.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s the answer.’ He came round the edge of the desk. ‘I guess you think I’m being pretty rough, hm? Well, nothing I can do about that. I got the rig to consider and the bloody Shetlanders on my back.’ He held out his hand, the tough, leathery features lit by a smile of surprising charm. ‘I hear the fishing’s good now, so no hard feelings, eh?’

I shook his hand. What else? It wasn’t his fault. And no good telling him that in getting rid of me he was losing the one
person who knew enough to give the rig some protection. ‘Good luck!’ I said, and I meant it, remembering that paragraph in the
Express
underlined in red.

He nodded, reached for his safety helmet and gloves, and then he was gone, striding out on to the helicopter deck. I watched him through the window as he headed for the derrick floor, back to the world that was his life, the world he knew and understood.

I thought then, and still think, that the division between toolpushers and barge engineers is a dangerous one. How can you expect a man who has spent most of his life drilling on land to adapt himself to the sea in middle life? Ed Wiseberg at 51 couldn’t be expected to think in terms of a real Shetland gale. He couldn’t even conceive what it was like. Yet so long as
North Star
was drilling, he was in charge.

I went slowly out on to the deck, pausing a moment to see his heavy figure climbing the long iron stairway at the base of the derrick that led from pipe deck to derrick floor, climbing with a sort of punchy swagger. He flung open the corrugated iron door and stood there for a moment surveying the scene, a lone figure standing right above the pipe skid, the noise of the drawworks blasting out and the men inside dancing a strange ballet around the kelly, the tongs in their hands and the winches screaming. Then he stepped forward into that hell’s kitchen of machinery and closed the door behind him, safe now among the tools that were his trade.

God help him, I thought, as I turned away, wondering how he would measure up if he was caught in a real storm.

The
Duchess
was wallowing in the bright sunlight out by No. 7 buoy. I went down the stairway then to the waiting boat, and as the outboard pushed us clear of the cold cavern of the rig’s undersection, I was considering how I would break it to the crew. They had been out here for over two months now, sacrificing shore time for the benefit of their ship. I wasn’t angry. I was past that. But the humiliation of it sickened me, knowing that they would have nobody to blame but myself.
And later, when we reached Shetland, there would be Gertrude to tell.

I climbed on board and went straight to the bridge. Lars was at the wheel and I told him to turn in towards
Rattler
. She was still moored stern-on to the rig unloading stores. I steamed close past her bows, hailing her skipper and telling him it was all his now. He wished us luck and I was thinking I could certainly do with some as I swung away to point our bows towards Mainland of Shetland. Then I called the crew to the bridge and told them why we were leaving.

I could see the shock and dismay in their faces and I didn’t wait for the inevitable questions, but ducked into the chart recess to lose myself for a moment in the practicalities of working out the course for Scalloway. Johan followed me shortly afterwards. ‘So we get compensation and Gertrude pays off the mortgage, then we go fishing, ja?’ He was smiling and I guessed what he was thinking. That close positive relation between them would be resumed and everything would go on as it had before. He put a great paw on my arm. ‘What will you do then?’ To my surprise there was real concern in his voice.

‘I haven’t thought about that,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Well, time you think about it.’ He hesitated, his head turned away from me, staring out through the doorway as he said, ‘You are a good captain, a good seaman, ja – but for you it is not enough to fish.’ He spoke slowly, awkwardly, as though afraid of giving offence. ‘Fishing is a good life. But not for you. You need something bigger. Politics per’aps, or oil.’

‘You may be right,’ I said and gave him the course. He didn’t say anything after that. For him it had been a long speech. We had moved into the bridge and we were silent, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts, the only sounds the sounds of the sea and the hum of the engines.

The evening was deepening into twilight as we steamed through the Middle Channel into Scalloway, and we had
barely dropped our anchor under the castle ruins when a boat put out from the shore and came alongside. The old man at the oars wore a fisherman’s cap. He said his name was McIver and that he had a note for me from Gertrude Petersen. All this in a high piping voice like the call of a curlew. I bent over the bulwarks and took the note from his outstretched hand, ripping open the envelope and reading it by the light of the deck light. It was dated 23rd June at 14.15:

I think perhaps you do not come into The Taing but go direct to Scalloway. In case
,
this is to tell you that a Detective-Sergeant from Hull came to the house this morning. He is asking for you, but will not say why. His name is Gorse and he is waiting for you at the hotel in Scalloway. I think you may like to know so I am leaving this note for Terry McIver of Dun Croft to give you as soon as you arrive. It is more trouble for you
,
I think
,
so let me know if there is anything I can do. G.
And she had added a PS:
Sandford now has the Star-Trion contract. He is providing two Shetland boats to replace the
Duchess.

I looked across at the lights of the little port, thinking there wasn’t much time now to do what I had to do. Any moment a boat would put out from the pier and I had no doubts as to why Gorse was here. ‘Do you have a car?’ I asked the old man. But he shook his head. ‘Know anybody who could run me over to Taing?’

‘Aye. My son. He’s got a Ford van.’

I told him to wait and went to my cabin, hurriedly stuffing the things I’d need into my grip. I took my anorak, and sea boots as well, shouted to Johan that he was in charge now, and a moment later I was in the boat and being rowed ashore. Money and a vehicle, those were the two essentials, and I just hoped Gertrude had meant it when she had asked if she could do anything.

Mclver’s son Robbie was just going to bed, a short, broadshouldered man with his father’s high voice. He accepted my request quite cheerfully, pulling on his gumboots and going out to the barn to get the van. Overhead a child began crying
and Robbie’s wife appeared in a dressing gown with her hair falling to her shoulders and began heating some milk. The atmosphere in the croft kitchen was warm and friendly. The old man poured me a dram. ‘I was with old Mr Petersen when he first began fishing out of Hamnavoe. That was quite a while back before my father died and left me the croft.’

‘Did you live at Hamnavoe?’ I asked.

‘Aye. My wife, she’s dead now, but she was from Hamnavoe.’

‘You’d know the Sandfords then.’

‘Albert and Anna?’ He nodded, cackling to himself. ‘There’s a rum pair. And that son of theirs –’ He paused, his glass halfway to his lips and the moist blue eyes fixed on me. ‘Randall? There were Randalls at Hamnavoe once.’

The door banged open and Robbie McIver came in. ‘Ready when you are.’

I got to my feet, but he waved me back. ‘No, finish your drink. And I’ll have one too, Father.’ It gave me a chance to ask him whether he had ever met Alistair Randall. But he hadn’t. ‘It was after the war that I came to Hamnavoe. Your father, you say?’ And after that he seemed to close up, staring at me curiously as though the revelation had somehow produced a barrier between us.

‘You were saying something about the Sandfords’ son. Is Ian Sandford the only son?’

‘Aye.’

‘What were you going to say about him?’

But he shook his head. ‘It’s getting late. You’d best be going now.’ And he nodded to Robbie, who downed the rest of his drink and opened the back door for me. I was conscious of their curiosity as I stepped out into the northern twilight. There was a light drizzle falling and I realized that here in Shetland it was hardly the normal hour to be visiting a young widow alone in a remote house. Robbie maintained a discreet silence, driving carefully and nursing the old van on the bends.

It was just past eleven when we turned down the track to The Taing. There was a light on in one of the upper windows
of the house. ‘Looks like she’s just going to bed. Do you want me to wait for you?’ He said it casually, his eyes on the track and his tone innocent of any attempt to pry.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not if the Land-Rover’s there. I have some business …’

‘Oh, aye.’ He nodded to show his understanding and I knew he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Well, it’s there all right.’ We were coming down the hill to the house now and the headlights showed the Land-Rover standing at the door, the black waters of the voe beyond.

He drew up beside the Land-Rover and I got out, standing uncertainly, looking up at that lighted window. The night was very still, the fine drizzle soft on my face, and I was suddenly seeing it from her point of view, the contract cancelled and myself coming like a fugitive out of the night. I dumped my things in the Land-Rover and then moved hesitantly towards the door, no longer sure of my reception and conscious of Robbie watching me curiously. My knock sounded loud in the stillness. Light streamed out as the bedroom curtains were whisked back. Then the window opened and Gertrude’s voice called down to enquire who it was.

‘Mike Randall,’ I said. ‘Can I talk to you a moment? I want to borrow the Land-Rover.’

There was a pause. Then she said, ‘Wait a minute and I’ll come down.’

She came to the door in her dressing gown. Her hair was held with a band of ribbon and she had an oil lamp in her hands. ‘It’s very late.’ She was staring past me at the van. ‘Is that Robbie?’

‘Yes, Mrs Petersen,’ he answered.

Her gaze came back to me. ‘You put in to Scalloway then.’ There was a long pause, her eyes looking directly at me, a puzzled expression, as though she couldn’t make up her mind. And then suddenly she was smiling, to herself, as though at some private joke. ‘So that’s why you’ve come – for the Land-Rover.’

I nodded.

‘How long do you want it for?’

‘Three or four days,’ I said.

I could see her working that out and then she nodded. ‘All right. You’d better come in then.’ She pushed the door open wide and called to Robbie that he needn’t wait. ‘Captain Randall will take the Land-Rover and I will settle with your father.’

‘Okay, Mrs Petersen.’

‘Thank him, will you please,’ she called as the van’s engines started up again. I raised my hand, but he was already backing and turning. I watched as the red tail lights climbed the hill and disappeared over the top. Everything was still then and we were alone. ‘Are you coming in, or do you want just to take the Land-Rover and go?’ She sounded uncertain of herself, her voice sharp and trembling slightly.

‘I need some money,’ I said. ‘For petrol.’

‘Then you’d better come in. You need to explain, too.’

‘All right.’ I went in then and she slammed the door behind me. ‘You like some coffee or something stronger?’

‘Coffee please. I’ll be driving all night.’

She led me through into the flagstoned kitchen, and as she set the lamp on the table, she looked at me angrily. ‘You don’t think of my reputation, do you – coming here at this time of night. It will be all over Hamnavoe.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I was thinking of the last time I had been in this house, the difference in my reception. ‘I needed transport –’

‘So you come to me.’ She began filling the kettle. ‘First my ship, and now –’ She turned the tap off. ‘Anybody else, anybody at all, and we would have been all right, the contract running all summer and the mortgage paid off. But no,’ she added, busying herself with lighting the butane gas stove, ‘it has to be you who come here out of the blue.’ She slammed the kettle down on the lit ring, turning suddenly and facing me, her face flushed. ‘Why do you want the Land-Rover?
Where are you going?’ And when I didn’t answer, she said, ‘You’re going to Burra Firth. Well, isn’t it? Isn’t that where you’re going?’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Just give me some money, whatever you can spare. You’ll get compensation and I’ll sign anything –’

‘I don’t care about the compensation.’ She said it with a stamp of her foot, and then she turned quickly, fumbling for the cups and saucers. Her head was bowed and I knew that if I turned her face towards me I would find it wet with tears. I hesitated, thinking suddenly of Fiona, remembering how she would turn tears on and off. But this was different. This was a determined, self-reliant woman. The cups rattled on the tray and I took a step forward. Then my hands were on her shoulders, I don’t know why. Sympathy? The desire for human contact in my loneliness, knowing she was lonely, too?

I felt her stiffen, heard her whisper, ‘Why did it have to be you?’ And then her body seemed to relax, leaning back against mine, as though giving up some sort of struggle. My hands slid down to the softness of her breasts and she put her head back, turning her face towards me, and I kissed her, feeling her lips tremble under mine. There was no passion in that first kiss, just a mutual longing for sympathy and understanding, and her face was wet with tears.