The Trowie Mound Murders (21 page)

Cerys said they had sedated her, but sedation didn't always knock people out. I'd seen that on board ship. Kirsten looked as if it had wired her up instead of calming her, set her brain scurrying down whatever track it was fixed on so that she had to act, even though her body would barely obey her. It was a miracle she'd managed to drive the five miles from Brae without sliding into the ditch.

She'd just reached the outermost row of cars, swaying and supporting herself on the sun-glinting roofs, when there was a blare of music and a roar of applause from the gate beside the hall. An open-backed truck swept in, decorated with flowers in cream, lemon, ochre, and buttercup. In the middle of it, dressed in yellow bridesmaids' dresses and sitting on flower-woven thrones, were the Voe Show Queen and her two princesses. They were chosen each year from among the oldest lasses at Olnafirth Primary school, and this was their big moment. Every head was turned towards them as the truck made its round of the showfield.

Kirsten looked at them as if she couldn't remember what they were. She made a helpless gesture, then her head turned slowly, her eyes searching among the crowd. I scanned the people too, for someone who might come and lead her away from here: Cerys, Barbara, Inga, anyone who would be able to pet her and soothe her and get her back lying down, so that sleep could take the burden from her. At his stall behind my shoulder, Brian gave a sharp intake of breath, then came to speak softly in my ear. ‘She shouldna be here. Go you and get her over, sit her down, and keep her calm. I'll try to get hold of –' His face darkened, his mouth hardened, but Kirsten's state over-rode his own feelings. ‘I'll get Olaf.'

Going to her was the last thing I wanted to do. I was no good at touchy-feely. I did plotting voyages and giving orders, calculating tides and riding out ocean storms. What could I say to a poor woman who'd lost her child?

Brian's hand was on my back. ‘Geng du, Cass, afore anyone sees her.'

The truck had stopped in the middle of the green for the show president to do a speech. Somebody had to go, and it seemed the somebody was me. I cut across the soft turf to intercept Kirsten's wavering track towards the crowd. She wore pink patterned leggings and a long T-shirt, like pyjamas, as if she'd been coaxed to bed, and had risen just as she was. Her feet were thrust into pink canvas pumps. Her handbag dangled from one hand, and the other was stretched forward, as if to catch at somebody's shoulder. Her dark hair was tousled, and her eyes stared in her white face, the pupils dilated. She brought the stretched hand back to shade them, screwing her eyes at the brightness of the sun, and took slower steps, swaying as if she could barely stand.

I caught the handbag arm. ‘Kirsten, it's too bright for you out here. Come into the tent.'

It took her a moment to react to my touch. She stopped walking, but didn't look at me. ‘Cass. I need to find –' She frowned, bloodless mouth closing and opening again. ‘I need to find –'

‘Come with me,' I said, drawing her away from the crowd. ‘Come and sit down.'

She let herself be drawn, but slowly, her eyes still searching. ‘I don't see him.'

‘Come and sit,' I said, ‘and if you tell me who you're looking for, I'll find him, while you rest.'

‘Rest –' she echoed vaguely.

I slipped my arm under hers, and took her weight as she stumbled beside me. Her feet were sliding along the grass as if it was too much bother to lift them, as if the will which had brought her here was almost exhausted. My fellow stall-holders knew her of course, and stood aside to let us through, the woman from the Gonfirth Kirk nodding in approval. ‘I'll make a cup of tea,' she murmured, and headed towards her stall.

I eased Kirsten into one of our chairs. ‘You just sit down here,' I said, keeping my voice very steady. She nodded, but I wasn't sure she'd understood. My jacket was draped over the back of her chair; she fumbled for a hold of it, and tugged it to her. ‘Cold –' I eased it from under her clutching fingers and draped it over her shoulders, tucking it around her. For all it was a fine day outside, she wasn't dressed for sitting in the cool shadow of the marquee. She needed a doctor. There had always been a St John's Ambulance tent, up behind the hall. Maybe I could send someone for help.

She was sitting still now, eyes half closed. The Gonfirth Kirk lady came over to me with a mug of tea, milky, so that Kirsten could drink it straight away. I took it and held it in Kirsten's lap, clasping her hands around it. ‘Here, drink this.'

She lifted it obediently, and sipped. The warmth brought colour to her lips. She drank about half of the mugful, then handed it back to me, like Peerie Charlie when he'd had enough. Her eyes opened. The pupils were still too large, but at least they focused on me. ‘Cass.'

I nodded. ‘Just sit still.'

Her thin hand gripped my wrist. There was surprising strength in it, and the nails cut into my skin. ‘You go to our church. I've seen you there. You
know
–' Her eyes were the green of sea over sand, and filled with a desperate earnestness. ‘Confession.' Her other hand groped for mine. ‘I can't sleep.' Her voice sank until I could barely hear it and became a rapid mumble; her hand clutched my fleece. ‘I need Father Mikhail. I thought he'd be here. I want to go to confession. Olaf wouldn't let me. I escaped, I took the car when he thought I was asleep. You know Father Mikhail. Is he here? I want to go to confession, before I sleep.' She looked around, quick, furtive glances. ‘You'll hide me, won't you, if Olaf comes before Father?'

I needed someone I could trust here. I wanted someone to go for the St John's Ambulance worker, but I couldn't deny this appeal for a priest. I had no right to judge the depth of her need, and refuse her on my grounds that she needed a doctor more. She was one of my fellow Catholics, and she was asking for a priest; that was all I needed to know. I had a vague feeling I'd noticed Father Mikhail's black robe earlier. It was strange, I thought irrelevantly, how the ‘Sacrament of Reconciliation' reverted to the old name of ‘confession' when it was needed. I wouldn't think about what she wanted to confess, a sin grave enough to keep her from the Eucharist. That was none of my business. My task was to find Father Mikhail for her, and make sure she was allowed to talk to him. I could put an appeal over the tannoy, asking him to come to D Marquee. I didn't want to leave Kirsten, nor to draw attention to her, but Brian was looking for Olaf, so I had to act quickly.

I grasped Kirsten's hands in mine, and looked straight into her haunted face. ‘Kirsten, I'm going to go and look for Father Mikhail. I'll bring him to you here. You just stay here and wait.'

She gave a gasp of alarm. ‘Suppose Olaf comes? He won't let me talk to him.'

‘I'll be very quick,' I said. ‘I'll go straight to the tannoy, and ask Father to come here, then I'll come back and wait with you.'

She shook her head and struggled to her feet. ‘I won't wait, he'll come, he'll take me away.' Her arm slipped around mine, and clamped it to her. ‘I'll stay with you.'

I could see there was no point in arguing. ‘Then let's be quick.'

I gave the Gonfirth Kirk lady a quick glance. ‘Can you mind the stall?' I mouthed at her, with a glance over my shoulder at our array of red, white, and blue goods. She nodded. I mouthed ‘Thanks' and led Kirsten away.

The president's speech was finished now; the queen and princesses had come down from their flowered thrones, and were doing a ceremonial tour of the showfield, the president and queen together, the princesses arm-in-arm behind. The crowd was beginning to disperse. I saw people glance at Kirsten, and then look down at the grass, or away across the voe, shy as otters flipping away into the water, too kind to stare. Only those who didn't know her looked twice at us, walking steadily across the grass.

It felt three times the distance. Adapting my stride to her sleep-walker's pace, I felt as if every hollow in the grass was the trough of a wave, every bump an ocean roller. The band had begun again – no, it was a different group, school pupils in a line with a dozen recorders in varying sizes, and their parents and relatives filled the space between us and the caravan. I steered Kirsten to starboard a little. We could cut through the flower hut and come out by the cattle. The bull was still bellowing indignantly. It would have a sore throat by the time the day was over. We were in luck though, for there was no sign of Brian and Olaf, not yet.

Twenty metres from the flower hut door, Anders' fair head was still bent over the engine he was tuning with deft hands. Now, if only he would look around – I willed him to see us, but he was twisting a nut with his adjustable spanner, too intent to lift his head. I thought for a moment of leaving Kirsten by the pots of scarlet begonias, but her weight was heavy on my arm, and I wasn't sure she could stand unaided. I paused for a moment, looking at him, then called: ‘Anders!' My voice was lost under the final flourish of recorder tune. I raised my free hand to cup around my mouth, but Kirsten caught at my wrist.

‘Don't call, Olaf will hear, he'll come –'

‘I'm calling Anders,' I said. ‘He'll help us. You know Anders.'

It was the wrong thing to say. Her white skin crimsoned. ‘No, don't, don't call him. I can't face him. Please.'

I didn't want to upset her more, but I needed Anders. I was skipper here, and this was my call. He would get the St John's Ambulance person for me while I stayed with Kirsten. In this crowd, there'd be someone I knew who would go to him for me. I lowered my hand and led her into the flower hut. It was cool and scented like a hot-house, that mossy smell of damp green leaves mixed with the sweetness of rose and gardenia, and the sound of the indignant bull faded to a hush in the gentle hum of people admiring flowers. We threaded our way among them. On our right was a central isle of flower specimens, vases with three perfect blooms in each: roses, honeysuckle, marigolds. Along the side of the hut was a line of tables heavy with miniature gardens: a tiny crofthouse, a Japanese ravine with bonsai trees, a pebbled beach. Pansies smirked mascara'd eyes at us as we passed, and hanging cactus stretched out spider arms to catch our hair. The ten metres felt like so many cables against wind and tide, but we came at last to the the bottle-neck between the half-can shed and the square one joined to it. There luck came at last, in the form of one of my sailors, pointing out his volcano garden creation to his mates. It was Drew, with the bottle-blond Mohican, as mad as a south-sea mate, but I knew he'd do what I asked. I ushered Kirsten ahead of me through the doorway, and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned his face to mine, surprised. I made a ‘sssh' mouth and spoke softly in his ear.

‘Drew, it's an emergency. Anders is by the engines. Can you tell him to come to me, at the caravan?'

His eyes went round as pebbles. I glanced at Kirsten, and he followed my gaze, and understood. He nodded his head emphatically, and twisted off among the crowd.

Help was on its way. I came beside Kirsten again to pass the sheaves of green oats and jars of jam. A wooden wheelbarrow filled with one enormous kale plant, its roots still dark with earth, half-blocked our path. Beyond it, a man in black breeks and a blue and white Fair Isle gansey was sitting in an upright restin-shair, demonstrating how to weave straw to make a traditional kishie, the Shetland back-basket that was supported in place by a band around the forehead. He looked up, and I saw by his face that he knew Kirsten; he leaned forward and drew in his half-finished basket to let us pass. I was beginning to feel the space behind my back was filled with people watching, and wondering.

We reached the hut doorway at last, a double-door rectangle of bright sunlight. Kirsten flinched again as the light hit her, and raised her forearm against it.

‘Close your eyes if you like,' I said. ‘I'll lead you.'

It was a dozen steps to the admin caravan. I steered Kirsten towards it. ‘Open your eyes now,' I said, ‘for the steps.' I helped her up them and into the caravan. Sanctuary.

The girl behind the table was Kirsten's age, a cheery, ruddy-cheeked crofter lass in a Voe Show T-shirt. She took one look at Kirsten, and brought round a chair for her. ‘Kirsten, lass, sit down. You shouldna be out today.'

Kirsten folded into the chair. She looked at the end of her strength.

‘Can you put out a tannoy for me?' I asked. ‘We need Father Mikhail, if he's here still.'

I'd have had that lass on my watch any day. She went straight to her intercom, without any questions or fussing, and sent the message out, clear as daylight. ‘Father Mikhail, if you're on the showground, could you come to the caravan immediately, please. Father Mikhail, Father Mikhail, to the caravan, please.' Then she went to fill the kettle.

I went to the door of the caravan, and stood there, scanning the people. Bless Drew, here he was, weaving his way through parents collecting their recorder-playing children with Anders in tow, pointing to the caravan. I scurried down the metal steps. Drew gave me a thumbs-up sign and squirmed back into the hut. Anders greeted me in rapid Norwegian: ‘What's wrong?'

‘Kirsten's here, doped up. I need the first-aid people, the green and white tent, over behind the engines.'

‘Here?'

I nodded, and he turned on his heel and began to run through the crowd. Again, I blessed the ship's habit of obedience. The cavalry was coming. On his way he passed Father Mikhail, striding towards us. I went to meet him.

‘Father, thank goodness.'

‘Cass.' Scotland was a missionary country now; Father Mikhail was Polish, and none of us tried to pronounce his second name, let alone try to write the complicated sequence of ys, cs, and zs. He was barely thirty, and not long ordained; we were only his second parish. He gave me a quick look-over, brown eyes crinkling in his square, tanned face. ‘What is up?'