shoulders seemed very narrow and her neck very long. She finished the wine and poured herself another glass.
‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘if it was worth me getting dressed just yet.’
Kenny thought he must be the happiest man in the world.
Later he grilled some of the piltock he’d caught the day before. She sat at the table, dressed now as he’d imagined in jeans and a sweater, and she watched him carefully as he scaled the fish, cut off the heads, sliced the belly and pulled out the guts.
‘Was it a bad day at work?’ He’d sensed some tension in her.
‘I’m worried about Willy,’ she said. ‘Something’s making him anxious. He gets all flustered and confused. I hate to see him like that.’
‘Maybe being questioned by Jimmy Perez didn’t help.’
‘I don’t believe it was that,’ she said. ‘Jimmy was fine with the old man. He’s a good listener and he has a gentle way about him.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure he’s cut out for the police. What do you think?’
Kenny thought Jimmy’s mother had a gentle way about her too. But he didn’t want to think about her and the strange obsession that had taken hold of him that summer when he was working in Fair Isle.
‘Peter Wilding came in to visit Willy late this afternoon,’ Edith said suddenly. Kenny thought maybe the visit from the writer had been on her mind all the time, was what had been troubling her all evening.
‘That was kind.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what he could want with the old man. He’s full of questions and demands and Willy gets upset so easily.’
‘Perhaps he wants to put Willy into a book.’
‘Perhaps he does, but he’s like some sort of parasite, sucking the life from him.’ She paused and Kenny was surprised to see she was shaking. ‘Wilding told me he’s put in an offer on a house in Buness,’ she went on. ‘He wants to stay in Shetland, but Willy’s old house in Biddista isn’t good enough for him. “Shetland is my inspiration.” That’s what he told me.’
Kenny wasn’t sure what to say. He’d taken Wilding fishing once with Martin Williamson and thought he was a weak, easily scared sort of man. He’d sat white-faced, holding the side of the boat. He wouldn’t be sorry if the writer moved to the south of the island. It would be better if a young Shetland family could move into Willy’s old house. It would be nice if there was another child around the place, a friend for Alice Williamson, who must get awful lonely.
Edith went into the garden to dig some early tatties to go with the fish and came back, carrying them in a colander with a cut lettuce on the top. She rinsed the light soil from her hands under the tap.
‘Would you like
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘He’d love that. You’re a kind man, Kenny Thomson.’
She squeezed a quarter of a lemon over the piltock and ate the fish very seriously, almost with respect. He reflected that that was how she did everything.
After the meal he asked if she’d like to take a walk with him over the hill. Some evenings she came with him and he always enjoyed her company. He thought it might help her forget her worries at work. She hesitated a moment before answering, so he could tell she was tempted, but in the end she shook her head.
‘I’d like to finish the knitting for Ingirid. Just in case.’
Their daughter was expecting a baby, their first grandchild, and was due in ten days’ time. Edith had holiday saved up so she could fly down to Aberdeen as soon as labour started. She was making a shawl for the child. The knitting was so intricate that it looked like one of the wedding veils worn in his grandparents’ day. Then, the women had said the yarn should be so fine that you should be able to pull the veil through a wedding ring.
‘I might speak to her on the phone,’ Edith went on. ‘Just see how she is.’
Kenny understood. As the birth got closer Ingirid had become homesick for the islands. It had seemed to them that she’d never missed Shetland before. She had her new life in the south, her friends and her man. Now some nights there were tearful phone calls. Hormones, Edith said, but Kenny thought it was just that she wanted her baby to be born a Shetlander.
He put his boots on at the door, and called to Vaila. Walking up the track his mind wandered and suddenly he found himself near the top of the hill looking down to the sea. A bonxie dived at him, just missing the crown of his cap. They were always aggressive this time of year when they had young. But he was used to the skuas on the hill and he didn’t miss a step. He never had to worry about where he was putting his feet. The hill was so familiar and the way he took was the same every evening. If I had paint on my boots, he thought, there’d be one set of footprints on the grass even after a week, because I never vary my path.
It was a clear evening, so still that he fancied he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks at the foot of the hill. There were cars outside the Herring House. Martin opened the cafe there for dinner on Friday night. It seemed having a murder so close by hadn’t put people off coming.
Tonight he thought he would walk on a little further, break the usual routine, check how many sheep there were up near the Pit o’ Biddista. And because he knew the hill so well, his thoughts ranged again.
I was nearly unfaithful with Jimmy Perez’s mother. I sat on a white beach at the North Haven on Fair Isle in midsummer and held her hand. Her lips were warm and tasted of salt. We told each other we were in love.
He caught his breath, thinking how close he had come to leaving Edith. He had almost thrown away what was now most dear to him.
I could have been Jimmy Perez’s stepfather.
He’d completely forgotten that summer, hadn’t thought about it for years, but now, because of the death of a stranger, Jimmy Perez had come into his life again and the memories had returned. He’d never told Edith about it. He wondered briefly if he should, but after all this time it had no importance. Why hurt her?
Now he was on the highest part of the hill, close to the cliff-edge. There was still no wind so the walking had been easy. But he felt a strain in his knee, a dull pain which came occasionally, and he was a little bit breathless. Five years ago he could have done the walk faster. He stopped to look back at his land and despite the familiarity he felt a pride in it.
The grass here was cropped very short by sheep and rabbits. In places there were rough piles of rock; he’d never known whether they were natural or the remains of some ancient people who’d had the land before him. He stood on the rocky bridge between the sea and the Pit o’ Biddista. The Pit was a great gouge out of the land all the way down to sea level. When they were children, Willy had told them a story about how it had been made. He said it had been formed by a giant who lost his heart to a Shetland lass. She’d been frightened of him, not realizing he only meant her well, and running way from him, she’d fallen over the cliff. In his grief and rage, the giant had scooped out a hole in the rock and flung the debris into the sea, where it formed the stacks that ran away from the coast. Kenny thought it looked more like the core had been taken out from a huge apple, but a lovesick giant made a better story for children. Willy had entertained generations of them with his stories.
It wasn’t a sheer drop into the Pit on all sides. The side nearest to the sea was all rock, an almost flat cliff, cut with ledges where the kittiwakes nested. But the landward side was grass all the way down, pink with thrift and crossed by rabbit tracks. At the bottom of the seaward side a tunnel ran out to the beach and with a very high tide the water was funnelled through it, churning and boiling with the pressure, spitting spray almost to the top. They’d played there when they were children, sliding down the grass slope to the bottom, so their pants were stained green and their knees covered with mud. But never at high water. Then they lay on their stomachs and peered into the hole below.
Looking down, he saw that a ewe had somehow managed to get almost to sea level. She was trapped on a ledge, too stupid to turn round and make her way back. Sometimes he thought sheep were the dumbest creatures in the world. Her fleece was thick and ragged, so heavy that it almost seemed to be falling off her back. She should be clipped with the others the next day.
He began to edge down the slope towards her. He’d try to get behind her and persuade her to scramble up. Although the grass was dry enough it was still greasy underfoot; he was glad of the texture of the thrift to give him grip. He felt suddenly, startlingly, very happy. The pain in his knee was forgotten, it was a fine summer evening and Edith would be home all weekend. And he could still climb down the Pit o’ Biddista as he had when he was a boy.
