God …’ The pink got a shade darker. ‘I didn’t … it was a mistake and I really don’t think …’
And then she slapped me. Not hard enough to do any real damage, but it still stung like a bastard.
‘How could you? How could you take advantage of me like that, I was drunk, what kind of a man are you, you’re old enough to be my father, you slimy, lowlife, exploitative—’
‘Don’t be stupid; nothing happened. You spent half the night throwing up, and the rest of it snoring from both ends.’
‘Ah.’ She bit her top lip, looked away. ‘I see, you were being humorous, joking that I was promiscuous and predatory, when in fact I was revolting and disgusting …’
‘Believe it or not: you’re not irresistible, and not all men are potential rapists.’ I rubbed a hand across my throbbing cheek. ‘And if you hit me again, I’m hitting you back.’
A pale blue glow edged the horizon, the sky a deep indigo twinkling with stars. Most of Lerwick lay in darkness, just the sulphur ribbons of streetlights and the occasional car’s headlights breaking the gloom, but the Holmsgarth ferry terminal was lit up like a football stadium.
My badly behaved wheelie case jinked and skittered as I limped down the covered walkway after Dr McDonald. Her breath streamed out behind her in the fluorescent lighting.
Cold leached through the soles of my shoes, making my feet ache.
Shetland in November – I had to be mad.
The ferry terminal looked like a massive corrugated-iron pig sty, its grey curved roof trimmed in red.
She stomped down the stairs into the reception area. A ZetTrans bus idled outside, its blue-and-white livery spattered with pale brown. ‘How are we getting there?’
It speaks! ‘Thought you weren’t talking to me.’
She stuck her nose in the air. ‘That wasn’t nice.’
‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t nice getting hammered, sticking me with the bill, then puking all over the bathroom, was it?’
Headlights swept across the ferry terminal as a little white Ford Fiesta pulled in beside the bus. It had the distinctive blue-and-yellow checked stripe down the side and blues-and-twos fixed to the roof. The world’s smallest patrol car. A uniformed constable unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, then stood there, checking his watch.
I dragged my wheelie case out into the cold dark morning.
The PC looked up. He had a thin pale face, a long nose, and a short-back-and-sides haircut with a gelled fringe at the front. ‘You Henderson?’ A north-east accent, so he wasn’t a local lad.
‘Thanks for the lift, Constable …?’
‘Clark. Royce Clark. Like James Bond only without the gadgets.’
‘OK …’ I went around to the boot, but there was sod all space for luggage in there – it was jammed full of safety gear and black holdalls.
‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Everything bigger is out at that double murder on Unst.’
Dr McDonald peered into the back seat. ‘Oh dear …’ More safety gear.
‘Well, you’re not going very far.’ Royce pulled open the back door, grabbed the smaller of her cases and jammed it in behind the driver’s seat. ‘Maybe fit the big one on your lap?’
She swallowed, shuffled her feet on the frosty tarmac. ‘Right, yes, that’ll be fine, it’s not like we’re going to be stuck in there for ages, is it, it’s more of an adventure this way, and—’
I took the big case off her. ‘It’s bloody freezing: stop faffing about and get in.’
‘You know I don’t like enclosed—’
‘You’re the one wants to go see Henry.’
Royce blew into his cupped hands. ‘No offence, guys, but I’ve got a load on today and we’re short staffed, so …?’
‘Yes, we’re fine, perfect, it’s all good, no problem here at all, I’ll get in the back …’ She rubbed her fingers together, then took two deep breaths and climbed in.
I lumped the big case onto her lap; it took up all the remaining space, leaving her peering over the top like a wee kid at a sweet-shop counter. Clunked the door shut. Then squeezed in the front, wheelie case stuffed down at my feet.
Royce stuck the blower on full and pulled out of the car park, heading north out of town. Some sort of live Queen concert blared out of the car stereo – Freddie Mercury singing about not wanting to live forever.
Be careful what you wish for.
I turned it down.
‘So,’ Royce looked in the rear-view mirror, ‘you’re a criminal psychologist then?’
‘Can you keep your eyes on the road, please, only I get nervous in cars, well, any enclosed space really, I mean it’s nothing personal, but—’
‘Yes, she’s a criminal psychologist.’
‘Great.’ He nodded, shifting down as we turned the corner and headed up a steep hill. The last remnants of Lerwick disappeared behind us. ‘You here about the murder? Bizarre, right? Married couple hacked to death with an axe. Word is they were swingers.’
‘Actually—’
‘Can you believe that? On a wee island like Unst? Not like everyone doesn’t know everyone else’s business up here, is it? Break wind in Valsgarth and everyone in Sumburgh knows what it smells like before you’re halfway home.’
‘We’re not really—’
‘Tell you: it was quite the culture shock, coming up here from Lossiemouth. You know most of them are related? Well, except for the incomers. Our victims – you know, the swingers – they were from Guildford originally. That kind of thing’s probably quite normal down there …’
Scrubby heathland drifted by in the dark, pale yellow and green in the patrol car’s headlights.
I pulled out my mobile. ‘We’re not here for your murders.’
‘No?’
‘Birthday Boy.’
Another nod. ‘Right.’ The road swept around to the left, and the bleak landscape opened up into a valley. Pre-dawn light turned a sea loch into a pewter slab, nestling between dark hills. ‘Want to know what I think?’
Not really.
My phone bleeped and pinged: fifteen missed calls. Eight from DC Rhona Massie – probably wanting another moan about Sergeant Smith from Aberdeen – the rest from Michelle. Three new text messages as well, all sent while the ferry was out of mobile range.
Royce held up a finger. ‘I think
