on the last fields, staring at the sea – some looked empty, some had smoking chimneys. And all of these homesteads had a crouched and fearful appearance, huddled against the punitive wind: like dogs too often clattered by a brutal owner.
The path to Charpentier’s croft – the apparent scene of the crime – was short and soggy. Simon was glad he was wearing his walking boots.
‘OK,’ said the Shetland inspector. ‘We haven’t touched anything since the discovery.’
Sanderson said:
‘Just as it was found?’
‘And a wee bit grim! Gird yourselves. The body was discovered by a friend, Edith Tait. Another old lady who lives in the cottage just over that field. She’s gone to stay on the other side of the island.’
The modest croft seemed innocent enough in the cool northern sunlight. Whitewashed and foursquare. There was no sign of police activity, none of the kerfuffle Simon had expected.
Hamish looked at the assembled faces; he paused, theatrically.
‘Shall we?’
Everyone nodded; Hamish Leask thrust open a second door and Simon swiftly scanned the room. The furniture was austere; a painting of the Queen was hanging next to a photo of a Pope. And there was the corpse: lying on the floor, next to the fireplace.
The woman was old, she was dressed in some kind of housecoat. Her body below the neck was virtually untouched; her grey hair was long. She was dark-skinned and barefoot. But it was her face and shoulders that showed what had really happened.
Her face was shredded. Literally ripped into shreds: flaps of skin hung from her cheeks and forehead; the lips had been cut away but left to dangle, livid pink flesh showed inside the savage wounds. Her tongue had been sliced in two: it was protruding, and forked by the slice. Blood was spattered over her throat, the longest ribbon of skin draped down to her chest. Despite the complex and barbaric wounding, an expression was still visible: her face was contorted by pain.
Simon felt himself weaken, somehow, at the appalling sight: it was worse than he had anticipated. Much worse. But he needed to stay lucid and cogent: do his job, be a journalist. He took a pen from his pocket – he needed to grasp something to calm himself.
DCI Sanderson approached the corpse. The detective stooped to look at the bruises on the neck. Blood had drained into the victim’s chest, discolouring the flesh; the intense rotten odour of decomposition was quite profound. The corpse would have to be moved very, very soon.
‘Hey, Tomasky. Have a look.’
The Polish DS dutifully stepped near. Simon quelled his sense of repulsion, and did the same – uninvited.
Sanderson whistled, almost appreciatively.
‘Expertly done, again. Another garrotting.’
Simon followed the line of the DCI’s pen: he was pointing at some thin weals on the neck. They were livid and painful-looking. Blood had been drawn, but the bruising was minimal, the killing had indeed been swift, ruthless, and expert. As the DCI said. And yet the torture looked wild and insane.
Something else caught Simon’s attention. He looked down at her feet. Something there was not quite right; something there was…not right at all.
He didn’t know whether to mention it.
Sanderson was off his haunches and saying, briskly: ‘You’ll need to get her to Pathology in Lerwick, right?’
‘Aye, we’re flying her out this afternoon. Kept her too long. But we thought you might want to see the scene first, Detective. Seeing as it is so…unusual.’
‘Lifted anything?’
‘Noo. No signs of forced entry – but that means nothing on Foula, people don’t lock their doors. No prints. Just…nothing.’
He shrugged; Sanderson nodded, distractedly.
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
Tomasky mused, aloud. ‘O moj boze. Holy Mother. The face.’
Sanderson came back: ‘Quite something.’
Simon was puzzled, as well as horrified. He was still thinking about her feet. The weirdness of it all. He turned.
‘So the big question is…what links this woman to Françoise Gahets?’
Sanderson was gazing about the room. ‘Yup. We’re on it,’ he said, pensively. ‘She was from Gascony. Isn’t that right, Hamish?’
‘Aye. French Basque Country near Biarritz. Came here with her mother when she was very young, sixty or seventy years ago.’
A sober pause enveloped them; the moan of the ceaseless Foula wind outside was the only noise, carrying the faint bleats of sheep.
‘Enough?’ said Hamish.
‘Enough for now,’ Sanderson answered. ‘We’ll want to speak to her friend, of course.’
‘Edith Tait.’
‘Maybe tomorrow?’
The Shetland inspector nodded, and turned to Jimmy Nicolson.
The good cheer of the pilot had quite departed. ‘She was such a grand old gal. Came here after the war they say. Now look at her.’
He put a shielding hand to his eyes, and walked out of the room.
Leask sighed. ‘Foula is a tiny wee place. This has hit them hard. Let’s go for a walk.’
He led them outside into the cold bright air. Jimmy Nicolson was sitting in his car, passionately smoking a cigarette. Tomasky wandered over to join him, but Hamish Leask was already hiking in the opposite direction: up the nearest hill. He turned and called over his burly shoulder.
‘Let’s climb the Sneug! I feel a need to clear my lungs.’
Simon and Sanderson glanced at each other, then turned and pursued the Shetland officer.
The incline was austere, it was too exhausting to talk as they made their ascent. The journalist found his blood thumping painfully in his chest as, at last, they crested the top of the mighty hill.
The wind at the top was fierce. They were on the edge of a sudden cliff. He edged closer to the drop to have a look.
‘Bloody hell!’
Seagulls were wheeling at the bottom of the cliffs, but they were minuscule flakes of whiteness.
‘Good God. How high is that?’
‘One of the biggest sea-cliffs in Europe, maybe in the world,’ said Leask. ‘More than half a mile down.’
Simon stepped back.
‘Very advisable,’ said Leask. ‘The wind can whip you off these clifftops – and just flip you over the
