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 edge.’ Hamish chuckled, soberly, and added, ‘And yet you know what…what is truly amazing?’
‘What?’
‘These cliffs kept the Foulans going for centuries.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Look. See here –’ The Shetland officer was pointing at some distant atoms of birdlife, halfway down the enormous rockwall. ‘Puffin yonder, they nest on the cliffside. In the old days, when food ran low after a long winter, the local men would climb down the cliffs and steal the eggs and the chicks. It was a vital source of protein in the bad times. Baby puffin is very tasty – lots of fat, ye see.’
‘They’d climb down these cliffs?’
‘Aye. They actually developed a strange deformity. Like a kind of human
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 edge.’ Hamish chuckled, soberly, and added, ‘And yet you know what…what is truly amazing?’
‘What?’
‘These cliffs kept the Foulans going for centuries.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Look. See here –’ The Shetland officer was pointing at some distant atoms of birdlife, halfway down the enormous rockwall. ‘Puffin yonder, they nest on the cliffside. In the old days, when food ran low after a long winter, the local men would climb down the cliffs and steal the eggs and the chicks. It was a vital source of protein in the bad times. Baby puffin is very tasty – lots of fat, ye see.’
‘They’d climb down these cliffs?’
‘Aye. They actually developed a strange deformity. Like a kind of human
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