‘Did you notice that, Lawrie?’

  The elder boy shook his head. ‘Like I said. He was just Dad.’

  Chapter Ten

  KIRKWALL WAS LOOKING FESTIVE, BUT THERE was nothing cheery about the police station, from the outside at least. It was a square, stained concrete block, which Perez supposed had been put up very quickly in the sixties, with no thought to any aesthetic appeal. He loved being in Orkney, but there were times when he missed the police station in Shetland’s biggest town, Lerwick, with its traditional stone and its view over the town to the playpark, where the Up Helly Aa galley was burned every year.

  Phil wandered into Perez’s office. After taking Vaila’s statement, the constable had been on the phone, checking the records of the ferry to Westray on the day of Archie’s murder and back to the Orkney mainland on the first sailing the following morning, the day Archie’s body had been found. He was good at chatting and getting better at listening, and his local connections made him valuable to the team.

  ‘There was only one crossing the day that Archie went missing. The early one, with the others cancelled because of the gale. It was mostly trucks and one new tractor. Eight cars. They booked and paid online, and I have their details. All but two have Westray addresses. The others come from Kirkwall.’ Phil paused. ‘There were half a dozen foot passengers, but if they pay in cash once they’re on board, and a couple of them did, then there’s no record.’

  ‘Can I have a list of the drivers and the details of the passengers who paid by card?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve printed it off.’

  ‘Might be an idea to talk to the purser and see if he recognized the ones who paid cash.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll head down to the pier when the ferry comes in this afternoon. I was at school with some of the crew.’

  Perez looked at the list. The Westray names meant nothing to him, but one of the Kirkwall drivers stood out. Perez pointed at it on the list. ‘You’ll recognize him?’

  ‘I do! He taught me history. Some character him.’

  Everyone in Orkney knew George Riley. He was an Englishman with unruly red hair and a voice that would have commanded attention on the battlefield. He was flamboyant, charismatic, a leading member of the Kirkwall Musical Theatre Society. He directed all the grammar school productions and occasionally took a leading role himself. He sang in the cathedral choir. He taught Cassie history too. Perez had bumped into him at parents’ evenings and found him a little intimidating. ‘Do we know when he left Westray?’

  ‘The first boat yesterday. He probably wouldn’t have known anything about Archie’s death when he went.’

  He will now though. Perez was surprised that the teacher hadn’t been in touch. He’d know the Stout boys from school. Besides, he was the kind of man who might enjoy the drama of a murder investigation, and they’d asked everyone who visited the island that day to come forward.

  ‘You’ve checked if any of the other passengers has come to our attention?’

  ‘This foot passenger – Nat Wilkinson – was done for possession, but that was more than ten years ago and there’s been nothing since. I’m guessing he’s settled down. He’d be in his thirties now. A bit old for partying.’

  Perez smiled at the thought that the thirties were a bit old for anything. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There is an earlier note in his record though,’ Phil went on. ‘He was questioned about the death by drowning of his father. Nat was fourteen, still at the grammar school, and home from the hostel for the summer holidays. His father slipped off the pier and the lad was the only witness.’

  ‘Any indication that the death was more than an accident?’

  ‘Nothing here to suggest it. The father was known as a boozer apparently, and often unsteady on his feet.’

  Perez thought about that. It was hard to see how a tragic accident so many years earlier could be connected to Archie’s death, but he’d let Willow have the information in case she wanted to follow it up. ‘We’ll get Willow and Ellie to chat to all the Westray folk on the list this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Could you phone Willow and fill her in? I have to go. I’ve arranged a meeting with Paul Rutherford, the local authority archaeologist in the college, and I’m already running late. It might be a waste of time, but I want to find out a bit more about the Westray story stones.’

  The college was on a hill outside the town. Waiting in reception and looking down over the water, it seemed to Perez that there could be no other academic institution in the UK with a better view. Then he thought that Orkney was all views: water and land and more water stretching to a low horizon and a changing sky.

  Rutherford was English, a proud Geordie, middle-aged. He was wearing a Newcastle United T-shirt under his jacket and had kept the accent. He looked more like a trucker than an academic and Perez liked him immediately. They sat in his office.

  ‘You’re interested in the story stones?’

  Perez nodded. ‘They could play a part in the Westray murder.’

  ‘Of course. Everyone in Kirkwall is full of it. You were friends, weren’t you? It must be hard, dealing with all this.’ He looked up at the detective but didn’t expect an answer. Perez liked him even more. ‘There are rumours that one of the stones was the murder weapon.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ So, Perez thought, word had got out.

  ‘The lass on reception has an aunty whose man comes from one of the Westray fishing families.’

  They shared a grin.

  Perez didn’t think Annie would have gossiped, but Bill was a storyteller in his own right. He’d have been tempted to entertain the bar and any information about the murder would spread like wildfire. There’d probably be a Facebook page dedicated to it, WhatsApp groups sharing weird theories.

  ‘One of the stones was the murder weapon,’ Perez said. ‘The other is missing. I just wondered if they could have any significance to Archie and his death.’

  ‘As far as I know, Archie never showed any interest in the stones themselves. Vaila was an important part of the heritage centre committee. I don’t know her well, but she’s been along to every meeting I’ve held there.’

  ‘Tell me about the stones.’

  ‘They’re a matching pair. We don’t think they were split as part of the excavation. They’re both smaller versions of the famous Westray stone and were found a little later during an excavation of one of the Noltland sites. We believe they were part of a chambered tomb, much like Maeshowe here in Orkney mainland, but much later the stones were incorporated into a communal feasting structure, probably in the ninth century.’

  ‘The time of the Vikings?’

  Rutherford smiled and nodded. ‘We can tell that because of the runes, carved into the back of the stones.’

  ‘And you can tell what those runes mean?’

  ‘Yes, they were first translated when the stone was found in the eighties, then Prof Johnson looked at them again when he was in for the later dig in 2006 and confirmed the original translation. He’s an expert in the field now.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘The first one reads: “I am Olaf, teller of tales,” and the other: “Hear my stories and know death.” It’s clear that they were meant to be read together. Olaf sounds like a show-off, a ninth-century vandal.’

  ‘You think he raided the original burial mound of the stones?’

  Rutherford laughed. ‘No, but I think he wanted to make his mark on them once they were incorporated into the feasting structure. You can imagine him holding court there with his stories of Nordic death and destruction.’ His voice became more serious. ‘These are important pieces, both for the original picked carvings on the front and the runes on the back. We need to retrieve them.’

  Perez took a while to reply. ‘The stone that killed Archie is evidence. We’ll have to hang on to it until after the trial. I have no idea yet where the other is, but of course we’re looking for it.’

  And if we find it, he thought, we’ll know who killed my friend, who hit him so hard that his skull is all over the stone.

  Perez got out his phone and showed Rutherford a photograph of the murder weapon with the runes. ‘Which inscription is on this one?’

  ‘Is that blood?’ Rutherford looked away for a moment. Perez wondered if the man might throw up, and then why he had so little physical response to the image. Because this is work, he thought, and I need a level of detachment.

  ‘I’m sorry, yes. It was used to kill Archie Stout. But I’d like to know which inscription is on this particular stone.’

  ‘It’s not really my field, but I understand the stones well enough to know that this one says: “Hear my stories and know death.”’ Rutherford was still pale. ‘Do you think there was a reason this was used? That it was some kind of message?’

  Perez shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything yet.’

  On impulse, when he left the college, he drove out of Kirkwall towards Finstown and stopped at the house where the teacher George Riley lived. It had been built in the Scottish baronial Gothic style as a hunting lodge for the grand people who came to the islands to shoot with the laird. It had a tower in one corner with a conical roof, leaded windows and an arched front door. Perez had always thought it would be a draughty, gloomy place for one person to live, but maybe it suited George Riley with his taste for the theatrical. The rumour was that he was the son of landed gentry, something of a laird himself. Certainly, the man didn’t seem short of money. There was a Range Rover parked on the gravel drive.

  Because the car was there, Perez assumed that Riley would be in. There was an iron bell pull and he could hear the ringing, loud despite the thickness of the door. Perez waited for a while and tried again. When there was still no response he wandered to the back of the building. Even in the grandest houses, most Orcadians used the rear entrance.

  The back garden was walled, and a flagged courtyard lay between the back of the house and the wall. A latched door led into the garden and Perez could hear a noise inside, a gentle scratching. Riley must be working there, though it was hard to imagine him as much of a gardener. That seemed too gentle a hobby for someone so flamboyant. Perez lifted the latch and went through.

  The garden was magnificent; it could have belonged to a grand English country house. There was a greenhouse against one of the walls, tall enough to contain fruit trees in pots. Half of the rest was separated into beds with paved paths running between. In the other half, there were a couple of rows of vegetables – leeks and sprouts, already frosted. Then there was a large patch ready to be dug over for planting in the spring. Something about this winter garden suited his mood.

  The light was already beginning to fade, but in the far corner a figure was raking dead leaves into a pile. The house backed onto a shelter belt of established deciduous trees, and the leaves must have blown across in the recent gale. The gardener was preoccupied with his task and seemed not to have heard Perez come in. He was wearing a knitted cap that covered his head, but even without seeing the hair colour, Perez could tell at once that this wasn’t Riley. This man was slighter, a little older. The inspector walked towards him, and now the gardener did look up.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Perez said. ‘I’m looking for George.’

  The worker straightened. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  Perez had been expecting an island voice. He’d assumed that this was a local man, employed to tidy the garden for winter, or maybe a regular employee. But this voice could have come from a radio announcer of the 1950s or a member of the royal family. It was clipped and very formal.

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening if the weather holds. He flew to Inverness this morning and he was only expecting to be away for a night, but there’s freezing fog apparently. He’s not sure when he’ll be home.’

  ‘Would you have a phone number for him? It is rather important that I speak to him.’ Perez was annoyed to find that his voice had become as formal as the stranger’s. He felt he’d been sucked into a strange piece of period drama. It was the fading light and this grand garden, the Gothic house as a backdrop. What could this place have to do with the Archie he’d known?

  ‘I’m sorry, but may I ask who you are?’ The man didn’t sound sorry at all. He was using the politeness as a weapon.

  Perez introduced himself. ‘I’m investigating a murder. It took place in Westray and George was there the night that a local man was killed. We’re speaking to all potential witnesses.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ The man stood for a moment staring at him. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come to the house. I’ll see if I can find his number for you.’

  They walked back through the door in the wall and across the flagged yard. Perez looked into a large kitchen with a range at one end. He waited outside while the man took off his boots at the door. He felt awkward and wondered whether to follow and if he should remove his shoes, although they were quite clean.

  ‘Come on in.’ The man was impatient now. ‘Do shut the door. It’ll be freezing again soon, and this place is impossible to keep warm.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Perez was curious, but he also wanted to stamp a little authority on the encounter.

  ‘My name’s Chambers. Miles Chambers. I’m a friend of George’s.’

  ‘You’re staying here?’

  The man looked at Perez as if he were an impertinent schoolboy. ‘I am. For a while.’

  ‘What is George doing in Inverness?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. None of my business. It’ll be something to do with his work, I suppose. But the flight was booked weeks ago. George told me that he’d be away again soon after his visit to Westray. Though he wasn’t expecting to be stranded overnight on the island. It was planned as a day trip.’ Miles was looking through a bowl of assorted objects – keys, batteries and scraps of paper – which stood on a shelf close to the range ‘I think there’s a card in here with his number.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have the number on your phone?’ Now it was Perez’s turn to be impatient.

  ‘I don’t own a mobile phone. Not any more. I don’t hold with the things. A terrible invasion of privacy.’ With a gesture of triumph, Miles pulled out a card and passed it across to Perez.

  ‘Were you in Westray with George when he went into the island?’ Phil Bain’s list hadn’t included any car passengers, but perhaps he hadn’t asked the purser for that information.

  The strange man looked up sharply. ‘No. I believe that trip was for work too. I stayed here.’ A pause. ‘I try not to interfere in George’s life.’

  ‘Did George discuss his visit with you?’

  ‘He didn’t get a chance. He came in for a shower, then he went out to school. Some meeting. Yesterday evening he had a pantomime rehearsal.’ His tone made it clear that he despised the idea of pantomime. ‘We didn’t even eat together. This morning, he went out to catch his plane. He left before I was up.’ Another pause. ‘I’m not a morning person.’

  ‘Did you know Archie Stout, the man who died?’

  ‘I know the name, but I never met him.’ Miles’s tone was impatient. It was almost dusk and freezing outside, the first faint stars appearing, but still he went to the door and put his boots back on. ‘So I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.’

  ‘Where did George stay in Westray?’ Perez had followed Miles to the door. ‘The ferries were cancelled once he got in and he didn’t take a room in the hotel.’

  ‘I think one of the islanders was kind enough to give him a bed. But really, Inspector, you should ask him.’ Chambers stamped off towards the garden.

  As Perez walked round to the front of the house and to his car, the sun had already set.

  Chapter Eleven

  WILLOW WAS BACK IN HER HOTEL room when Perez phoned. She’d felt suddenly tired and in the need for a quiet space to think through the investigation. Ellie was still canvassing the islanders who’d been visited by Archie on the afternoon of his death. She might not be local, but Willow knew she’d be good at that – easy, patient, genuinely interested.

  Because they both travelled so much for work, she and Perez had become accustomed to communicating by phone, and as soon as he spoke, Willow could tell that he was both excited and frustrated.

  ‘I’ve found out more about the story stones,’ he said.

  ‘And me. Apparently Johnson, the English professor staying here, is a leading expert in the runes. He gave me a lecture.’

  ‘So you know what they say?’

  ‘Yeah.’ They quoted the legend on the stones at almost exactly the same time and then laughed.

  ‘Important, do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘It’d be an odd coincidence. The bit on one of them about knowing death. That was the stone that killed Archie. I showed Paul Rutherford a photo of the inscription.’

  There was a comfortable silence while she thought about that. ‘Coincidences do happen. I can’t see any of the islanders going for anything so elaborate though. They’d know about the stones, and what was written there, but it seems too much like a cheap horror movie to be a Westray person’s style.’

  ‘I’ve found out that there was someone staying in Westray that night who definitely had a flair for the dramatic.’

  ‘Oh, who?’

  ‘George Riley.’

  Willow listened while Perez told his own story – about his visit to Riley’s home and his encounter with the strange visitor who was working in the garden there.

  ‘And George must have stayed on the island overnight,’ Perez said, ‘because there were no ferries running. According to Riley’s pal, someone there gave him a bed.’

  ‘What was the friend like?’

  ‘Strange. Uncommunicative. You can’t imagine they’d have much in common.’

  ‘In a relationship, do you think?’

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone. Perez was usually good at working out what was going on between people, so she was happy to wait. At last he spoke. ‘Perhaps.’