Later, in his office, he tried to call Val Turner, the Shetland archaeologist. He thought she would know if the coins had any sort of value. She’d put the Whalsay dig into context for him and because she could have had nothing to do with Mima’s death it would be possible to talk to her more freely than to Paul Berglund. But she wasn’t in and he had to leave a message on her answering machine.

He’d just replaced the receiver when his phone went. He expected it to be Val and was thrown to hear the breathy, little-girl voice of Hattie James.

‘I wonder if it might be possible to speak to you.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘No, no. Not on the phone.’

‘Were you planning to come into Lerwick in the next couple of days?’

‘No, no,’ she said again, frustrated because he didn’t seem to understand her. ‘That wouldn’t be possible. My boss has come in today.’

‘You’d like me to come there to talk to you?’ At last he could see what she wanted from him. The idea of returning to Whalsay filled him with an unexpected dread. He liked the island, what he knew of it. Why was he so reluctant to return? Why the clammy claustrophobia of impending imprisonment? Perhaps it was the fog, the lack of any recognizable horizon. Or the twisted family ties that seemed to pull him in too, so he lost his objectivity. He was tempted to suggest that she speak to Sandy, but he thought she needed careful handling, and even the new, perceptive Sandy would frighten her off.

‘Oh, please.’ The relief in her voice was palpable.

‘Is it urgent? Could it wait until this evening? Shall we meet in the Pier House at six?’

She paused. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Come to the Bod. I’ll make sure I’m on my own there.’

Chapter Twenty

Sandy stood at the north end of the island and watched the small fishing boat approach. This was nothing like the Cassandra, the huge pelagic ship owned by the Clouston family. When that went to sea it was away for weeks, far out in the north Atlantic. It landed its catch in Denmark and then went back to the fishing grounds again. There were stories all over the island about how much it had cost when Andrew bought it just before his stroke. A fortune, they said. But as long as Sandy could remember the Cloustons had had money. This boat belonged to Davy Henderson, had just been on a short trip and was already on its way home. It had been kind of Davy to take Ronald with him. It would have done him good to get away from Whalsay, even for a short while.