Red Bones (Shetland Quartet 3)

piled the plates into the sink and switched on the tap, swished the washing-up water with her hand. ‘I’ll leave these to soak for now, do them later when you’ve gone.’
    ‘Badly in what way?’ Perez asked.
    ‘She’s new here. They’ve only been married a couple of years. He should make more of an effort to help her settle. The trouble with Ronald Clouston is that he’s lazy. He’ll not put himself out. The Cassandra suits him just fine. He’s only working for a few months of the year. The rest of the time he sits on his backside reading. He likes the money right enough. The Cloustons all like money. But they’re not prepared to contribute anything back to the community.’ She took a towel from the rail on the Rayburn, dried her hands, folded it back neatly.
    ‘Fishing’s not pleasant work,’ Perez said. ‘I get seasick going home to Fair Isle on the Good Shepherd. I’d not fancy weeks in the Atlantic in winter.’
    ‘Hmm.’ Evelyn was dismissive. ‘These days on the fancy ships, it’s all pushing buttons. Not much different from being in an office.’
    Sandy wondered how his mother could know anything about fishing. If Perez weren’t there he’d have made some sort of sarcastic comment: You’ll know all about that, will you? When was the last time you were out in a force-eight north-westerly? Could you cope with the sleet and cold, the deck running with ice and the stink of fish?
    ‘Did Ronald talk about his plans to take the gun out while you were there?’
    ‘He didn’t talk about anything much. Anna had some ideas about funding for the dig. She had experience in putting together funding applications in her previous work. Ronald’s always claimed to be interested in the history of Whalsay but he won’t put himself out to preserve it.’
    ‘What did Anna do before she moved here?’
    ‘She was a kind of social worker, specializing in young offenders. But she’s always been interested in traditional crafts; that’s what brought her here.’
    Sandy caught the inspector giving a little grin and wondered what was going through his mind. Maybe he was thinking Anna treated Ronald like one of her naughty boys.
    ‘Did Ronald have anything to drink while you were there?’ Perez asked.
    ‘One can, but I was only there for half an hour.’
    ‘Does Ronald drink too much?’
    ‘All the boys here drink too much,’ Evelyn said sharply. Sandy knew she was preparing to sound off on the subject, and was relieved when they were interrupted by a bang on the kitchen door. Before anyone could answer it, the door was pushed open. One of the archaeology students was standing there. She was small and slight and to Sandy she looked about twelve. She had short choppy hair and enormous black eyes and seemed swamped in the cagoule that reached below her knees and met the yellow wellingtons.
    ‘Evelyn,’ Hattie said. ‘Is it true? I’ve just heard that Mima’s dead.’

 
Chapter Nine
     
    That morning Hattie had woken early. She was lying curled, foetus-style, inside her down sleeping bag, but she still felt cold. They’d lit a fire in the Bod the evening before to warm up when they got back from the dig, but then they’d gone to the Pier House Hotel and by the time Hattie got back the fire was out. She had gone to the Pier House to be sociable, but soon felt uncomfortable and she’d left Sophie drinking with a couple of the local lads. Sophie could drink as much as the men, stumble back to the Bod in the early hours, fall into a deep sleep and be wide awake and hangover-free ready to start work on the dig the next day. Hattie had never got the knack of either holding her drink or sleeping. Ideas and plans seemed to swirl around in her head. She’d been awake when Sophie came in the night before. She’d lain still on the hard wooden bunk but she saw the swinging beam of torchlight, heard the whispered oaths as Sophie tripped, climbing out of her clothes, then almost immediately afterwards her regular deep breathing. Sophie sounded like a child when she was sleeping, or an animal.
    She could hear the same sound now. Sophie’s sleeping bag wasn’t as good as hers but the cold never woke her. Hattie flicked on her torch. Six o’clock. Still dark outside and still misty. She could hear the regular moan of a foghorn far in the distance. Since they’d returned to the dig at Lindby, it seemed to her that Whalsay had become her entire universe. It was as if the fog cut the island off from the