... friend and author, Marsali Taylor, and her central character, Cass Lynch...
‘Cass
Lynch,’ my editor said. ‘The Girl at
the Heart of the Longship Case.’ He
tended to think in cliches. ‘Innocent
Victim or Holllywood Star’s Love Triangle?’
‘Do
my best,’ I said.
Once
I got to Shetland, it looked like my best wasn’t going to be good enough. ‘Cass Lynch?’ my contact said. ‘Pulling teeth. Look, she did two interviews.
The first one was after the body was found, with a policeman on each
side. The second one was a Guardian
exclusive, with her mother – do you know about her mother?’
I’d
done my homework. ‘Oil man father,
Irish, French opera singer mother.
Eugenie Delafauve. Specialist in
music from the court of the Sun King.’
‘And
a turn on her own. Dramatic plus. Anyway, she presented Cass as the well-brought
up young lady with her family around her.
The only time anyone’s ever seen her in a dress. No awkward questions. Since then, the barbed wire’s gone up.’ He looked thoughtful. One hand rose slowly in a hang-on gesture.
‘Unless we approach her by sea …’
Which
was how I came to find myself on board a sailing boat belonging to one of his
mates, Barry, dodging ropes as the head-height piece of metal at the bottom of
the sail crashed overhead. Even in late
July it was freezing, and I was very glad when, three hours later, our skipper
nodded at the houses ahead of us and said, ‘Brae.’
I
kept out of the way as he scrambled about hauling flapping sails down, and we
chugged into the marina. A boy in a
navy jersey came out of one of the boats to indicate where we should park, and
followed us over to stand, hand out, ready to take our ropes.
Out on the water |
It
was then I realised that I was looking straight at Cass Lynch herself. I hadn’t expected her to be so small; five
foot two, at a guess, and wearing sandshoes.
The jumper was a navy seaman’s gansey, too big for her, and worn above
working jeans. She had a black plait hanging down her back, with the occasional
curl breaking free around her ears. For
all her size, she was strong, pulling our thirty footer in on its line as if it
was a rowboat, then she moved quickly around the dock, fastening one rope,
going back to alter another, until she finally exchanged glances with Barry,
and they nodded at each other, one seaman to another. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Give us ten minutes to tidy up, then come
aboard for a cup of tea.’
She
hesitated over that one. I had a good
look at her face now, tilted up towards us. The long, straight scar on her
right cheek was lit by the sun, a snail-trail of white skin in her tanned face. I’d read up on her lover’s death in the
middle of the Atlantic; it was another thing I wanted to ask her about. Apart from that, she had a stubborn chin,
high cheekbones, dark lashes and eyes as blue as cornflowers. The scar stopped her from being pretty, but
she had a face you wouldn’t forget.
‘You
can tell us about the local area,’ I said quickly, seeing the refusal trembling
on her lips. It was a shameless play on
what she’d see as her duty to her fellow sailors, and it worked.
She
nodded. ‘Ten minutes, then.’
We
had tea in mugs, out in the cockpit.
She was accompanied by a bearded Thor look-alike, introduced as Anders,
with no further explanation. He gave me
a charming smile and asked if I objected to rats. ‘Yes,’ I said firmly, and was startled to see him fish a large
black and white beast out of his shirt and take it back to their own boat.
‘So,’
I said, once the livestock had been disposed of, and Barry and Anders had gone
below to talk about the engine in a boys-together sort of way, ‘what’s around
here?’ I tried not to look
disparagingly round at the cluster of houses, though I had to concede that the
green hills, the burns thick with formica-yellow marsh marigolds, the
seaweed-fringed shoreline, the sparkling sea, was all scenic enough.
Her
blue eyes were surprisingly shrewd, as if she was considering where she’d put
me on board a ship. ‘Depends what you
want. There’s a lot of Britain’s most
northerly. Indian take-away, chip shop,
hairdresser, Co-op, fire station, astro-turf, high school. The blue roof is the leisure centre, with a
swimming pool, and there are showers in the clubhouse here.’
‘Historic
stuff? Isn’t there a haunted house?’ It
had been where the film crew had stayed, in the Longship case.
Her
chin jerked off to the left. ‘Busta,’
she conceded. ‘Oldest still-inhabited house in Shetland. It’s a hotel now.’
I
was going to have to use shock tactics.
I put on my best naïve expression and said, ‘Wasn’t that where all the
film stars stayed, when there was the murder here?’
Her
face went mutinous. She shrugged.
‘Were
you here then?’
A
reluctant nod.
‘Involved
with the filming? Didn’t they moor the
longship here?’
Her
chin tilted again. ‘At the pier there.’
‘Were
you on board?’
Field of buttercups, Shetland |
I
could see she didn’t want to lie about it.
Her head went up, and her blue eyes looked directly at mine. Suddenly she turned from a shabby near-boy
to the captain of the ship, her voice authoritative. ‘We don’t talk about it here.’
Her glance flicked down to the engine-room; she drained her tea, and
rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to
get back. Have a good stay here in
Brae.’
I
watched her unobtrusively for the rest of the evening; moving about below in
her Khalida, in the gold of a lit oil
lamp, coming up on deck to brush her teeth, with her hair a loose cloud about
her shoulders. I got a few good
pictures, but there was no conversational opening for me to rush in. I’d get her in the morning, two women in the
showers together.
I
was too late. By half past eight the
next morning, as I was heading for the clubhouse, make-up bag and towel in one
hand, she was already dressed in a faded black all-in-one sailing suit, and
starting to haul grey plastic dinghies about on the boating club slip. I got an over-the-shoulder hello. When I came out, she was surrounded by
children in blue plastic overalls, drawing diagrams on a whiteboard. She could
talk to them all right: ‘Okay, so let’s
look at the sea first. How windy is
it?’
Oh,
well. It wasn’t the first time I’d made
up an interview from so little material.
I just had to decide the angle. Cass Lynch was understandably tight-lipped
about the events of the Longship Case … still finds it hard to talk about … ‘It
was a difficult time,’ she admitted …
I
glanced across at the slip and heard her voice again. ‘What’s the tide doing?
Why does it matter?’ There was a
mutter of voices, and then a scrum of children and a welter of flapping neon
sails. She moved among them, calm and
competent, then clambered into a rubber boat and herded them out of the marina,
like a swan rounding up unruly cygnets.
I shot a couple of photos; she turned to see where the flash had come
from. The sullen look was gone; now she
was smiling. She spun the rescue boat
round in a roar of engine, setting the dinghies rocking in the wash. The children shrieked with delight, and she
laughed, and waved to me.
My
car was bigger than the boat she lived in, and the cost of her whole wardrobe
wouldn’t have bought me one pair of shoes, yet at that moment I suddenly envied
her. I deleted what I’d done, and began
again.
Cass Lynch, the girl in the Longship Case, has moved on …
... about the author... Marsali Taylor’s writing career began with plays for her school pupils to perform in the local Festival. Her first Shetland-set crime novel starring quick-witted, practical sailor Cass Lynch and Inverness DI Gavin Macrae was published in 2013, and there are now five in the series, with a sixth due this November. Reviewers have praised their clever plotting, lively characters and vividly-evoked setting. Marsali’s interest in history is shown in her self-published Women’s Suffrage in Shetland, and Norse-set crime novella, Footsteps in the Dew. She helped organise the 2015 Shetland Noir festival, and is a ‘regular’ at Bloody Scotland and Iceland Noir. She’s a columnist and reviewer for the e-zine Mystery People.
... about the book... When she wangles the job of skippering a Viking longship for a film, Cass Lynch thinks her big break has finally arrived - even though it means returning home to the Shetland Islands, which she ran away from as a teenager. Then the ‘accidents’ begin - and when a dead woman turns up on the boat’s deck, Cass realises that she, her family and her past are under suspicion from the disturbingly shrewd Detective Inspector Macrae. Cass must call on all her local knowledge, the wisdom she didn’t realise she’d gained from sailing and her glamorous, French opera singer mother to clear them all of suspicion - and to catch the killer before Cass becomes the next victim.
You can follow Marsali on Amazon her website and on Facebook
You can follow Marsali on Amazon her website and on Facebook
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