2 Detective Inspector Erling Flett had taken the rather garbled call as he sat in his office contemplating the fallout from the weekend in Kirkwall, which had included a couple of fights in the town centre and a domestic, all three fuelled by alcohol. Orkney wasn’t a hotbed of crime, but it had its problems as all communities do, and consumption of alcohol and its related activities was one of them. That wasn’t to say that the islands had never featured in high-profile cases. Barely months had passed since mainland Orkney had formed part of a major murder enquiry when a young woman’s body had been discovered in the Ring of Brodgar. Fortunately, the perpetrator had not proved to be local, although the notoriety of what became known as the Stonewarrior case had certainly put Orkney and its Neolithic stone circle even more prominently on the map than it had been before. Tourists visiting the islands, either by their own volition or via the huge cruise liners regularly docking at Kirkwall, came to view the Neolithic sites, which were plentiful. That particular case, which had become an internet sensation, had merely added a little modern-day spice to Neolithic history. Erling asked the man to repeat what he’d just said, a little more slowly this time. ‘My name’s Mike Jones. I’m doing up an old schoolhouse on the island of Sanday. I hired Hugh Clouston to break up the ground at the back of the building. He dug up a human skull.’ ‘Is Hugh there with you?’ ‘He is. Do you want to speak to him?’ Erling indicated he did. Unearthing the past in Orkney was an everyday occurrence and probably something Hugh, who he knew, had met before. When Hugh came on the line, Erling asked him exactly what had happened. After Hugh had said his piece, Erling asked, ‘How far down was this?’ ‘Maybe three feet below the tar,’ Hugh estimated. ‘I stopped when I brought up the skull. There’s another bone. Maybe a leg bone.’ ‘And you’re sure it’s human?’ ‘I’d say so. And small.’ ‘A child?’ Erling said. ‘Possibly.’ ‘Can you secure the area until I can get out to you?’ ‘Sure thing. I’ll put a tarpaulin over it.’ Erling asked to speak to Mike again. ‘How long have you been renovating?’ ‘Since spring.’ ‘Have you found anything else?’ The hesitant silence suggested he might have. ‘Well?’ Erling encouraged him. ‘Nothing in the grounds, no.’ ‘Inside the building?’ Another hesitation. ‘I found something in the loft. Strips of old muslin made into flowers. I took one to the museum and Sam Flett urged me to put it back where I’d found it. He was adamant about that.’ ‘Did Sam say why?’ ‘He said they represented the souls of dead children.’ Erling waited until the other passengers had climbed into the tiny island hopper, then took the last seat nearest the pilot. The woman with the fiddle case, who he recognized as a visiting music teacher, inserted her earplugs. The other passenger looked like a businessman with his briefcase and smart suit. Dougie, the pilot, started the engine, indicating that earplugs weren’t so much a luxury as a necessity. Particularly if you were island hopping all day like the music teacher. A few moments of loud revving saw them bumping along the tarmac past a ‘proper’-sized plane bound shortly for Edinburgh. In moments they were up, rising into a clear sky like a seagull. From the ground that’s exactly what they would look like. Like most Orcadians, Erling was familiar with this mode of transport. By far the quickest method of reaching the outer isles, it was wholly dependent on the weather. Mist brought the service to a halt, as did strong winds. Often he’d arrived by plane, only to return by ferry because the weather had changed. Today the late-October sky was clear, the wind only brisk. Erling turned his attention to the view. In truth he never tired or became blasé at this aerial sight of the archipelago he called home. Of the seventy islands, only twenty were inhabited. Sandstone formed their base, which was covered in rich fertile soil, as evidenced by the green pasture below. But mild winters didn’t mean that the cattle for which Orkney was famous wintered outside. Erling knew that well enough. On his father’s farm overlooking Scapa Flow, the kye had been housed in the big byre through the worst of the coarse winter, his job being to feed, water and clean them out. The meat they produced was second to none and world renowned. Meat, cheese and whisky, Orkney’s original exports, supplemented more recently by oil and renewable energy. And now, of course, tourism. Through the front window he caught sight of one of the huge liners heading out of the harbour north of Kirkwall, specially constructed to accommodate the eighty ships that called annually with 80,000 passengers and 25,000 crew. Kirkwall was now the most popular cruising port in the UK. An economic boon for the islands, but a headache at times for a mainland of only 202 square miles and its 11,000 inhabitants. The island they were bound for was one of the most northern ones. Its name perfectly described it. As fertile as the mainland, it had by far the best beaches. Erling had spent holidays there as a boy, staying with a distant relative of the same name who he’d called Uncle, and whose cottage overlooked miles of white sand. His ‘adopted’ uncle, a retired teacher and widower, now spent most of his time at the island museum, the same Sam Flett who had apparently urged Mike Jones to return the magic flower to the schoolhouse loft. Once off the phone with Mike, Erling had given Sam a call. Getting his answering service, he’d left a message to say he would be on the island today, and would try and call in at the museum. Sam wasn’t one for flights of fancy, so Mike’s story about being warned to put the magic flower, as he’d called it, back in the loft, didn’t sound like Sam Flett. Unless, of course, Sam had merely been teasing a gullible incomer. As the plane dropped towards the small airfield at Hammerbrake, north of the strip of water called the Peedie Sea, Erling spotted the jeep parked alongside the hut that served as the waiting area. Then they were down and trundling along the hard-core runway. As the step arrived together with the fire safety equipment, Erling was first out to allow the others to escape the confined space behind him. He exchanged pleasantries with the two fire crew, then headed for the jeep. Erling was in little doubt that at least half the island would already know why he was here. There had been little point in asking Hugh Clouston to say nothing until he arrived. That would have had less chance of success than asking the tide not to come in. Besides, the more people who knew about the discovery, the more likely he was to acquire information. The schoolhouse had probably stood there for a century and the police weren’t interested in hundred-year-old remains. His intention was to confirm that they were human remains, then to bring in a team to establish just how old they were. He could have a murder enquiry on his hands, or simply another piece of Orkney’s history to interpret. Derek Muir, the resident Ranger, greeted him with a firm handshake. Employed to take visitors round all the island sites, he was an authority on the past and the present. He knew everyone, their forefathers, their children and grandchildren. Back in the fifties, Muir had been the most common surname in Orkney, and it still was. Short in stature, bristle-chinned, his face chiselled from granite, his eyes Viking blue, he could tell a tale, yet also keep his counsel when required. ‘Long time no see.’ ‘That’s because you’re all so well behaved in the northern isles,’ Erling countered. ‘Or we police ourselves, with no need for interference from Kirkwall,’ Derek said in his matter-of-fact manner. Erling settled himself in the passenger seat. ‘So we’re off to view old bones?’ Derek said as he reversed, then turned onto the main road. ‘If that’s what they are,’ Erling said. En route, he asked a few questions about the new owner of the schoolhouse. ‘Keeps himself very busy with his renovations. Occasionally to be seen in the Kettletoft Hotel. Nice enough chap. Not sure if he’ll survive the winter.’ ‘What did he do before coming to Sanday? Do you know?’ ‘He was an art teacher. Early retirement, I believe.’ ‘Why here?’ Derek shrugged. ‘A house in the south can buy four up here. Fancied a chance to make a new life. Or escape.’ ‘Escape?’ ‘They all come here to escape something. Even folk from Kirkwall,’ Derek said with a knowing smile. ‘It’s just you can never escape the weather.’ As if on cue, a sudden squall hit the side of the jeep. ‘You won’t be flying back,’ Derek offered. The schoolhouse looked like the one Erling had spent his primary-school days in. L-shaped, the backbone of it had housed the big classroom where they’d all sat at desks according to age. A second room had served as a dining room and occasional second classroom where the bigger folk went for more grown-up lessons such as maths. How Erling had envied the older pupils that privilege. He remembered going into the room after such a lesson and finding strange shapes on the blackboard, which seemed to symbolize a world he could not yet access. A world the younger Erling had wished to join as soon as possible. Eventually he had, and the magic of the world of mathematics had lasted through secondary school in Kirkwall. Even as far as university. That the complexity of life might be depicted symbolically had fascinated him. One thing though had spoiled that concept. Maths could describe the physical world, but it couldn’t describe a human thought. There was no formula for that. Nor a formula to work out why people made the decisions they did. So he hadn’t become a maths teacher after all, but a police officer. Quite why, he wasn’t sure, although he was certain that he had made the right decision. Both in his profession and the fact that he had chosen to return to his native Orkney to live and work. His mobile rang as they approached the schoolhouse. Erling glanced at the screen and was pleased to find Rory’s name. ‘Can you talk?’ ‘Not really,’ Erling admitted. ‘I’ll be back tonight. Will you be there?’ ‘If I get back from Sanday.’ ‘I’ll cook us something.’ ‘Good,’ Erling said and hung up as Derek swung the jeep in between the old-style school gates and drew up at what had obviously been the main entrance. As Erling climbed out, a figure appeared in the doorway. Tall, sandy-haired, the man looked to be in his forties. Erling introduced himself. The handclasp was firm and the man kept eye contact. ‘Thank you for coming out, Inspector.’ ‘Is Hugh still here?’ ‘He had to go to another job. He says to give him a ring if you want him back.’ He gestured that they should enter. ‘It’s quicker if we go through the house.’ Erling followed him inside. The entrance fed on to a narrow hall. Mike immediately turned left and they were into the big room that Erling remembered from his own schooldays. High rafters, wooden wainscotting, big windows to let in the light. No school desks here, but a comfortable living space and heat radiating from a stove on one wall. In his classroom there had also been a stove, fed by coal by the pupils. Everyone wanted a seat next to the heat, especially in the dark days of winter. It was worth working hard and getting good marks just to be awarded a desk next to it. Mike led them out through a door at the rear area of the big room, which also housed his kitchen. Functional, organized, the man had, Erling thought, made a really good job of the conversion. The door open now, Mike ushered them outside, his expression worried by what lay before them. Erling surveyed the scene. This, he decided, had definitely been the playground, although the field beyond the fence had probably been used too. In Erling’s schooldays on the Orkney mainland, the pupils hadn’t been permitted to go beyond the perimeter fence. Despite the prospect of punishment, they’d all disobeyed. The fields and, in his case, a neighbouring shoreline were a much more enticing prospect than the confined tarred surface. The secret was always to be back before the bell rang for the end of break. The tar here was pitted, weeds pushing up through cracks, the surface gradually attempting to return to soil. Several feet from the back door was a mound and what Erling assumed was the hole covered by a tarpaulin, weighted down by four stones. Mike stayed by the door, his expression suggesting he had no wish to view again what lay beneath that cover. Erling indicated that Derek should free the corner nearest the door and together they set about folding back the tarpaulin. A gust of wind intervened as they lifted it, whipping it like a sail. A swift move on Derek’s part saw it caught and secured behind the mound. And there it was. The reason for Erling’s visit. The skull sat atop the loose earth, the empty eye sockets directed towards them. Erling heard an intake of breath as, behind them, Mike Jones revisited that image. It wasn’t the first skull Erling had seen dug up, but the impact was always the same. He recognized it as human, but was completely unable to picture the owner of the bony structure. From a skull it was impossible to tell if someone’s nose turned up, or if they had tiny delicate ears, or dinner plates sticking out on either side. The area around the eyes was likewise lacking in bony structures, so that feature, the most expressive and individual of a real face, had to be estimated. Something only those artists who would aim to put a face on the skull staring at him now could imagine. It wasn’t large, nor was it very small. Beside it lay a bone, which at a guess might have been a shin bone, or maybe an upper arm. Erling wasn’t familiar enough with the human skeleton to say which. He took a step closer. As he did so, the topsoil shifted a little, sending a small shower of stones into the hole. Erling followed their path down and something caught his eye. Poking out from the soil was a shape that just might be part of a ribcage. Derek had joined him. ‘How long do you think it’s been here?’ Erling asked him. ‘You’ll have to get in a real expert to tell you that,’ he said honestly. Mike was standing at the door. The wind, chill now, seemed to meet his tall thin body with force. It was better not to be too tall on these islands. Those closer to the earth were less troubled by the wind. Erling used his mobile to take a photograph, then pulled over the tarpaulin and secured it, adding another couple of stones. They re-entered the house in silence. ‘What will happen?’ Mike said, once he’d shut the door. ‘I’ll get a forensic specialist to take a look. Then we should know how old the grave is. If it’s a hundred years or more, the police won’t be interested.’ ‘But someone else might?’ ‘This entire archipelago is a wonderland for archaeologists. What were your plans for the playground?’ ‘Vegetables, but not until spring.’ Erling nodded. ‘Okay, now show me what you found in the loft.’ He had painted the image with a swiftness and sureness of hand he’d never experienced before. The intricacy of the magic flower still astonished him. He’d intended keeping the grey colour of the strip of muslin, but had found shades and hues dropping from his paintbrush. Even now, gazing on his attempts at painting one, Mike wanted to paint them all, although he would have to remove them from the loft to do that. A thought that made him uneasy. Perhaps I could take photographs of them in situ and work from that. The policeman’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Did you paint this?’ He was observing the canvas with an appreciative eye. ‘Yes,’ Mike said, almost shyly, because he thought it was better work than he’d done for some time. ‘The original is here.’ He lifted the bagged flower from the table and offered it over. The detective immediately tipped the flower into his hand, causing Mike’s heart to speed up. He didn’t regard himself as superstitious, but since he’d found out what the magic flowers represented, he hadn’t handled them again. The detective spent some moments examining it before passing it to the Ranger. ‘What do you think?’ Derek whistled between his teeth. ‘I’ve heard of these but never actually seen one.’ ‘What is it exactly?’ ‘The hem of a muslin smock torn off and made into what was known as a magic flower. The story goes they were fashioned to represent the soul of the child who’d worn the smock.’ The detective looked thoughtful at this explanation, but there appeared no unease at the Ranger’s words. He checked with Mike. ‘And you said on the phone there were others?’ ‘Twelve,’ Mike said, hearing a catch in his throat. ‘In the loft of the unrenovated section.’ ‘Thirteen deaths in one school?’ The detective posed this question to the Ranger. ‘The deaths could have been over a long period. Maybe the flowers weren’t all made for pupils at the school. Maybe they were for younger siblings or even for different parishes.’ ‘How long has this building been here?’ ‘The one-teacher schools were closed in the late forties and the pupils centralized. This building’s been here for at least a century.’ ‘What about registering the deaths?’ Erling said. ‘Registration became compulsory on 1 January 1855. Before that, deaths may have been written in old parish records but not necessarily,’ the Ranger explained. ‘Could these have anything to do with what we found out there?’ ‘I couldn’t see the children, whoever they were, being buried next to the schoolhouse. More likely they’d be laid to rest in a cemetery or on their own croft ground.’ Mike found himself momentarily relieved by that thought, then realized why he shouldn’t be. ‘Then who’s buried out there?’ he said worriedly.