Storm Witch Page 5

  “It’s always a slow start,” the barman said. “Folk come when they’re ready but there’s usually a good crowd by about ten.”

  Winston found a table with a good view of both the stage and the door. His mobile said 8:45, so much for coming early to talk to Jenna. He pressed the message icon and then hesitated. He hadn’t missed the way she’d spoken about this place, the quick upward lilt of anticipation, and he’d cut her off before she’d chance to argue. He wouldn’t put it past her not to come at all, just to pay him back. And then he’d be forced to sit through hours of folk for no reason. The years at Glenard had killed any affection he might have had for the songs of his ancestors. He still couldn’t hear Wild Mountain Thyme or The Skye Boat Song without shuddering, which was going to make this one very long evening.

  He lifted his pint again. Dark Island from the Orkney Brewery. So far one of the few things which was making his time up here bearable. A couple more of these and you wouldn’t care how many bearded men in woolly jumpers sang with one finger in their ear.

  By 9:30 he’d caught up with all of his friends on Facebook, responded in kind to some off-colour jokes about his status update; ‘At The Fiddlers in Kirkwall enjoying some folk’. Of course, the entendre was deliberate and it was reassuring that there were people who got it even if they were hundreds of miles from this tiny island. A couple of lads in their teens tentatively seated themselves on the stage and wheezed through what he thought was supposed to be a set of Strathspeys. They were joined by two older men and a woman who tuned up their guitars and fiddles in a reassuringly professional manner.

  He was getting up to get another pint when Jenna walked in with a fiddle case. He’d not asked her what she played. If pushed he’d have guessed guitar and not particularly well. Yet there was something about the case and the way it was slung over her shoulder that spoke of an easy confidence, and not mere amateur pluckings or bowings or whatever you did with a fiddle.

  “You came then? I was beginning to think you changed your mind.”

  She glanced away, raised a hand to a couple of the musicians. “The place doesn’t really get going until ten.”

  “So I’ve been told.” He waved his empty glass at her. “What are you having?”

  There was a quick frown, a second when he thought she’d insist on buying her own before she said, “Latitude, if they’ve got any. If not, a bottle of Bud.”

  The barman knew her, nodded and said hello as he filled Winston’s glass. Handing her the bottle of beer, Winston gestured towards his table but she shook her head. “Thanks for this but they’re waiting for me. Catch you later?” She barely waited to see his nod before walking across the room. Was this the pay back for forcing his way into her night out? Well, he could play nice if that’s what it took. For now, at least.

  ***

  The set of reels came to a slightly ragged close and Jenna sat back and flexed her fingers. She’d not played like that in ages and they ached. She’d been showing off a peedie bit at the beginning, whipping through some tunes she’d played with Parcel of Rogues that were fast and intricate and guaranteed to get the audience’s feet tapping. It’d been grand to look up at the end of the set and see Winston applauding with everyone else. When he’d raised his beer glass to her, she knew she’d made her point. And the fact that he’d looked so surprised, as if he’d thought she couldn’t do much more than scrape out a tune, was just a bonus.

  Around her the other musicians laid their instruments in cases, stood, stretched and turned to chat or headed for the bar. Jenna picked up her almost empty beer bottle, drained it and sneaked a glance at Winston. He was staring at her, one eyebrow raised, as a grin twitched at his lips. The challenge was obvious.

  Alright then. She’d said she’d talk to him and she would. But only to get it over with. Very conscious of his gaze on her, she stepped down from the stage and crossed the room, convinced that at any moment she’d fall over her own feet and make a complete fool of herself.

  He stood as she reached his table. “Nice playing over there.”

  “Thanks.” With a sweep of her hand she brushed the words away.

  “No, I mean it.” His chin dropped as he met her gaze. “You’re good.”

  “Not as good as I was. I don’t play enough anymore.”

  “Sounded good to me.”

  “And you’re a folk music expert, are you?”

  Winston shot her a long look and she braced herself for a sarcastic come back but he only said, “Another beer?”

  “Yes, alright.” Jenna ran her fingers through her hair, surprised to find it slightly damp and fumbled the top button of her shirt open. It really was warm tonight. “But it’s my round. You got the last ones.”

  “No, I invited myself and I know you don’t want me here. Least I can do is buy you another drink.”

  Jenna glanced at his face but he was turning away, hand sliding into the pocket of his jeans as he headed for the bar. A lot of people had got there before him and as it was going to be a long wait, Jenna slid into the seat beside his. He’d left his mobile on the table. A flashy iPhone with one of those rugged plastic cases that promised to protect it if you dropped it from space or something equally stupid. A Facebook notification flashed, lighting up the screen. She’d bet he had a million friends, he was definitely the type who needed that kind of validation.

  She didn’t do Facebook. Not any more. She had before Mum died but then it got too hard, seeing all of the photos of her friends on nights out or away on holiday or with their new partners. She was glad she’d got out before the baby pictures. It was hard enough when Rosie sent photos of Laurence. Not that she didn’t love him, he was the cutest peedie lad but seeing them created an ache that was almost too hard to bear.

  Pushing Winston’s mobile closer to his chair, she glanced around the room. It’d filled up since she’d arrived, a really good crowd with a load of faces she didn’t recognise who must be visitors. Patrick, who played guitar, stopped for a word on his way back from the bar and if she concentrated a little too intently on what he was saying it was only so she didn’t have to look at Winston returning with the drinks. Feeling bad about his earlier comment, she introduced him to Patrick and was surprised to see him morph into archaeological professional, enthusiastically answering questions about the Ness of Brodgar dig and the Neolithic period in Orkney.

  As Patrick moved away, Winston said, “I’ve never been involved in a dig where the community are genuinely interested. People actually want to talk about archaeology up here.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Of course, it’s just surprising, that’s all. Usually we have to practically plead with the public to take an interest.”

  “The Ness of Brodgar is special though and folk are excited about that. And proud too.”

  “It’s a game changer, that’s for certain. My PhD thesis is scrap paper after what they’ve found here. But—” he added as she opened her mouth to reply “—we’re not here to talk about archaeology, fascinating though that is.”

  “For you maybe,” Jenna muttered as she turned. She should have guessed he’d catch it. Did druids have enhanced hearing or something?

  “What? Duty manager of Maeshowe not fascinated by archaeology? Well, that’s a shocker!” He was grinning at her, dark eyes bright with mischief.

  She folded her arms, lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “I’m a heritage professional. I can make anything fascinating. That’s my job.” Before he could respond she added, “And conversations about things other than archaeology are best conducted outside.”

  He swung his leather jacket up from the back of the chair, pocketed the expensive phone. “Alright then. After you.”

  Was she mistaken to think his eyes were on her as she walked across the floor and through the open door? To be almost one hundred percent certain his gaze was fastened on her bum? As soon as her feet hit the pavement she stopped, waited until he joined her and then gestured to the benches n
ext to the wall surrounding the Cathedral’s kirkyard. Jenna headed to the nearest one, next to the cream stone arch of the war memorial and sat down. Winston joined her.

  “So?” she said.

  “Thanks for doing this. I know it can’t be easy for you.”

  She hadn’t expected that. Nor his dark eyes gazing at her with something that looked suspiciously like concern.

  “It’s not.” With anyone else she’d have reassured them, told them it was fine but, with him, she dispensed with the usual platitudes, the stock phrases that hid her grief. It was strangely liberating, being rude to him. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? You’re cutting into my playing time.”

  “Aye, I can see that. If I’d realised—” He shook his head, hesitated and then added, “Ah well, I’m here now. Nina’s book, The Spiral Path, did she show any of it to you?”

  Jenna shook her head. “No, it was something she’d talked about for a while. Three or four years probably but I don’t think she did much more than jot down a few thoughts. Then in the summer before she died she suddenly got serious about it. I wonder now…”

  “What?”

  She took another gulp of beer, staring across Broad Street at the row of shops principally designed to part tourists from their money as quickly as possible. Tourism, heritage; that was her world now. What was the point of talking about what might have happened nearly seven years ago? And yet, if she didn’t, would she ever get the chance again? Winston, for all his many faults, belonged in Mum’s world. He understood it. Apart from a possibly dangerous spellworker who got their kicks from performing rituals in Neolithic burial chambers, who else in these islands did?

  “You know she was a seer,” she said slowly.

  “Nina? Yes, of course. She was renowned.”

  “Well, I wondered afterwards if she’d known what was coming and that’s why she’d suddenly started working on the book.”

  There was barely a pause. Whatever else she might think of him — and there was plenty —he wasn’t slow on the uptake. “But if she knew, why didn’t she warn the rest of The Order? Or tell you and your dad?”

  “Exactly, there was nothing. Not a note or a letter or…” Jenna spread her hands. “Though her room was such a mess, I guess we could have missed it. If she left it there, that is.”

  “Why? What happened to her room?”

  “There was a break-in on the day she died.”

  “What?” Winston’s hand landed on her arm and, almost before she’d had time to register the touch, moved again. “Why didn’t I know that? That’s got to blow the whole magical omnipotent killer theory out of the water. Wait ‘til I tell Finn!”

  “Who’s Finn?” Jenna asked, the words leaving her mouth at exactly the moment she realised she was asking the least important question first. Whoever this Finn guy was, he didn’t matter as much as Winston’s theory about Mum’s murder.

  “Friend. Druid. Good guy. He ran into some trouble in Glastonbury a couple of months ago but I’ll tell you about him later.”

  “But I don’t see—”

  “If someone had the power to kill four people—”

  “Five. Tamara must be—”

  “Alright, for the sake of argument, five people on the same day but in different parts of the country and all killed in different ways.” Winston turned his body towards her so their knees were almost touching. “Bryn had a heart attack, Eve a brain haemorrhage, Harry was in a car crash, Nina drowned and Tamara disappeared without a trace.”

  “But Mum didn’t just drown. Or at least the police thought there was more to it than that. They found a bump on her head and unexplained marks on her—” her hand fluttered to her throat “—neck and shoulders. That’s why the case remains open. Too many things unexplained.”

  “Christ, Jenna! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” As he pushed his hair back from his face, his other hand closed around the tiny wooden staff on the leather thong at his neck. “No wonder you don’t want to talk about it.”

  There should have been some victory in his words, in the visible shock on his face but there wasn’t. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them back. “Maybe I should. I don’t know.” Her fingers picked at the label on the beer bottle. This was hard, as hard as she’d expected and yet she didn’t want to stop. She could hear the notes of a reel floating out into the evening air. She could tell him she’d had enough and go back inside and she knew, after what he’d just heard, he’d accept it. But there was no one she could speak to about who Mum really was. No one except Dad and he wouldn’t talk about it.

  There was silence between them for a long moment.

  “That’s why you said yesterday that Nina’s death is an unsolved case. I thought you meant because of The Order.”

  “No, the police don’t know about that.”

  “You didn’t tell them?”

  “How could I? You know the rules.”

  “There’s good reason for the rules to go out of the window when four of The Order die on the same day.”

  “Five.”

  “Alright, five.” He sighed. “If it makes you happy—”

  “Not really. But after six and a half years I don’t think it’s wrong to believe Tamara must have died too.”

  “Fine, five. And you didn’t mention any of that to the police?” His eyes studied her face a lot more intently than she was comfortable with.

  “No.” She sounded defensive even to her own ears. “At first we didn’t know about the others and then Grace phoned—”

  “Grace Fenwick?”

  “Yes, do you know her? She was one of Mum’s best friends.”

  “Yeah, I know Grace. Great lady. One of a kind.”

  Jenna raised her eyebrows. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  He grinned. “Okay, so she can be a bit batty at times but her heart’s in the right place and she’s one hell of a spellworker.”

  “I know.” Jenna cleared her throat as memories crowded in. Keep to the facts. She could handle facts. “Well, she rang and told me what’d happened and I tried to talk to Dad about it but he couldn’t really take it in. And what were we going to say…?”

  “There is that.”

  “In the end, I rang Grace back and we decided until we knew more I shouldn’t tell the police. I thought, I mean, I think we both thought that in a week or two we’d know what’d happened, that someone would make a move, that there wouldn’t be just this…”

  “Vacuum?”

  “Exactly, that’s gone on for years. And there’s no new Order and it’s like everyone is keeping their heads down hoping it’ll all go away. I didn’t know who I could trust. Whoever killed The Order had to have magic and they had to have known Mum to know she swam at that beach. Grace changed her mind after a while, she thought I should tell the police. The inquiry was going nowhere and she said it might be the lead they needed. She kept ringing and talking about the police and asking if we were okay and, in the end…” Dear God, she couldn’t tell him that. She coughed. “Never mind.”

  “Come on, you can tell me.” Winston nudged her as if was a game.

  “No, I can’t.” Jenna gulped down a mouthful of beer.

  “Alright.” Winston drank too. His gaze was fixed on the shops across the road, his body turning away from her until they sat like two strangers, two feet apart on the wooden bench.

  The silence became heavy, loaded.

  “I lost it with her, okay? I yelled and screamed and told her there was nothing she could do, nothing anyone could do and she—” Jenna fixed her gaze on her fingers as they peeled the label from the bottle “—asked me to go to stay. Calm as anything as if I hadn’t pretty much just blamed her for everything.”

  “Did you go?” Winston sounded only mildly interested as if they were discussing a trip to the cinema or to see a play.

  “No, I couldn’t leave Dad. But then I…” Now she’d started there was no point stopping. If Winston thought badly of her perhaps he’d leave
her alone and spare her his questions and sarcy comments. “I blocked her number. It was a horrible thing to do but I…” She broke off, drank deeply, staring out across the street and then flinched as a bright blue Suzuki roared up the street, oversized exhausted gleaming, closely followed by an acid green Ford Fiesta.

  “Things I didn’t associate with Orkney before I came here,” Winston said drily. “Number twenty-two, boy racers.”

  “There’s not enough for them to do.” She sounded defensive, which was odd because normally they really annoyed her.

  “She’ll forgive you, you know.”

  “Who? Grace?”

  “Yes. She’ll understand.”

  “I…” She couldn’t say anymore. If she did, she might never stop and with the words would come tears, so many tears. She stood. “I have to get back.”

  “Okay.” She’d thought he’d argue but he simply tossed back the rest of his pint and held the empty glass out to her. “Would you take this back for me?” Instinctively her hand closed around it. “I’m going to head off. I’ve got an early start tomorrow and there’s only so much folk music I can take in one evening.”

  Surprised, she found herself returning his smile. She’d expected pressure, more questions, at least another plea to help find the person behind the ritual at Maeshowe. “I thought you weren’t a folk fan.”

  “I’ll come and hear you play again.” He bent to pick up his jacket, slung it over his shoulder. “You’re miles better than the rest of them.”

  “Thanks.” She blinked, half-turned. “Thursdays. You can always find me here on Thursdays.”

  “I might just do that.” He took a few steps and then stopped. “I said one time and I meant it. But if you want to talk, well, you know where to find me.” He gestured with the fancy iPhone before slipping it into his back pocket.