An Imposter in Shetland

by Marsali Taylor

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

'This series is a must-read for anyone who loves the sea, or islands, or joyous, intricate story-telling.'
ANN CLEEVES

When an internet lifestyle influencer arrives on Shetland to document her 'perfect' holiday, the locals are somewhat sceptical.

Joining a boat trip to the remote islands of St Kilda with sailing sleuth Cass Lynch and her partner DI Gavin Macrae, the young woman seems more concerned with her phone than the scenery.

But when it's time to leave, there's no sign of her. Despite mounting a desperate search, she's seemingly vanished without trace - from a small island in the middle of the sea.

As a puzzling investigation gathers pace, there are more questions than answers - and uncovering the truth will reveal dark and long-hidden secrets...

Atmospheric and gripping, An Imposter on Shetland is the latest instalment in the much-loved Shetland Mystery series by Marsali Taylor. Perfect for fans of Ann Cleeves and Elly Griffiths.

Release date: June 19, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Saturday 8th July

Tides at Ullapool

LW 04.47 (0.57m)

HW 11.07 (4.83m)

LW 16.59 (0.96m)

HW 23.19 (5.16m)

Sunrise 04.32; moonset 10.44; sunset 22.18; moonrise 23.49.

Waning gibbous moon.

As bonny as the Rose of Noss

The girl standing on the pier above us didn’t look real. She had ripples of tawny mane flowing over one side of her face from a side parting. Her eyes were green as a cat’s, fringed with jet lashes, and her brows were groomed into perfect arches. A soft rose colour flushed her peach-bloom cheeks. She had a slim nose above full lips and a delicate chin – in short, to describe her, I was having to resort to romantic novel clichés. I turned to our engineer, Duncan Thomason, expecting to see him wide-eyed with admiration, and was surprised by the scowl on his face.

‘My neighbour,’ he muttered.

‘Really?’ I knew Duncan lived not far from where I’d grown up, on the Shetland island of Muckle Roe, in a crofthouse surrounded by other crofthouses. I couldn’t imagine this girl living in even the most upgraded of them. Those slim light-blue jeans and suede boots had never been worn for carrying peats into the house; the gipsy-style blouse wouldn’t keep out Shetland winds. I hoped there were sailing clothes in her kitbag.

‘She’s an influencer,’ Duncan added. I had only the vaguest of ideas what that was, but this wasn’t the time to find out. Magnie, our skipper, a retired fisherman now looking at his most official with his best anchors-pattern gansey on, his ruddy cheeks freshly shaved and a navy cap over his reddish-fair curls, was giving his briefing to the rest of the trainees at the bow of the boat, and he’d paused to let her come aboard and join them. The others were staring at her. I moved to the boat’s centre and tilted my head back to greet her.

‘Hi, I’m Cass Lynch, mate of the Swan. You’re Tiede Barton? Welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, in one of those pouring-honey voices, and handed her kitbag downwards. I stowed it on deck with the other bags while she paused to take a photo from above, then climbed languidly down, as surefooted as if she’d scrambled down piers all her life. I noted that in her favour; maybe she’d fit in on board after all. She reached the Swan’s deck and gave me an enquiring look.

‘Welcome to the Swan,’ I said again. I gestured her forward. ‘Our skipper, Magnie, is giving the others a quick briefing, then we’ll go below and sort out bunks. We’re setting sail soon, for St Kilda.’

‘Awesome!’ Tiede said, smiling. Her teeth were toothpaste-white, though not as perfectly straight as I’d have expected. She looked ahead at the little crowd around the mast. For a moment, she seemed startled, as if she hadn’t expected so many. ‘Hang on,’ she said, and bent down to her bag.

We had eight trainees aboard, and five of them were from Shetland. This was one of our tall ship Swan’s most popular trips: from Ullapool in the West Highlands to the fabled islands of St Kilda, out in the Atlantic, then up the Western Isles and back to Ullapool. Shetland sailors knew exactly when the summer trips schedule came out, and booked up straight away. It was something about St Kilda: the hard life its people must have led way out in the Atlantic, the row of abandoned houses above Village Bay, the difficulty of getting the right weather to go ashore, all added to the attraction.

I ran through the trainees in my mind as Tiede rummaged in the side pocket of her bag, fished out a baseball cap and sunglasses, placed the cap at a becoming angle on her curls and shaded her eyes with mirrors, then bundled herself into a scarlet sailing jacket. Tiede. My partner, Gavin, a Highlander to his bones, but living in Shetland now. His eyes had lit up the minute I’d mentioned a St Kilda trip, and he’d booked his leave straight away. Mavis and Sophie, a mother and daughter from Brae; Sophie was seventeen, and she’d been one of my sailing pupils at the boating club. Tirval was a Shetland fisherman in his late twenties who’d recently moved to Voe, just round the corner from where Gavin and I lived. The three non-Shetlanders were a younger London couple and an older American lady.

I watched their faces as Tiede went forward. Gavin, standing to one side with the wind fluttering the pleats of his kilt, gave her a courteous nod. The man of the London couple gave her an admiring glance; the woman took a quick look, then turned her shoulder, as if she was giving Magnie her full attention. Priss, the American woman, smiled. So far, so ordinary. Then I looked at the mother-and-daughter pair on the other side of the mast. Sophie jerked back away from Tiede, then turned her face towards the water, as if she didn’t want anyone to see her reaction. Mavis’s cheeks had reddened with an angry flush. Tiede was from Brae too. I wondered if they were the reason she’d put on the eyes-hiding mirror glasses; if there was some ill-feeling between them. Tirval lifted his head as she went by. I couldn’t read his thoughts. Surprise, certainly, tinged with what looked like annoyance. I sighed to myself. Our decorative latecomer might turn out to be the ill-natured cow that breaks up a byre, and that was the last thing I wanted on this trip, my first time as official mate of the Swan.

Tiede’d arrived at a good time. Magnie repeated his big announcement, that the wind was perfect for St Kilda. We were going as soon as the bags were stowed in the berths below, and everyone was kitted up. He did a quick safety briefing about lifejackets at all times on deck and holding on with one hand, then released them. By this time Duncan and I had passed all the bags below, and were ready at the main cabin hatch. ‘Always go backwards,’ I said to Sophie and Mavis, ‘and hold on to the sides, so that your hands are out of the way of other people’s feet.’

We’d split our trainees into two watches of three people, and one of two, though the Swan was much more informal than the three-master I’d just left, and everyone tended to muck in together. I’d written the names up on the whiteboard in the cabin. Magnie’s watch was Gavin and Priss, who’d done a bit of sailing, judging by the weathered state of her jacket. Duncan’s trainees were Tiede and the London couple. My watch was Sophie, Mavis and Tirval, the three who’d reacted most strongly to Tiede. I’d keep an eye on that.

I followed the last of the trainees down and waited at the edge of the table, ready to help with lifejackets. There was a buzz of excitement as berths were chosen and bags swung into them. Everyone began getting their lifejackets on and trying to make sense of the straps, which had to be adjusted for individual fit. I’d been right about the American lady, Priss; she had hers sorted in seconds, stuffed a hat in one pocket, sailing gloves in the other and headed upwards. Tirval and Gavin were equally quick; Tirval turned to assist Tiede Barton with hers, and Gavin smiled at the London couple and offered to help. That left me with Sophie and Mavis.

‘If you put it on,’ I said to Mavis, ‘then I can adjust it for you, then you can do Sophie’s.’ I smiled at Sophie, who had an anxious frown between her brows. ‘Nice to see you! Same principle as the club buoyancy aids, tight enough not to float up.’

I was pleased to see Sophie here. She’d been one of my sailors for two years, from when I’d first come home. Mavis had come to watch, and help with making cocoa and putting away splashsuits at the end of the night. When they’d never turned up this spring I’d asked the others about her. One had muttered ‘Stuff’, and the rest’d done that shuffling thing, so I hadn’t asked any more. Looking at Sophie now, it was easy to see there’d been something wrong. She’d been a plump lass, rather self-conscious about it, but in the eight months since I’d seen her she’d lost a serious amount of weight. Her face was strained and thin, with haunted dark eyes and jutting cheekbones, and she hunched into her obviously new white sailing jacket as if she wanted to hide inside it.

The angry colour had faded from Mavis’s cheeks. She looked drained, as if she was needing a holiday. She was in her early forties, a Shetland housewife with short hair and a brisk air, as if she was about to get on her pinnie and set to. I had a notion that her husband worked up at Sullom Voe and she did volunteer work at the charity shop and the care centre.

I got them sorted, then waved them before me up on deck. Magnie was already at the wheel, Duncan and Tirval were casting the ropes off, and Priss and Gavin were bringing fenders aboard and securing them to the dinghy, tied behind the mast. The others were scattered round the deck: Mavis and Sophie had stayed by the main hatchway, the London couple were sitting on the jib boom and Tiede, dressed now in full scarlet sailing gear, with her tawny hair bundled under a toorie cap, was up at the bow with her back to us, gazing out into the grey drizzle that hung over the hills and blotted out the way seawards.

‘Ach, it’s just a bit of mist,’ Gavin said, turning the collar of his waxed jacket up and tucking it inside his traditional sou’wester in brown oilcloth. Even with this rain, he still stood upright, looking around him like an eagle surveying its glen. He was wearing his second-best kilt, the green one; the occasional drip from the pleats fell well outside the tops of his black rubber boots. He turned his head and smiled at me, and for a moment I smiled back, before I remembered I was on duty, and gave him an apologetic grimace instead.

It was very good to be with him again. We’d been apart for eight weeks, while I’d done my final spell aboard the Norwegian tall ship Sørlandet. We’d been together for over a year now, but too much of it had been spent apart – the main reason I’d applied for this mate’s berth aboard the Swan, where I’d be going from and to Shetland in summer, and at home all winter. I looked at him standing there, one hand on the stay, and loved how he looked: the sou’wester pulled down to just above the level brows, his beautiful sea-grey eyes, the benkled nose from rugby in his youth, the long mouth that quirked into a smile as he caught me staring. At least we’d had last night together in the comfort of Ullapool Hotel before we moved on to ten days in separate cabins. He nodded in understanding, then patted the rust-red roll of Swan’s mainsail with one brown hand. ‘When do we put this sail up?’ He gave me a teasing look. ‘Ma’am?’

‘Now,’ I said. I looked over at Magnie, and got a nod back. It was a force 3 gusting 4, perfect for getting Swan moving without any drama, and forecast to fall away during the night. I turned to the London couple and Priss. ‘Would you like to give a hand to get this sail up? The first thing we need to do is untie all the ropes that hold the sail in this nice neat bundle.’ I put my hand on one. ‘These ones, that go all around the sail.’

It was good to see the faces brighten with enthusiasm. Within a minute everyone except Tiede had gathered along the boom, reaching up for the cords and undoing them. ‘Sophie,’ I said, seeing her looking nervously at the knot by her hand, ‘can you take the short ropes from people and put them in that bag at the mast?’ She nodded instantly at so clear a task. ‘Duncan, if you get a team for the peak, I’ll organise the throat.’

Swan was a former fishing trawler with a large mainsail whose upper side was roped onto a wooden gaff like half a telegraph pole. The mast end of the gaff, the throat, went up the mast, pulling the sail with it; the aft end, the peak, raised it into a tall triangle. The trick was to keep both ends level as we hauled the throat up the mast, then fasten off the throat and haul the peak skywards. Raising the mainsail was the heaviest job aboard.

We got everyone into two groups. Duncan and I explained what we were doing, and appointed people to sweat and tail. ‘Two, six, pull!’ The wishbone of the throat began to jerk upwards. I kept the rhythm going, and gradually the great sail began to billow as it unfolded, showing its lighter stripes and fishing registration painted in white: LK 243. There was a bit of juggling with throat and peak as it went up, then we fastened the throat halyard and sent all hands to the peak. Another minute of tugging, then we fastened that off too, and stood back to admire the rust-brown triangle reaching up to the grey clouds above us. Magnie brought Swan around so that the wind was behind her, and let the sail out slightly. Swan’s motion changed from butting through the swell to rolling up each crest and sliding down its back. The trainees spread out over the deck, chatting. I glanced at my watch: quarter to two.

‘That was energetic,’ Gavin said. ‘You don’t use that?’ He nodded at the electric-powered capstan, which could have pulled the throat up single-drummed.

‘Only when we’re short-handed. It’s not as much fun for the trainees.’

Aft, Magnie was getting the London couple on the wheel, showing them the course to steer with a gesture to the compass and a wave of one arm to the mist-shrouded hills.

‘We’ll start watches once we’re out of Loch Broom,’ I said. ‘Meantime, since Magnie’s in charge up here, how about giving me a hand with some soup and Swan Hawaiian toasties?’

It was past lunchtime, and food straight away was always good, in case anyone was thinking about feeling sick. The smell of cheese toasties with ham and pineapple tempted the fussiest eaters, especially after a good bit of rope-hauling exercise – or, in the worst case, gave them something to be sick on. It gave me a chance to get a look at the people on board too, and get a feel for the dynamics. I was still uneasy about the reactions to Tiede, and the way she’d stayed out of the sail-hoisting, but everyone else was in good spirits in spite of the mizzle, and excited about getting to St Kilda, which was never a given. Sometimes the wind would push you there, but stop you landing as the swell bounced back from the shore of Village Bay; sometimes you’d be able to land, but the whole way there would be a battle. We’d struck lucky.

I came up the steps with two platefuls of toasties, passed them out and turned to take the basin of cups from Gavin, then the teapot and coffeepot. As I’d suspected, the damp was making his regulation police-length russet hair start to curl. He smoothed it down, crammed the sou’wester back over it and headed aft with one plate of toasties to Magnie and the London wife, Charlotte, at the helm, while I served the group sitting around the hatch. Tiede was hiding under a hood pulled up over her decorative curls. Maybe the rain would spoil them – I didn’t believe they were natural. She took two toasties and a cup of tea and went below. Priss was chatting away to Mavis and Sophie – they were comparing pet photos, though Sophie’s flash of enthusiam had worn off; she was staring bleakly outwards, and Mavis was coaxing her into the conversation. The man of the London couple, Brandon, was taking photos of the mist-shrouded hills with a camera whose lens was longer than his arm. Gavin touched his arm and he looked round, surprised, then made a ‘just a minute’ gesture. It might be an idea to get him clipped on, if he was going to lose all sense of where he was the minute he picked up his camera. I went forward and suggested it, and he nodded and obeyed, then went back to staring through his lens. There was no sign of Duncan and Tirval. I suspected they were below in the aft cabin, talking to the engine. I went to the hatch and called down, ‘Toasties on the go.’

‘Be right with you,’ Duncan replied, and two minutes later he and Tirval appeared. ‘Time we began watches anyway. I’ll get mine primed once they’ve finished eating.’

Once we came out of Loch Broom and into the Minch there was a long stretch of wet nothing-to-see, and our trainees gradually straggled below, leaving Duncan in charge, with Charlotte at the helm and Brandon and Tiede on lobster-pot lookout duty. My watch were on dinner duty, as written up on the whiteboard. It was a vegetarian lasagne, and Mavis helped with enthusiasm, shedding the tension I’d felt in her earlier as she organised Sophie and Tirval to chopping carrots, courgettes and aubergines on the main cabin table while she made the white sauce. I chopped apples and mixed crumble for dessert, to be served with carton custard. Priss and Gavin relaxed before heading up at four. Tirval was talking away as we chopped, telling silly vegetable jokes like ‘What was the cause of the veggie protest? An information leek,’ and we were soon laughing and groaning together, with Mavis popping her head out from the kitchen to ask for a repeat. Charlotte and Brandon came down at four, and I dished out tea and chocolate biscuits. Suddenly there was a party atmosphere, and I felt myself relax. This trip would be okay after all.

Eating with trainees was new for me. On board the Sørlandet the crew ate formally with the captain in his dining room. Here we were all around one square central table, with high-backed benches round three sides. Mavis and Sophie served up the first portion of vegetarian lasagne on plates and Tirval passed them round, then placed the big tray in the middle of the table for people to help themselves to seconds. Magnie had taken the helm himself and sent his watch down to eat, so the benches were full. Gavin and Priss were on the island benches by the gangway, ready to rise and go back out as soon as they’d eaten. At the forrard side of the square table, Charlotte was talking across her husband, comparing regatta experiences with Duncan, though a hard race in a small yacht at Brae regatta and a trip on Daddy’s friend’s sixty-footer at Cowes didn’t have much in common. Priss was listening with interest, but didn’t contribute. I reckoned she could out-experience both of them. Gavin was resisting attempts to draw him in. ‘I haven’t done much sailing,’ he said apologetically. I smiled to myself. Sure, he’d only done the occasional sail with me, and a couple of trips aboard Sørlandet, but he’d grown up on a remote West Highland farm, and had been messing about in boats from as soon as he could walk. Charlotte’s husband, Brandon, in the corner between her and Duncan, was focused on eating, which I took to mean he’d done no sailing.

Tirval had slid in next to Duncan, in the aft corner, leaving the third side of the square for Sophie and Mavis. Tiede came below at the last minute, still muffled up in her sailing salopettes and scarf, and sat down at the end. The mirror-glasses were back on. Sophie’s high spirits had subsided; she was pushing a forkful of lasagne round her plate and only eating when her mother glanced at her. There was a clear space between Tiede and Mavis, a slight suggestion of a turned shoulder from Tiede, and no sign of Mavis attempting to make conversation. The red colour flared in her cheeks again. I was surer than ever of some sort of past history. I tried to remember more about Mavis’s man, and felt something jogging at my memory. I’d ask Magnie or Duncan, when I got a quiet moment.

I helped myself to lasagne and squeezed in next to Gavin. The food was piping hot and very good. I’d have liked to try my crumble, but Magnie was still on deck, so I ate as fast as possible, then put my outdoors gear back on and headed up. Tiede caught up her jacket and followed me.

‘It’s so stuffy in there,’ she said. She turned away from me, and took a deep breath, then leaned against the stay, looking out at the sea.

‘I’ll let Magnie come down and eat,’ I said. ‘Would you like to take the helm?’

She shook her head. ‘I tried earlier and had her going in circles. I’ll just stand here and watch the waves.’

‘Well, come and join me if you change your mind,’ I said. She smiled and nodded, and I went aft to the helm. ‘Relief,’ I said to Magnie. ‘Your denner’s waiting for you. What’s our course?’

He gestured at the compass. ‘Two-seventy at the moment, but the wind’s veering. I’m steering to the mainsail.’

I nodded and took the helm from him. ‘I have the helm.’

He laughed and shook his head at me. ‘Now, now, Cass, none o’ this tall ship formality aboard the Swan. I can see you have it!’

He headed off along the deck, swaying easily to the motion of the ship, and I relaxed my hands on the wheel. It would take a few minutes to get used to steering the Swan again; like every other classic vessel, the slight angle you needed to turn the wheel to varied with conditions and point of sail. In this case, I discovered, to keep her straight I needed the brass centre spoke a quarter turn to the right.

Once I’d got that sorted, we forged steadily forwards into the mirk. It was strange having this single brown sail above me instead of Sørlandet’s tiers of white, but there was a home-like solidity about the sturdy mast and creosoted boom at my shoulder. I’d soon feel a part of her; after all, she was the first tall ship I’d ever sailed, on days out from Brae school when I was in primary, and not much taller than this wheel. I’d steered her all the way round Papa Little, proud as punch that Andrew Halcrow, the skipper, had trusted me to do it.

There was a movement ahead of me: Tiede coming aft. I stood to the side, thinking she might like to take the helm after all, but she shook her head. ‘Could I get you to take a couple of photos of me? With the ship in the background, and the misty hills?’

I locked the helm and took the phone from her. ‘Point and shoot?’

She smiled. ‘Nearly. Try different amounts of distance. Mostly full-length.’ She stepped back and posed, one hand on the guard rail. ‘Take several – just keep shooting.’

I clicked, and she tried different poses, until at last she said, ‘That should do. I can do the close-ups myself. Thanks.’

She took a tangle of rods from her pocket, unfolded them into a selfie-stick, and headed off forrard. After several lots of posing she sat down, head bent over her phone. I supposed she was photo-shopping, or touching up, or whatever influencers did to make sure they were perfect at all times, even on a century-old fishing boat in the Minch.

Duncan came up, a mug of tea in each hand, so I took the chance to satisfy my curiosity. ‘What on earth’s an influencer?’ I murmured. I nodded at Tiede, forward. ‘I mean, who does she influence?’

‘Impressionable young lasses. Teenage boys. Guid kens.’

He fell abruptly silent as Tiede rose, came two steps towards us, turned and clambered down the steps into the cabin.

I still didn’t feel much the wiser. ‘In fashion, or make-up?’

‘Yeah, and “lifestyle”. How to live at one with the universe. She does videos about herself on the internet.’ He snorted. ‘She came to Shetland so she could get arty photos of herself mooning along the beach with the wind in her hair.’

‘Dressed the way she was when she arrived?’

‘I expect so. I don’t actually know her.’ He scowled. ‘I just dinna like what she stands for, her and all these folk that sell the supposedly perfect lifestyle. Looking like a princess.’ He snorted. ‘Or a Barbie doll. Making folk unhappy because they can’t measure up – not skinny enough, not rich enough. There’s more and more o’ it, online, in the papers, everywhere, and aimed at younger and younger folk. No wonder they’re all complaining about being miserable when they’re bombarded wi’ that all the time. Me niece Mallie, she’s no’ at the school yet, and she’s fussing about clothes and asking when she can wear make-up. Can they no’ give them time to be bairns?’

He adjusted the helm, watching till the sails were filled to his satisfaction, then glowered forward to where Tiede had been. ‘She’s no’ as blythe as she’s bonny either. She goes through secretaries like water. Me sister’s the latest o’ them.’ He sounded awkward, as if he wasn’t sure if he should mention her. ‘Only for another five weeks, then she’s got a job in the Brae nursery. She did Early Years at the College. She can’t wait.’

I still wasn’t sure what Tiede actually did, but Duncan’s mouth was firmly shut, his eyes on our course, so I left him to it and headed below. Apart from Magnie eating his lasagne and two apple crumbles that I hoped were his and mine, the cabin table had been cleared of food, and folk were at the tea stage. Mavis was busy at the sink, clattering dishes, and Sophie and Tirval were flourishing drying cloths and putting away. Tirval had moved on to dishes jokes: ‘Knock knock. Who’s there? Dishes. Dishes who? Dishes da police, come out with your spoons up.’ Sophie was pink-cheeked and laughing again. I sat in beside Magnie and reached for one of the crumbles. ‘Mine?’

Gavin smiled at me. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to miss your pudding.’

‘Thanks.’ I poured myself a second mug of tea and launched in, glancing around. Tiede had gone back into her bunk and drawn the turquoise curtain across. Brandon was showing Charlotte the photos he’d taken. Gavin and Priss had finished their tea and were in the middle of the aisle, putting overalls back on, to go out on deck. Dishes done, Mavis came back to the table and got out her knitting, a toorie-cap in greens and browns. Sophie clambered into her bunk and lay reading with the curtain open. Magnie rose and followed Gavin and Priss upwards.

Only Tirval still had his mug of tea in front of him. Once he’d drunk it, I could get the charts out, and show Sophie and anyone else who was interested how we went about passage planning. We would be going through Harris Sound, and that would be fun in this poor visibility. I suspected only the folk actually on watch would stay up for it.

Tirval took the thought from my head. ‘It’s going to be a cold watch tonight.’ He smiled at Charlotte. ‘We’ll be envying you in your warm bunk while we’re out in the drizzle, spotting course marks in Harris Sound.’ He slanted his head up to me. ‘Could we have a look at the charts, Cass?’ He drained the last of his tea, and rose. ‘See what we’re in for?’

I was maybe being over-sensitive, but I thought he gave a quick, narrow-eyed look at the closed curtains of Tiede’s berth.

Laek a deuk glying for thunder: a watchful person

St Kilda was over a hundred miles from Ullapool, and forty-five miles from the outside of the Outer Hebrides. Harris Sound, between the islands of Harris and North Uist, was our most direct route. I hadn’t gone through it before, and the chart showed a scattering of semi- and wholly submerged rocks, with a variety of lights and beacons on them. I wiped the table, then spread out the charts and pilot books. ‘Anyone fancy doing some navigation?’ I looked up at Sophie in her bunk. ‘Sophie?’

She switched back into anxiety mode.. . .