EGEF - Fair Isle, Shetland Islands, GB

World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Just putting a few things down, one last time.
DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police.
Aye, that’ll do.

Episode 8: Fair Isle (EGEF) – 27th May 2025

The last leg. We skim past Sumburgh Head, lighthouse flashing, then out over open water. Flew over Skroo North Lighthouse, the George Waterston Memorial—a museum dedicated to the much-loved ornithologist and conservationist who helped save Fair Isle’s community and founded the Bird Observatory—then Skroo South Lighthouse, and EGEF. Fair Isle’s strip is short and rough, but the landing’s good. At the Bird Observatory’s bar, bannocks and crowdie cheese are passed round, with platters of smoked salmon and wild herbs. The locals pour Azure IPA and pass a bottle of Scapa single malt, peaty and sweet.

A knitter, Honey Ryder, hands busy with needles, glances up:
“Du’s lookin’ for da stranger, are du? He’s been oot by da airstrip, starin’ at da sea. Left a cigar stub on da stones—folk here say if du see a storm petrel at dusk, change is comin’.

Mind du, Fair Isle’s a place whaar da wind can turn in a blink, and da cliffs are aye whisperin’ secrets. If du bide a while, du’ll hear da yarns floatin’ in da simmer dim.”

We find him at the airstrip, standing at the edge, coat collar turned up against the wind. No disguise, no weapon—just a man worn thin by years of running. He turns, blue eyes sharp, a hint of that famous, sardonic smile flickering. He’s holding a battered cigar, gaze fixed on the horizon, the North Sea restless at his feet.

He doesn’t flinch as I approach. Instead, he speaks quietly, voice edged with both fatigue and that familiar, unbreakable resolve:
“Funny, isn’t it, Perez? All these years, all those missions, and in the end, it’s not the bullets or the villains that catch up with you. It’s time. We all run out of it eventually.”

He glances at the sky, stoic as ever.

“You know, I used to think I could outrun my fate. But you can only live so long in the shadows before you start to disappear. The world doesn’t change much, not really. Just the faces.”

He offers a dry smile, the echo of a life spent in tuxedos and gunmetal:
“I suppose I should offer you a cigar, but I never was very good at sharing. Old habits.”

I ask if he’s tired of running. He shrugs, a ghost of that old bravado:
“Well, I wouldn’t be very good at my job if it did bother me. But I suppose even a blunt instrument gets dull in the end.”

He looks out at the restless sea, voice softer, almost confessional:
“Letting go is hard. Harder than facing down a villain or staring at the end of a barrel. But there’s a peace in it, too. I’ve had enough of shadows and lies. I’d rather face the wind out here than the suits in London. At least the wind’s honest.”

He turns back, eyes clear and searching, as if weighing the very meaning of existence:
“You do what I did for too long, and there’s not much soul left to salvage. But I’d rather burn out than fade away. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.”

He flicks the end of his cigar into the grass, watching the smoke curl away.
“If I don’t come back, blow it all to hell,” he mutters, almost to himself, then gives a final, wry smile. “But I think, for once, I’m not coming back because I choose not to. We all have to stop running sometime.”

The dogs sit quietly, sensing no threat. I radio London: “No sign of the suspect here.” Some mysteries are better left unsolved. As he walks into the mist, I realise this island’s given us both a second chance. The circle closes, and in the hush of Fair Isle, a new life quietly begins.
“The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.”

Epilogue:
Before I sign off, I’d like to say a quiet thank you to Cropduster, Lani, Kai, and the whole Tiger Shark Squadron—crew and aircraft alike—for their patience and good humour. Shetland’s mysteries are rarely straightforward, and it’s not often I find myself solving them with such company, whether on the ground or in the air.

I managed a small gesture—handed Cropduster a velcro patch I’d had made up, just for a laugh.

“Thought you might appreciate this, seeing as you’re always keeping us on the right track,” I said, doing my best to keep a straight face.

It read:
DO NOT PET
Service Human
(Still in Training)

Cropduster looked at the patch, then at me, and couldn’t help but laugh—especially seeing Kai and Lani’s tails thumping, eyes bright with mischief. That’s when it dawned on him: Kai, Lani, and I had all been in on it together from the very start.

Truth be told, it’s the tarmac BBQs around the support aircraft I’ll remember—breaking into the cargo hold for a Cohiba Robusto, a dram of good Scotch, and strong coffee, all of us gathered round as the sound system played some of my favourites: “Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits, “Fields of Gold” by Sting, and, for good measure, “The Dark Island” by The McCalmans. There’s a certain comfort in that—smoke curling into the Shetland dusk, laughter carrying over the wing, and the sense that, even in the thickest haar, there’s always someone watching your back.

Wouldn’t have managed half so well without you all.
DI Jimmy Perez,
Shetland Police—and friend.


End log.Read more