Time for the Dead Read online

  Time for the Dead

  to have their revenge . . .

  LIN ANDERSON

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  For

  Blaze fae Skye, Border Collie,

  who inspired this story

  All the Gods, the Heavens and the Hells are within us.

  The dog stirred, ears pricking up, positioning themselves like radar. The night was full of noise for the Border collie, not so for his owner slumbering only inches away.

  The crackle and spit as a log settled in the stove, the hoot of an owl, the rustle of trees in the wind, the chatter of the burn that ran behind their caravan. All those the big collie heard and dismissed.

  But not the other sound.

  Raising his head, he listened, searching for what had awakened him, the memory of which troubled the dog, because he sensed that the sound had been made by a human. One in distress.

  The dog jumped up, certain now of what he should do and how quickly he would need to do it.

  A loud bark brought his bleary-eyed master to open the door, his words at having been woken so abruptly sharp on the air.

  A blast of icy wind swept in, together with a flurry of wet snow as the dog jumped out, oblivious to the order to be quick.

  He caught the smell of human almost immediately. More than one. Only a limited number of humans visited his home site during the winter months, and at least one of the scents he picked up now he recognized.

  How far away was the fear, and in which direction?

  The dog paused to sniff the ground, catching perhaps the trail deposited earlier. Into the trees now, his swift run disturbed other creatures that lived on the twelve-acre site, causing them to flee before him. A white hare rushed past and the dog almost lost concentration, until his training kicked back in.

  Find the human. Follow their fear.

  He was circling, radar ears turning, nose to the air, aware that as the group had moved in circles in their earlier game, he too might do the same, never to reach his goal.

  The dog stood stock-still, every hair on his shaggy body bristling.

  The new smell came to him then on the wind, making his shiny black nose twitch in anticipation.

  It was one he knew well. A scent that emanated from his usual prey.

  The blood smell of the kill.

  1

  Run. Breathe.

  She could smell her own sweat, feel it trickle inside her gear, despite her breath condensing in the freezing air.

  She paused to catch her breath and check the thump of her heart. Sniffing the air like a dog, she sought a scent of the others.

  People thought that all perspiration had the same smell. It didn’t. She knew what each member of the group smelt like. In the midnight darkness of a desert hideout, she was able to distinguish each one of them by their footfall, by their breathing pattern as they slept and by the scent of their bodies.

  She knew when they were at peace. When they were afraid, which was most of the time, and when they were aroused.

  Like now.

  Her ears attuned, she instinctively knew where the others were with respect to her own location. She knew exactly where he was. And that was close behind her.

  Very close.

  She could hear the faint rumble of the burn, swollen with melting snow, but not yet see it. In Afghanistan they’d had their night-vision goggles. Not here. Here they had to rely on their own eyes and their instincts.

  She would stop, she decided. She would wait for him to come to her, as she knew he would. Her heart beat like a marching band and her sweat mingled with the tang of wet birch as she awaited his arrival.

  As it was, she caught the stink of his body before she saw him.

  Then a shaft of moonlight escaped from behind the sleet-laden clouds, to find his outline. Tall, broad, his body dense and tense. She knew what he would do when he reached her. Crow his success. Look for his reward. Take it.

  She knew real fear then and longed to turn and run.

  Spinning suddenly, she took off again, denying him his prize. He gave a shout of anger. Despite her quick getaway, he would be on her soon. Now she could smell what he wanted. Something she was unwilling to give.

  2

  The temperature had dropped again overnight. Rhona watched as her breath condensed above her, then pulling the cover over her head once more, rejoiced in the warmth below the duvet.

  It was, she decided, the coldest winter she’d ever experienced on Skye.

  Not that she had spent many winters here to judge.

  Summer had been her time for visiting as a teenager, apart from a week last November just before the case that had called her to Sanday, one of Orkney’s most northerly islands.

  Thinking about work stirred her properly awake. She had spent the time since the sin-eater case blanking her mind of all things related to that subject. And since work normally consumed her for most hours of the day, that had been a difficult thing to achieve.

  An impossible thing to achieve.

  So, she had compensated by studying past unsolved cases she hadn’t been involved in, together with new developments in the field of forensics. And she had spent time reading, working her way through every book she’d found in the cottage, before joining the travelling library and requesting more.

  She’d taken a daily swim until the weather had got too cold even for her wetsuit. She’d climbed and walked, and walked and climbed, since Skye was a perfect place to do both.

  In all this endeavour to forget, she’d enlisted the help of Jamie McColl, who had shared her teenage summers on the island. Jamie had stayed behind to run the family undertaker’s, while Rhona had gone to Glasgow University initially to study medicine, then switching to forensic science. A member of the local Mountain Rescue Team, Jamie also knew the hills better than anyone, so was the perfect guide when she required one.

  He was also easy company and they never discussed his work or hers, or even why she’d forsaken it.

  Throwing back the duvet, Rhona rose and, grabbing a jumper, w
ent to check on the stove. Entering the sitting room, she found it still warm from the dying embers of the fire. Had she remembered to build it up with peat before falling into bed, the rest of the cottage would have been equally warm.

  Used to gas central heating in her Glasgow flat, and the instantly available fire in the sitting room, her biggest adjustment in coming here had been how to stay continuously warm. Only now did she fully appreciate the work involved in doing that.

  Rhona opened the stove and threw in some more wood, after which she headed for the kitchen. Filling the coffee machine, she then grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, opened the back door and stepped outside. Despite having done this every morning since her arrival, the sight that met her never failed to fill her with wonder.

  This was why she’d come here and this was what might save her.

  In the darkness of despair, in the blackness of her incarceration, this was the image she’d tried to remember when she closed her eyes.

  The tide was out, leaving glistening pools among the grey rocks. The Sound of Sleat was as calm as the sky above it. Something that didn’t happen very often. A blue sky belied the cold that sent a shiver through her body, although the distant peaks of the mainland told the truth, coated as they were in a white mantle.

  Bathed by the warmth of the Gulf Stream, the west coast of Scotland experienced plenty of rain, but wasn’t renowned for snow cover. Winter climbers rarely visited Skye and the Cuillin to challenge themselves on snow or ice, but this winter had been different.

  This winter had brought more snow and lower temperatures than usual, and, Rhona thought, made this part of Scotland even more beautiful for its presence. She stood breathing in both the scene and the sharp air, before the scent of the freshly brewed coffee beckoned.

  Heading inside, she found the fire ablaze and the chill in the remainder of the cottage definitely diminished. She opened the stove and, laying on some peat blocks, turned the damper down, as she should have done overnight.

  Pouring a cup of strong coffee brought a fleeting image of DS Michael McNab, her colleague, friend and, briefly, former lover. With that came the memory of the moment McNab had turned his Harley-Davidson Street Glide into the rough track that led to the cottage, with her riding pillion.

  The trip itself by motorbike had been an eye-opener for Rhona. She’d travelled the same route before, many times, by car. On a bike it had been totally different. Surprisingly so. Still traumatized by her recent experience, she’d found herself able to smile again as she observed the Highlands with new eyes.

  McNab had been quick to note the change, and had suggested she might like to embrace freedom and buy a bike of her own.

  By the time they’d reached Skye, Rhona was beginning to consider doing just that.

  McNab might have opened her eyes to a new way of travelling through the Highlands. Rhona, on the other hand, hadn’t succeeded in opening McNab’s eyes to the pleasures of living there. His first words as he’d approached the cottage had in fact been, ‘You’re planning to stay . . . here?’

  He’d tried, she remembered, not to sound too horrified at the thought.

  McNab, as an urban warrior, had no desire to be anywhere other than his beloved Glasgow and its ‘mean streets’, the countryside being anathema to him.

  Yet he agreed to bring me here despite his misgivings.

  ‘You’ll lose the plot,’ he offered as he drew up outside. ‘No Chrissy, no Sean. No shops. No pubs.’

  Rhona, choosing to ignore any reference to her mental state, however throwaway, said instead, ‘There’s a very nice pub not far from here. And I can have my food delivered just like in Glasgow.’

  McNab hadn’t looked convinced by that.

  ‘Internet?’ he’d countered as she’d unlocked the blue, salt-streaked front door.

  Rhona couldn’t lie. ‘I hear it’s better than it was.’

  ‘Better than on Sanday, I hope?’ He’d shaken his head, as though even the memory of their incarceration on that particular remote island still caused him pain.

  ‘I’ll adjust,’ Rhona had assured him, wondering if she would, or even could.

  Still, anything was better than being in the Glasgow flat at the moment. Or maybe ever again.

  McNab had checked out the tiny cottage as though it were a crime scene, before unlocking the back door and stepping outside.

  ‘Jeez,’ he’d said, noting how close they were to the water. ‘You’re nearly in the fucking sea.’

  ‘The tide doesn’t come past those rocks,’ Rhona had assured him. ‘Even when it’s stormy.’

  She’d watched as McNab cut off whatever he’d been about to say in response, although Rhona had been able to read every line on his face. He was worried about her, although trying desperately not to say it out loud. Something that wasn’t easy for him.

  The journey west had gone well, mainly because he’d loved riding his motorbike on such open roads. Now they were actually here, he’d had to face up to the fact that he felt like he was abandoning her ‘in a foreign land’.

  ‘It’s not foreign,’ Rhona had laughed at that. ‘This is where my adopted parents came from. This is where I spent a large chunk of my childhood,’ she’d reminded him.

  The box of groceries she’d pre-ordered had been left in the back shed as she’d requested. ‘See,’ Rhona had said as she’d lifted it out. ‘Tonight’s tea.’

  She’d lit the fire then, while McNab selected something to eat and set about warming it up in the microwave. Fed and weary after the long bike ride, they’d settled companionably in front of the fire, Rhona with a whisky, McNab choosing a beer.

  McNab had looked slightly askance when she’d poured herself a malt from the cabinet rather than open the bottle of white wine delivered with the groceries.

  ‘I’m not ready for white wine . . . yet,’ she’d said, remembering too well its significance.

  ‘Same for me with whisky.’

  Rhona had left McNab in front of the glowing fire nursing his beer and gone to make up the beds. Hers in the double bedroom that had once been her parents’ room and McNab’s in the single room that had once been hers. They’d parted company around ten, but she suspected McNab had got as little sleep as she had.

  In truth, Rhona had been glad to see McNab leave the next morning. He was so much a part of what she’d been through that his presence there merely served as a reminder of what she was here to forget.

  Nevertheless, she’d surprised both McNab and herself by giving him a hug goodbye, recalling the scent of his skin and the feel of his bristled cheek against her own.

  ‘Give Ellie my love,’ she’d told him as he’d hugged her back.

  ‘I will,’ he’d said, his look of affection bringing a swell of emotion Rhona could hardly contain.

  As the motorbike reached the main road, he’d turned and waved his last goodbye, and at his departure, Rhona had felt so lost and alone that she’d gone quickly inside and locked the door.

  3

  Rhona stared at the front door, key in hand.

  If, or when, she felt able to leave the door unlocked, she would, she realized, have reached a definite signpost on her road to recovery.

  This isn’t Glasgow, she reminded herself. This is Skye, where everyone knows your business and your whereabouts.

  Her parents had never locked their door when going out and neither had she in past times. No one around here had locked their doors. What if a visitor arrived, cold, wet or hungry, and couldn’t get inside?

  Perish the thought.

  Perhaps, though, things had changed. There were more strangers about. The local population of 10,000 was now dwarfed annually by over half a million tourists. And Skye wasn’t an island any more. It had a bridge to the mainland. Plus, there was crime, although rarely major. And, unlike on Sanday, there was a police station.

  All these excuses for her urban-style behaviour caused Rhona’s hand to hover two inches from the keyhole.

  McNab
would blow a fuse if he knew she was even contemplating leaving the door unlocked. As would Sean.

  Conscience assuaged, Rhona slid in the key and turned it. Then, as recompense for her lack of faith in the people of Skye, she put the key under a nearby stone.

  Jamie’s borrowed jeep was coated in a spidery film of snow, although last night’s light fall had already melted into the muddy car track.

  Rhona checked her watch as she joined the main road. She had agreed to meet up with Jamie in Portree, but before that she had to face her appointment with the trauma counsellor. Despite her protestations that she had no need of such support, DI Wilson had continued to insist. ‘If you’d agreed to go to Castlebrae, this wouldn’t be necessary,’ had been Bill’s exact words.

  Castlebrae was a treatment centre for police officers, injured physically or psychologically in the line of duty.

  ‘I’m not a police officer,’ Rhona had reminded him. ‘But I am due some time off. And I plan to spend it on Skye.’

  Bill had backed off then, but Rhona had known he wouldn’t give up. And he hadn’t. She had finally agreed to a meeting with a psychiatrist, more because of Chrissy’s constant urging.

  ‘What harm can it do?’ her friend and forensic assistant had told her. ‘And it’ll get Bill off your back, and mine.’

  So for Chrissy’s sake at least, Rhona had eventually agreed to today’s meeting.

  Besides, she liked the hour-long run from Armadale to Portree, which lay roughly halfway up the east coast of the island. Most people visiting Skye for the first time had no conception of just how large the island was, and how little of the landmass was accessible by road.

  When she’d shown McNab the large framed map on the sitting-room wall of the cottage, he’d been openly surprised, both by its size and the fact that it was covered with Gaelic place names.

  In fact it had been that which had prompted his ‘foreign land’ remark.

  ‘Try looking at any map featuring land north of the central belt,’ she’d told him. ‘It’s all in Gaelic.’

  ‘It wasn’t on Sanday,’ he’d reminded her.

  ‘That’s because Orkney and Shetland are Norse. Didn’t they teach you anything about Scotland in school?’