Time for the Dead Read online

  The first thing she learned on entry was that Jake Ross had been found. He’d apparently driven to Kyle of Lochalsh, where he’d abandoned the car and caught the Inverness train, eventually turning up at Raigmore hospital, where his wife had died earlier in the year.

  ‘He’d made that journey scores of times to see her, when she was still alive,’ Lee explained to Rhona. ‘He just forgot that she had gone.’

  It was a sad story, but it could have ended much worse, and it meant all their resources could now concentrate on the incident at Kilt Rock.

  Lee confirmed that the body had been airlifted to Glasgow rather than Inverness, and that Rhona’s forensic examination evidence was following.

  Rhona explained about the lack of a scent trail to the cliff edge, and the previous injury to the back of the head. ‘I also found evidence of cocaine use in the victim,’ Rhona said. ‘My forensic assistant brought the news that the soil samples from the site behind A.C.E Target Sports contained benzoylecgonine, which suggests the presence of cocaine.’ She turned to Lee. ‘You mentioned to Alvis that you’d taken a big haul of cocaine and cannabis recently. I wonder if what’s been happening here could be linked in some way to that?’

  ‘We’re sharing info all the time on the circulation of heroin. Norway has the same problems as we have, especially the rural areas. Most often the drugs coming into Skye and Lochaber come from Glasgow, via Europe and Scandinavia, a lot of it originating from Afghanistan. We’ve been speaking to officers in Glasgow including DS McNab about their Sandman operation.’ He paused. ‘Are you planning to go across for the post-mortem, Dr MacLeod?’

  Rhona didn’t have an answer to that. If she did go back for the autopsy, she would be unlikely to return, and she wasn’t convinced she was ready to do that, just yet.

  ‘Last thing,’ Lee was saying, realizing she wasn’t going to give an answer on the PM. ‘Let’s show them the gemstone you found.’

  Rhona, having attached her camera to the system, produced the image of the blue-green stone, which caused some interest and chatter among the officers. Eventually one young female constable raised her hand.

  ‘You recognize this?’ Lee said.

  ‘My brother was in the army, Sarge. In Afghanistan. He said the British and American planes carpet-bombed the way to Kabul in advance of the friendly northern rebels. When the rocks shattered they revealed semi-precious stones like that one. My brother had one made into a bracelet for his girlfriend.’

  27

  McNab didn’t like visiting hospitals, and this was his second visit in twenty-four hours to the new Queen Elizabeth hospital, or what Glaswegians had ironically named the Death Star.

  Riding with the former Private H. McArthur in the ambulance, McNab didn’t think the skinny wreck of a bloke lying beside him had a hope in hell of making it. But he was wrong, and mostly thanks to an NHS team who were well versed in dealing with stab wounds. One consolation for being a resident of Glasgow, once the knife capital of Scotland, although much improved in recent times.

  McNab had departed once they’d wheeled the victim into surgery, and a call later had informed him that Harry, who he’d ID’d via his dog tag, had survived the operation, the knife hadn’t damaged any of his vital organs and he could visit the next day if he wanted to speak to him.

  McNab extracted himself from his vehicle and, remote-locking it, made his way towards the entrance. He didn’t like mortuaries either, but for whatever reason, the smells of the morgue didn’t trigger his PTSD.

  That was more random, like the sudden bang on Ashton Lane the previous night or the sounds and scents of a busy hospital, which brought forth ghost pains, as though the bullet wound had never healed. Back when he’d been a patient, he’d understood how folk could get hooked on opiates, having pressed the feed on his morphine drip as often as was allowed.

  Standing for a moment at the ward entrance, McNab tried to persuade the PTSD version of himself that he wasn’t the one courting death here. That, this time, the black echo wasn’t for him.

  The nurse on the desk greeted him with a nod.

  ‘How’s our patient?’ McNab said.

  ‘He’s conscious – not sure about lucid, though, if you’re planning an interview.’

  ‘So he’ll definitely live?’

  She threw him a look. ‘The knife wound’s been dealt with. As to the other ways he’s killing himself . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I see he’s been in the wars before.’

  ‘He was a soldier,’ McNab said.

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘That explains the scars then.’

  The ones that are visible, McNab thought.

  The uniform on duty outside the room stood up on McNab’s approach.

  ‘Any visitors or interested parties?’

  ‘None, Sarge.’

  The face on the pillow had been scrubbed up, but that hadn’t altered the gauntness or the disfigurement. What age was the bastard?

  According to his army record, twenty-five going on fucking eighty.

  In the darkness of the alley, McNab had barely registered the face. Now he studied it in more detail. Purple shrapnel scars and burn scars pitted Private McArthur’s left cheek, neck and chest. No doubt the explosion had fucked with his hearing too. Probably left him with headaches. Being hit in the head by flying shrapnel, McNab had been informed, was like having a knitting needle stabbed into your eardrum. Agonizing, unbearable and long-lasting.

  The black echo.

  No wonder the poor bastard had looked for a way out of that pain. And heroin, ‘the joy plant’, had been his saviour.

  Registering that someone was in the room, the eyes flickered cautiously open. McNab watched as first confusion then fear flooded them.

  ‘You got stabbed,’ McNab said as though this was news. ‘Your attacker aimed for the kidneys. You’re lucky he missed.’ He paused. ‘I found you in the alley behind the Rock Cafe and called an ambulance.’

  The bewildered look at this part of the story suggested he was perplexed as to why McNab had bothered, then a light bloomed in his eyes.

  ‘You’re a fucking cop.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McNab. Pleased to meet you, Private H. McArthur.’ McNab dangled the metal tag he’d recovered at the scene. ‘H for Harry, like Prince Harry, that other famous soldier.’

  The guy’s face suddenly creased up and for a brief and uncomfortable moment McNab thought he would break down and weep. How he might proceed with a sobbing ex-soldier, McNab had no idea. That, he thought, was where DS Clark would have come in useful.

  However, the tears did not materialize. Prince Harry instead tried to pull himself up in the bed, which was an obviously painful experience.

  ‘Better not to do that,’ McNab offered. ‘I speak from experience, mate.’

  ‘When can I get out of here?’

  ‘That’s for the doctors to decide.’

  He shot McNab a worried look. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘For what? Getting stabbed in an alley?’

  An idea seemed to come to him and he said, ‘I did it myself. Wanted it all over with.’

  McNab assumed a thoughtful expression. ‘You did? What happened to the knife?’

  By his lack of response, Harry hadn’t worked on that aspect of his story yet.

  McNab carried on with his own version. ‘One Malcolm Stevenson, commonly known as Wee Malky, left the Rock Cafe by the fire escape that led to the alley where you were. I followed him.’

  A glimmer of recognition and fear played on McArthur’s face before he shook his head. ‘I was out of it, didn’t see anyone.’

  McNab nodded as though he understood his reticence.

  ‘Why’d you quit the army, Private?’

  The question caught him off guard, so his answer, when it came, was close to the truth – as revealed by McNab’s recent enquiries.

  ‘They chucked me out.’ He pointed to his scarred face. ‘Not pretty enough for their recruitment videos.’

 
McNab smiled. ‘Didn’t want to frighten the troops, eh?’ He paused. ‘Where are you staying, soldier?’

  McArthur gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Well, it’s not in a home for heroes.’

  ‘What if I found you somewhere to go when you get out of here?’ McNab offered.

  Suspicion snaked across the marked face.

  ‘Like a cell, you mean?’

  ‘Like a room. Somewhere you can recover.’ McNab almost added, and maybe hide from Malky, but didn’t.

  ‘You think you’re fucking Santa Claus?’

  ‘Maybe Christmas just came early for you.’

  McNab emerged into the night air and took a deep, cold breath.

  Despite his questions, Prince Harry had stuck to his story that he’d stabbed himself and dropped the knife down a nearby stank, somewhere between his Argyle Street pitch and the alley.

  Drains would have to be checked in the vicinity, of course, but McNab knew the story to be a big fat lie. If what he imagined had happened was in fact true, then McArthur was well aware that once Malky found out he was alive, he and others would come looking for him. Then he would indeed become dead meat, whether he got his next heroin hit or not.

  The question McNab now asked himself was why, when he knew McNab was likely tailing him, would Malky stab McArthur on his way out?

  An answer immediately presented itself.

  He thought I would ignore what looked like a spaced-out junkie and, for whatever reason, he wanted McArthur dead.

  The why of that was what McNab found most interesting.

  It was a legal requirement that notification should be made to the MOD if any serving soldier was arrested. One who had been discharged under a cloud, the MOD weren’t so interested in. Even if the former soldier had been injured in the line of duty.

  If the army was a family, McNab had discovered in the process of his enquiry, it was one that was no longer interested in its son Private Harry McArthur.

  McNab wondered what it was Prince Harry had done to piss them off so badly. He hadn’t been jailed, as far as McNab was aware, but he’d obviously committed some sort of crime while serving. If he was already using out there in Afghanistan, and let’s face it, there was an ample supply, then that in itself would have been enough. If they suspected he was involved in a supply line . . .

  McNab found himself nursing a suspicion that getting to know Prince Harry better might just bring him a little closer to the Sandman.

  28

  Rhona crossed the silent square to the welcome lights of the Isles hotel.

  The clouds had departed and above her the night sky was lit by a myriad of stars. It would be colder tonight because of it. She thought of the cottage, any heat from the stove having long ago dissipated in her absence.

  Had she been back in Glasgow, the central heating would have kicked on with the timer, allowing her to arrive back to a warm flat. The thought surprised her because it was, she realized, the first time she’d recalled her home in a positive light since she’d come to Skye.

  As for the cold welcome they would get at the cottage – no amount of reassurances on her part about how quickly it would heat up once the stove was lit would be enough for a shivering Chrissy.

  Rhona wondered if it might be better to stay in Portree tonight, since they were heading out early again in the morning. Then there was the post-mortem to think about. They had conference facilities at the police station, and she could talk McNab into going along to the autopsy and keeping her in the loop. There was so much about the victim’s wounds, especially the old one, that might help give a clearer picture of what the hell was going on here.

  The revelation that the dropped necklace may have had its origins in Afghanistan had reminded her of the party of medics, who’d seemingly left A.C.E Target Sports unhurt, only to head off into the wild places of Skye.

  Lee had voiced the same thought at the end of the meeting.

  ‘We’d better check on their whereabouts or at least if they’re still on Skye. See if the Isles have info on any of them.’

  Gazing round the busy bar, Rhona spotted her team close to the roaring fire and, by the satisfied expression on Chrissy’s face, it looked as though they’d already been fed. Chrissy was deep in conversation with Donald, while Blaze was performing nearby for a party of tourists keen to have him catch a tennis ball in mid-air.

  When Jamie spotted her, he waved Rhona over.

  ‘We saved a seat for you. And your fish and chips will be here just as soon as I let them know you’ve arrived.’

  Glancing round them all, Rhona noted that Alvis was missing.

  ‘He went upstairs,’ Jamie said. ‘Something about checking in back home in Stavanger. Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Something non-alcoholic. I’ve an hour’s drive ahead of me.’

  Now in the warmth, the idea of driving back to the undoubtedly cold cottage only to return first thing tomorrow morning seemed even less appealing. Rhona wondered if Jamie was reading her mind, because he immediately said, ‘You can stay over again if you want.’

  Before Rhona could say, ‘What about Chrissy?’ Jamie had supplied her with an answer. ‘There’s a sofa bed in the sitting room.’

  When Rhona still hesitated, he added, ‘You’d save Chrissy from a night in the cabin in the woods and –’ he nodded at the hilarity coming from the corner – ‘she does seem to like it here.’

  She does indeed, Rhona thought.

  ‘Okay, I’ll speak to Chrissy. And thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome, but you know that.’ Jamie smiled. ‘And here comes your food.’

  Ten minutes later, her plate cleared, Rhona checked out the area around the bar.

  Lee had requested she ask at the hotel if they had a mobile number for the medic team who’d stayed there. There was no reception area in the small hotel, both room and meal bookings being managed via a laptop behind the bar, which was currently too busy to deal with her request. Rhona decided it could wait, especially now she wasn’t setting off on the hour’s drive from Portree to Armadale.

  Unusually for Chrissy, she’d merely waved at Rhona but had not yet made any attempt to come and engage her in conversation, which suggested she was definitely enjoying herself.

  Rhona thought again how pleased she’d been to see Chrissy on the shore. Back then Chrissy’s head had been encased in a parka, then in a forensic suit. Now Rhona could admire the current hair colour, which, she realized, resembled a rainbow that shone radiantly in the firelight.

  Relaxing back in the chair, her appetite appeased, Rhona sampled the whisky Jamie had brought her and decided that she was indeed a fan of Talisker. That thought brought an image of McNab trying valiantly to Skype her.

  Her plan had been to make contact with him tomorrow morning, but she was sufficiently in the zone now to face him tonight. Only problem was, where exactly? It was much too noisy in here, even though there was a decent signal, and she didn’t fancy heading back out in the cold to visit the police station. She could wait until she was back at Jamie’s, but by the look of things that might not be for some time. She decided to head for the bar, where the queue to be served had diminished.

  ‘Sergeant MacDonald asked me to check if you had contact details for the medics who stayed here recently?’

  The girl nodded. ‘The Norwegian policeman asked the same thing when he came back from Kilt Rock. They booked one night for the five of them all under one name. Pete Galbraith. He used his credit card. I gave Inspector Olsen the email used in the booking.’ She paused, a look of horror crossing her face. ‘You don’t think . . .?’

  ‘I think Sergeant MacDonald’s just concerned about them camping in this weather,’ Rhona reassured her. ‘Which room is Alvis in?’

  ‘First floor, room six.’

  Rhona took off before any more questions might be posed regarding the identity of the victim. No doubt the islanders would be busy trying to work out who might have been found on the beach. What little had be
en released left room for speculation and Rhona didn’t want to add any more.

  According to Lee, ‘News travels at the speed of light round the island. Speculation even faster.’

  Rhona eased her way past the performing Blaze and, exiting the bar, climbed to the first floor. Listening for a moment outside room six to assure herself Alvis was inside, she knocked.

  ‘Alvis, it’s Rhona.’

  There was a squeaking sound as though he’d been sitting or lying on the bed, then the creak of flooring and the door opened.

  ‘I wondered if I might use your room to Skype McNab?’ Rhona said. ‘I’ve decided to stay over here tonight again and downstairs is too noisy for a conversation.’

  Alvis hesitated but only briefly, then flung the door open wide. ‘As you can see, the room’s not very big,’ he warned her, ‘and you’ll have to sit on the bed, but other than that you’re welcome.’

  He was right about the room. The double bed took up most of the space, even though, in his meticulous fashion, Alvis had carefully placed his belongings to allow the most vacant floor space.

  ‘I was just checking in myself,’ he told her.

  ‘How’s Stavanger?’

  ‘Cold and snowy like here.’

  Alvis began folding up the map he’d had spread out on the bed.

  ‘I heard you were asking for a contact for the soldiers?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Lee asked me to check. They gave me an email address. I’ve sent a message and copied in Lee, but no reply as yet. Then again, if their intention was to go off-grid, that’s not surprising. I was studying the map, wondering where they might have gone.

  ‘Do you want me to make myself scarce while you Skype?’ Alvis offered.

  ‘No need,’ Rhona assured him, texting McNab as she said it.

  Minutes later, her mobile signalled an incoming Skype call, then McNab’s face appeared on the screen. He looked pleased to see her.

  ‘Busy day, Dr MacLeod?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Heard all about it. Your body’s in the mortuary. Your evidence is at the lab. How’s Chrissy doing?’

  ‘Thanks for sending her.’