None but the Dead Read online

  ‘There was a girl worked on the camp. I don’t know what she did there. Her name was Beth Haddow and she was from somewhere in England. We met at one of the dances, but she wasn’t interested in me. There was someone else for her, although she was kind enough to a sixteen-year-old ploughboy.’

  By his expression he was reliving those times.

  ‘I asked her to dance with me that night. She did, but she was watching for someone else. I don’t know who. I went outside to the toilet and when I came back she’d disappeared.’ He paused. ‘I never saw her again. I tried asking about her but they were a secretive lot up there. You could come to the parties and watch the movies, but you weren’t allowed to ask questions.’

  McNab showed him a photograph of the brooch.

  ‘She was wearing this when she died.’

  Mr Cutts picked up the picture and studied it. ‘Sweetheart brooches were very popular back then. I don’t remember her wearing one.’

  ‘What was she wearing when you last saw her?’

  He smiled. ‘I was just a lad. I never paid any attention to what women wore, just dreamed of what was underneath the clothes.’

  McNab was warming to Don Cutts as a teenager, and as an octogenarian.

  ‘Describe Beth for me.’

  ‘Small, maybe just over five feet tall. Slim with dark hair, cut short. Pretty with very blue, intense eyes. Light on her feet, like a bird.’

  ‘Could she have left the camp, gone back south?’

  ‘She could have, but I don’t think she did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was never on the ferry to Kirkwall. They didn’t go as often as they do now and I knew most of the men that ran it. She didn’t leave from Kettletoft.’

  ‘Maybe the army transferred her out?’

  ‘She wasn’t in the forces. She was a civilian. When I kept coming back asking about her, they got shirty with me. They were hiding something.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘There were a lot of secrets between the local folk and camp personnel. Mostly of a personal nature. After all, it was wartime. And bear in mind there were more of them than there were of us.’

  ‘Have you a photograph of Beth anywhere?’ McNab asked.

  ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘Just a memory of her.’

  We have no chance with this, McNab thought as Mr Cutts wheeled himself away. It’s too long ago and whoever killed her would likely be dead anyway.

  PC Tulloch presented himself again. ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Go ask that nice Norwegian lady to make me another espresso.’

  McNab settled himself in a seat by the window and checked his mobile. The signal was intermittent everywhere but for a few bright spots, such as here at the hotel and at the community centre.

  He noted that Freya had been trying to call him and had left a message.

  In normal circumstances he would have been keen to hear the message, but somehow this place and the circumstances didn’t feel normal. Being cut off gave you a different perspective on life, as though you were cocooned.

  He was on a job, yet it didn’t feel like it. No requirement to explain to his superiors how things were going. No working against the clock. No feeling if you called it wrong, someone might die, as it had been in the previous two cases.

  And the prospect of a home-cooked meal shortly to accompany his pint, and a good night’s sleep to look forward to.

  Maybe the edge of the world wasn’t so bad after all.

  Especially now that PC Tulloch had left for home.

  ‘The centre opens at ten,’ he’d informed McNab on departure.

  ‘I thought we’d spoken to all the oldies who were around during wartime?’

  ‘There are relatives who may have heard stories from back then and want to help,’ PC Tulloch had said.

  The islanders certainly seemed keen to help. Most of the information they’d imparted in the interviews had no bearing on the investigation, except in the case of Don Cutts. There was also a slight feeling on occasion that someone’s name was being brought to police attention over an unrelated matter. Those he had passed on to PC Tulloch. After all, he wasn’t here to police the island as such, that was the responsibility of Kirkwall.

  Then there were those who tried to take the investigation into the realms of fantasy land, such as the woman earlier today who’d suggested that witchcraft had played a part in the death.

  Thinking about witchcraft brought McNab’s eye back to the mobile screen, and Freya’s number.

  He stared at it for a moment, then muttered, ‘Here goes,’ and pressed call back.

  It rang out three times, then went to the messaging service. McNab, a little relieved, apologized, explained that the service was rubbish here and he would try again later. Satisfied that he’d done his duty, he turned his attention to his pint.

  19

  He’d answered the knock fully expecting it to be either the forensic team or one of the policemen. He didn’t mind the two women, but found the newly arrived detective sergeant intimidating. Mike was pretty sure the one they called McNab could read every thought he had, and frankly, that terrified him.

  He’d come to Sanday to escape the nightmare and it seemed that another had been waiting here for him.

  When he saw who stood at the door, his stomach flipped, then rose into his throat, and he had to make a swift dive for the kitchen sink.

  ‘Are you okay?’ The voice that followed him was sweet and concerned, and the sound of it made him retch again.

  Mike gripped the edge of the sink, not daring to turn round.

  Was she real after all, and not a figment of his imagination?

  He ran the cold water and splashed his face, trying to get a grip on reality. At that moment the back door slammed in the wind, shutting her in there with him.

  He turned, stricken, and there she was in the flesh, the face he’d drawn when he found the flower in the attic. Her bright blue eyes, the dark hair cut shoulder length. The nose, the mouth.

  How was that possible?

  Mike glanced from the face before him to the back view of the easel that still held the drawing. It was uncanny, the resemblance. He remembered how swiftly her face had come to him. He must have seen her before and simply forgotten or only registered it in his subconscious. Perhaps at the shop in Lady Village or passing by in a car on the road.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  The creases on her brow eased and she gave him a bright smile.

  ‘My name’s Inga and I live near Mr Flett from the heritage centre,’ she said earnestly, in an accent he registered as Cumbrian. ‘Are you feeling all right now?’

  He wanted to tell her to leave, that she shouldn’t be here alone with him.

  Instead, he said, ‘Have we met before?’

  Her brow furrowed again. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you and your friends been playing nearby?’

  ‘We go to the beach sometimes,’ she offered.

  ‘Do you sing songs, playground rhymes?’ he tried.

  ‘Mr Flett’s been teaching me some old Sanday songs,’ she said, obviously puzzled by his line of questioning.

  Mike had been striving not to look towards the easel again, but couldn’t stop himself.

  Her eyes followed his. ‘You’re an artist?’ she said excitedly. ‘Can I see what you’re painting?’

  ‘No.’

  She’d been poised to move towards the canvas, its contents hidden by the angle at which it stood. His response had surprised her. She shrank back, unsure now of her ground.

  ‘I don’t show things until they’re finished,’ he said, to soften the blow.

  Don’t be nice to her. You must make her go. Now.

  He heard the internal warning, but didn’t heed it.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  She brightened then, pleased finally to be asked.

  ‘I’m helping the police with their enquiries,’ she said in a semi-important
tone.

  The phrase she used struck terror in his heart, and he was suddenly back there in that police interview room, reliving the horror.

  ‘How are you doing that?’ he said.

  ‘By searching for the skull.’ She observed his reaction to this. ‘I know they think we took it, but I explained in school today to PC Tulloch and Detective McNab that we didn’t and we would help them look for it.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ he said, his alarm rising even further.

  ‘My friends who live close by.’ She reeled off names, none of them registering with Mike as he panicked at the thought of not one, but four kids hanging about the place.

  I can’t have them near me.

  ‘I came to ask if it was all right if we searched the grounds around the schoolhouse.’

  ‘The police have already done that.’

  ‘But they haven’t searched all of the beach or out at the lighthouse.’

  Suspicion bloomed. ‘Did you take the skull and bury it in the sand, so you could find it again?’ he demanded.

  The blue eyes clouded over and she looked mightily offended.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  Mike decided he’d had enough. He strode to the door and opened it. Immediately the rain entered on a gust of wind.

  ‘I think you should go home.’

  She hesitated and he sensed that she wanted to make things right between them. He was struck again by the captivating combination of innocence and determination on the girl’s face.

  That’s what got you into trouble before.

  ‘Your parents won’t like you bothering your neighbours,’ he said, desperate that she shouldn’t mention her visit to anyone.

  By her expression, she was accepting defeat, although he sensed she wasn’t the type to give up that easily.

  As she exited, Mike said, ‘I don’t want you or your friends hanging around here. It’s a crime scene after all.’

  He watched the small slight figure trudge off through the rain, then shut the door and immediately went to the easel. Studying the portrait only confirmed his initial reaction. The girl he’d drawn looked exactly like his young visitor.

  How was that possible?

  Even if he had seen her at the community shop, or just passing by in a car, how could he have remembered her in such detail?

  I can’t keep this picture. Not now.

  What if the policeman from Glasgow should see it?

  He’s suspicious already. The way he looks at me.

  ‘Policemen are suspicious of everyone. It goes with the job,’ he said out loud to calm himself.

  He knew he should remove the picture from the easel and either destroy it or bury it out of sight somewhere. And what of the painting of the flower that had inspired it? His eyes were drawn to the kitchen table where the original flower still sat in its evidence bag.

  If I put the flower back in the loft like Sam Flett told me to …

  Maybe if he did that, life would return to normal.

  Mike fetched a bedsheet and draped it over the easel.

  I should move it from this room at least. What if the detective takes a look? He’s seen the girl at the school.

  Mike lifted the easel and transported it through to his bedroom, still dressed in its shroud.

  It’s safe in here.

  Even as he thought that, he wondered if anywhere was safe for the drawing, or for him.

  20

  Rhona found a list of seven recorded marriages between servicemen and Sanday girls. One was between an RAF sergeant James Lee stationed at Whale Head, Lopness, and Jessie Tulloch Marwick of Cross Parish.

  That romance at least seemed to warrant an RAF sweetheart brooch.

  The folders, she discovered, made fascinating reading, with tales of the Home Guard and a visit from some Norwegians heading westward, who were given ‘a great welcome’. It seemed their pilot, Lief Lyssand, had gone on to join the RAF and had been based on mainland Orkney.

  Sadder stories were in there too. A body from a plane downed north of Sanday washed up on the shore and buried in Lady churchyard. A man from Leith killed by a bomb while working in the camp mortuary. Sam had said that as a boy he’d played in all the camp buildings except the mortuary. She wondered if that had been the reason.

  When Derek had delivered the remainder of the evidence, he’d offered to run her back to the cottage, but Rhona wanted to spend more time in the centre, trying to get a picture of what life had been like in Lopness at the time, she believed, when the victim probably met her fate.

  The contrast of life then from now seemed even greater having read the recollections. During the war years this small top corner of Sanday had changed dramatically, from a sparsely populated area where everyone knew everyone else, to a densely packed hive of a thousand service personnel, brought together for the purpose of war. And in war, normal rules didn’t apply, because you might not be here tomorrow.

  There might have been only seven recorded marriages, but there would have been, she surmised, many more liaisons. Some of them hidden. One of them perhaps resulting in death.

  McNab’s call brought her out of her reverie.

  ‘We have a possible missing person from 1944,’ he told her. ‘A woman in her early twenties who worked at the camp. Not local. Just over five feet tall, dark hair, blue eyes. Name of Beth Haddow. The old guy, Don Cutts, who reported it, was a teenager working on Lopness farm at the time. He had the hots for Beth, but she preferred someone else, he doesn’t know who. It seemed Beth disappeared, but no one at the camp would answer his questions.’

  ‘Was she service personnel?’

  ‘He says not. And he was pretty adamant he believed she never left the island, although he has no way of proving it.’

  ‘Could she have simply been avoiding him, and that’s why the camp people gave him the brush-off?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘Maybe, but the dances and cinema showings went on as normal and she didn’t appear again at any of them.’

  ‘Has he any photographs of her?’

  ‘No, but he says he remembers exactly what she looked like.’

  With a skull a facial reconstruction would have been possible and confirmation of whether the body was that of Beth Haddow made easier. McNab knew that as well as she did.

  ‘I think someone on this island knows who that body is,’ McNab said. ‘And doesn’t want us to find out.’

  Rhona was beginning to think the same way. She told McNab what Erling had said about the weather and the transportation of the evidence.

  There was a short but pregnant silence, followed by, ‘You’re not going with it?’

  ‘And leave you here alone in the wilds?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You were the one that wanted a jolly,’ she reminded him.

  ‘A jolly requires good company.’

  Rhona finally put him out of his misery. ‘Chrissy’s going. I’ll stay and finish the excavation.’

  ‘Then you can save me from Ivan the Terrible’s constant good humour.’

  ‘Ivan who?’

  ‘PC Tulloch, the cheeriest bloke on the planet.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ she countered.

  ‘A good night’s sleep will improve my mood.’ McNab explained about his room at the hotel.

  ‘Excellent. There’s live music there tomorrow night.’

  He groaned. ‘It’s not a ceilidh, is it? Or worse, karaoke?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Rhona said, to worry him further.

  ‘Can I come back to the cottage once Chrissy goes?’

  That, Rhona thought, would be a bad idea. She said so. ‘I’ll be going soon too.’

  She could tell the idea of being abandoned on Sanday to investigate a murder from seventy years back wasn’t what McNab regarded as fun. To cheer him up she told him there could be news on Jock Drever.

  ‘Sam Flett thinks he might know who he is.’

  McNab audibly brightened when she explained about her conversation wit
h Sam.

  ‘Can you get a copy of the wedding photograph to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Will do.’

  Rhona glanced at the window as she rang off, registering how dark it was outside despite it being only mid-afternoon. Rain still beat at the glass and, as Erling had predicted, the wind had risen again. It looked as though the eye of the storm had passed and they were in for another night of gales. According to Sam, late October was a wet time on Sanday. It was certainly proving to be.

  Rhona put the blue folders back on the shelf and turned her attention to a pamphlet about shells found on Sanday. The beaches around the deposition site were, as far as she was aware, fine white sand, yet the sole of the shoe found in the grave had been crusted with clearly distinguishable shell fragments.

  The answer to this puzzle eventually presented itself in a booklet entitled Sanday Voices. One of the men stationed at the RAF camp had noticed that on the Sanday side of Start Island, where the lighthouse stood, there was a substantial deposit of shell sand composed mainly of mussel shells – a veritable goldmine at a time when England was importing shell sand for grit in its poultry feed from Holland, and even from as far away as the USA.

  It seemed Sanday folk had taken advantage of this and built a lucrative, albeit backbreaking industry, reaching its peak in the late forties.

  So there was a shell-sand beach close to the RAF camp.

  Distinguishing between types of sand was tricky unless the grains were of different sizes. Shell sand was easier as it was often possible to identify species, or at least genera, of marine molluscs from fragments, as long as they weren’t too small.

  Of course, which molluscs were present seventy years ago and which were present now might have changed, but if Start beach was the only shell beach on Sanday, then that’s the beach the victim had walked on prior to her death. A beach which was close to the former RAF camp.

  On the journey back to the cottage, she questioned Derek about the shell sand without stating exactly why.

  ‘The company that exported it built a rough concrete causeway to transport the shells via a lorry, but high tides and rough weather kept breaking it up. You could take a look yourself, when the wind drops.’