None but the Dead Page 19

  ‘I think we should check for Sam at Inga’s house.’

  McNab struggled to bite off whatever further retort he had planned, and nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  As the car drew away, Rhona glanced back. The old croft, with its roof constructed of flagstones coloured orange in places by the growth of lichen, might have been an image of not only seventy years ago, when the surrounding land had been occupied by soldiers and airmen, but even further back when children were mourned by representing their souls with muslin flowers.

  In contrast to Sam’s, the Sinclair house was a blaze of light. Three vehicles stood out front, one a jeep. It appeared as though the neighbours were rallying to Inga’s mother’s aid.

  ‘Maybe all three of us would be too much,’ Rhona said. ‘What about just Magnus going in? After all, Sam’s expecting him. If the jeep’s his, Magnus can bring him out and we could go home with him and have a chat?’

  McNab grudgingly agreed, watching Magnus’s departure with an expression of exasperation.

  ‘Stop it,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Stop what?’ He now assumed an expression of injured innocence.

  She decided not to continue with the conversation but watched the door instead. Some five long minutes later, Magnus emerged, alone.

  ‘The old boy isn’t here,’ McNab said, his voice tinged with frustration.

  Magnus got back in the car. ‘They’re all in there. The parents of the other kids Inga played with. They’re hopping mad and there’s a lot of talk about Jones. No one’s seen Sam since the search began. They thought he’d gone home.’

  ‘How’s Inga’s mother?’ Rhona said, knowing it was a stupid question.

  ‘Blaming herself because she didn’t stop the girl looking for the skull. Apparently Inga’s been obsessed by it.’

  ‘I didn’t discourage her either,’ McNab said quietly as he started up the car.

  ‘Can you drop me back at Sam’s?’ Magnus said. ‘I’ll wait there for him.’

  ‘Search resumes at first light.’

  ‘I’ll get in touch the moment Sam gets back,’ Magnus promised.

  ‘If he comes back,’ McNab said, after they’d dropped Magnus and were making their way along the sandy track towards the cottage.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Rhona challenged him.

  McNab shrugged. ‘If he has harmed the girl …’

  ‘You can’t believe Sam Flett would hurt Inga intentionally.’ Rhona didn’t buy that idea.

  ‘Bad things happen. Intentionally or otherwise,’ McNab said.

  When they pulled up Rhona attempted to wish McNab good night. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Any chance I could take the couch again?’

  ‘You said the hotel was a big improvement on my couch. And the food was better.’

  ‘DI Flett’s staying there tonight.’ He pulled a face.

  ‘Won’t he want to talk to you?’

  McNab’s face clouded over. ‘He shouldn’t be here anyway. He can’t be the investigating officer and have a relative as a suspect.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s aware of that.’

  There was a stand-off for a moment before Rhona took pity on him.

  ‘You can have Chrissy’s room, just for tonight.’

  Once in the cottage, McNab immediately made for the kitchen, opened the fridge door and peered inside. Seconds later he emerged with a couple of beers and some eggs.

  ‘There’s not much left,’ he complained.

  ‘I hoped to be back in Glasgow tonight.’

  ‘No doubt with Mr Maguire preparing a feast for you,’ McNab said sarcastically.

  He rummaged in the bread bin, then extracted a large tin of baked beans from the overhead cupboard.

  ‘You said there were no beans,’ he accused her.

  ‘I must have missed them.’

  His expression suggested he didn’t believe her. ‘What would you say to French toast and beans? With Orkney ale to wash it down?’

  ‘I’d say yes,’ Rhona replied.

  Rhona replenished the stove, glad to see the fire was still alive. She accepted the bottle of beer offered by McNab, and a glass to drink it from. McNab took a swig straight from the bottle and set about whisking eggs.

  ‘You’ve become quite domesticated,’ Rhona said.

  He threw her an affronted look. ‘I’ve always been able to cook. You just never stayed around long enough to find that out.’

  Which was true. An occasional, very occasional, one-night stand had been more their style.

  ‘The Irishman, on the other hand, got to demonstrate all his skills,’ he added.

  Rhona threw him a warning look.

  ‘So,’ he said, above the sizzle of the frying toast. ‘What’s your take on all of this? Do you believe Jones set forth a curse when he took that flower from the loft?’

  ‘You have to believe in curses for them to work on you.’

  McNab glanced over, his face serious. ‘Freya doesn’t think so.’

  So he’s brought up the subject of Freya at last, Rhona thought.

  ‘She believes it’s the power of those who create the curse that decides its fate.’

  ‘The flowers represent children. Why would removing one from the attic result in the harming of a child?’ Rhona said. ‘Shouldn’t it be designed to harm the person who removed it?’

  ‘Well, Jones thought he’d found a good hideout here and the flower and the discovery of the body proved him wrong.’

  ‘Who says the two are connected?’ Rhona challenged him.

  McNab carried the plates to the table.

  ‘There’s something about all of this we’re not getting. What’s happened to Chrissy and the forensics?’

  ‘She’s barely had time to log everything, let alone start sifting and testing.’

  McNab started to eat as did Rhona, suddenly hungry. They said nothing more until they’d cleared their plates.

  ‘That was delicious,’ Rhona said.

  ‘I have talents other than as a detective.’

  Rhona ignored his promotional tone and continued talking about the forensics. ‘I went to Start Island to collect shell sand. The victim I believe was there prior to her death. There was shell sand embedded on the soles of the shoes.’

  McNab looked thoughtful. ‘I wish we knew who she was.’

  ‘If the skull I saw inside the mound is the missing one, then we can create a picture of her.’

  ‘We have the far past, the distant past and the present all colliding here.’

  ‘They’re colliding in time, but that doesn’t mean they’re connected,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Always the scientist.’

  ‘Always the detective.’

  Rhona rose, sensing the atmosphere was getting too cosy.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  As she left, she realized the bottle of Highland Park still stood out on the counter.

  What the hell. She wasn’t McNab’s lover, or his mother. If he drank it, that was his lookout.

  McNab chose the seat nearest the stove. Heat beat from the metal. Through the glass came a rosy glow. Domesticity. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the idea of Rhona next door in bed, lying waiting for him to join her, however ludicrous that notion might be.

  34

  Mike Jones watched the car headlights pass by on the way to the cottage. He continued to sit by the window in the dark, until he was certain whoever had been in that car wasn’t walking back to call on him.

  Ever since the visit from the Glasgow detective, he’d been contemplating flight.

  He could catch the early morning ferry. Be in Kirkwall an hour or so later. Then take the Hamnavoe to Scrabster and start the long drive south. Here on Sanday, he was isolated and exposed. Once the news of his ‘misdemeanour’ was out, no one would want him here anyway, and after the scene in the pub, it was clear that his past was no longer in the past.

  He heard again the word ‘paedo’ and cringed. He wa
sn’t a paedo. You could get married at sixteen in Scotland without your parents’ consent.

  But you weren’t in Scotland and she wasn’t sixteen. Not when you painted her. Not when you had sex with her.

  He tried the ‘age is arbitrary’ argument, especially when the difference was a couple of months. Then his conscience took over and reminded him that Alice had hanged herself, possibly because of him.

  All the months of denial buried in the hard physical work of renovating the schoolhouse evaporated and he was back wallowing in guilt and self-recrimination.

  Has it all come back to haunt me because of the flower?

  Even as he thought that, he was listening. Tuning in to hear the children’s voices, one girl’s in particular. He was frightened of hearing her again, but at the same time willing a recurrence. As though what she might say would provide a clue to Inga’s disappearance. Thinking her name immediately conjured up an image of the girl standing at his door, her face friendly and eager.

  Just like Alice.

  He stood up, contemplating bed, although sleep was no longer a friend.

  The wind had returned and was playing the eaves. He realized that he’d missed its presence and that without it he’d felt lonely. In the city the noise of the traffic had kept him company. Here, it was the elements – the wind and the sound of the sea.

  That thought made him don his jacket, deciding that being out in those elements might lead to better sleep.

  The clouds had cleared and a fullish moon hung in a midnight sky. The wind was brisk, catching him in the face as he turned northeast, intent on walking in the direction of the island and the lighthouse’s comforting beam.

  Although he carried a torch, he decided he had no need of it, as the moon’s rays glistened on the white sand of the path. As he walked, he knew with a sudden pang that he would be sad to leave this place.

  There are other islands, he thought, other places to settle … until someone finds out about my past.

  Maybe he could just sit it out here instead. He didn’t mingle much anyway. As long as the local shop would sell him food, and he had fuel for the fire, he would survive. Alone if need be. But what if they decided to drive him out? No one wanted a paedophile living next to them. And now, with Inga missing, things could only get worse. Maybe they’ll come and burn me out? He recalled the anger on the man’s face in the pub and realized that might be a possibility.

  Glancing back at the schoolhouse, he imagined it in flames, with him inside.

  Shaking his head to dispense with both the image and the thought, he turned his back to the bay, looking across to the field that had once housed a thousand service personnel. The white concrete-clad buildings seemed to glow in the moonlight, in contrast to the distant dark mound of the mortuary. He’d wandered among the buildings on numerous occasions, trying to imagine what it had been like back then, when this corner of Sanday had been filled with people.

  All of them incomers, like me.

  He shivered suddenly, as if the wind had risen and brought colder northern air to meet him. Then he heard it. Had it been spring, he might have taken it for the bleat of a lamb or a calf. But it wasn’t spring. He thought of the many wild cats that made their homes in the unused outhouses or derelict farm buildings.

  No. It sounded like a child’s voice.

  Mike imagined for a moment that it might be Inga, trapped on Start Island and calling for help.

  ‘Inga!’

  His voice rang out, edged by fear.

  He repeated the call, taking time in between for the reply that never came.

  Uncertain now what he’d heard, he walked towards the causeway, slithering over the wet rocks.

  The water was low. Should he try and cross? Could she be on the other side?

  He wondered whether the tide was going out or coming in. I never did get a handle on the way the tide’s times change. As he stood, uncertain, a gull suddenly flapped upwards, like a white shrieking phantom. Startled, he stumbled into a rock pool, feeling the seaweed covering give way beneath him and icy water enter his boot. He righted himself, shivering with both surprise and cold.

  Was that the cry he’d mistaken for a child?

  The seabird was descending again, keen, it seemed, to return to its previous roosting place. As it dropped, he realized where it was bound.

  A dark hump lay among the broken concrete of the old causeway about midway across the Sound.

  His first assumption, that it was a seal, he quickly dispensed with. The seals he’d met had watched him inquisitively from the water as he’d walked the beach. Or they’d observed him passing by on the path, as they basked on the rocks below. None of the sightings had been at night. None of them had looked like the bundle curled in a rock pool full of seaweed.

  Mike’s first instinct was to turn and walk away. Leave the gull to whatever it sought.

  But something stopped him. Some memory of his humanity before things all went so wrong. He pulled the torch from his pocket and switched it on, directing the beam at the questionable object.

  When that didn’t help, he marshalled himself and moved forward, squelching and slithering through the seaweed, coming to a halt a couple of yards away. His heart pounding, his breathing short and painful in his tightened chest, he tried playing the beam over the object again.

  Could it be the girl?

  A wave of fear swamped him.

  He’d been told that bodies were occasionally washed ashore here. Often from fishing accidents miles away, eventually carried here, months, even years after they’d drowned.

  You don’t even know if it’s human.

  He took his courage in his hands and moved closer.

  The warmth from the stove and the whisky had combined to send him to sleep. Instead of moving through to Chrissy’s bedroom, he’d curled up on the couch instead, forgetting the fact that he would be crippled by morning.

  McNab came to with a start. The room was still warm and his legs were cramped, but that wasn’t what had woken him. He sat up, groggy. Glancing down at the empty tumbler, he tried to recall what he’d had to drink, but could register nothing more than the one dram, and of course the Orkney ale with the meal. Added to that, his mouth tasted okay. No aftermath from too much booze furred his tongue. No sign of dehydration. A quick glance to the bottle found it at the same level.

  All this happened in a matter of seconds before the pounding, which must have been what woke him, resumed.

  ‘All right, all right!’ he shouted back and, standing, made his way to the front door.

  Mike Jones looked like a man possessed. McNab’s first thought was that the paedo had lost it. Followed by the thought that a lynch party was behind him.

  ‘Come. Quick. There’s a body.’

  His words hit McNab like a bullet. He felt his heart stop.

  ‘Inga?’ he forced out.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  At that point McNab heard Rhona’s voice calling, asking what was wrong.

  ‘Where?’ he said to Jones.

  ‘In the middle of the causeway.’

  Rhona appeared beside him in hastily donned trousers and a sweater. Her hair was tousled and her cheek creased by sleep. McNab, even in that moment, thought how lovely she looked.

  ‘Any signs of life?’ she said as she pulled on a jacket and stuck her feet into wellington boots that were obviously too big for her.

  ‘I couldn’t … I didn’t get close enough to check.’

  ‘Show me,’ Rhona said. She pushed past McNab. ‘Get a hold of DI Flett then follow us down. You’ll get a signal at the rear of the cottage.’

  It had only been hours since she’d stumbled back along this path, sodden and near to hypothermia. Drowning while crossing the causeway had been a definite possibility. A slip underwater. A failure to regain your footing. The current against you. Your clothes waterlogged, pulling you down.

  Half walking, half running, hampered by the oversized boots, she made her way back alon
g the track, a reluctant Jones at her heels. Already she was trying to decide how she would handle this. The expression ‘dead weight’ was even truer for wet bodies. It could take four to six people to lift them. But maybe Jones was wrong and whoever it was wasn’t dead.

  She’d reached the end of the path, with Jones panting a little behind her. She looked to him for guidance and he pointed to the right-hand side.

  ‘Over there.’

  Rhona jumped down onto the beach. She retraced her steps from earlier, over dry sand, sinking into crusted seaweed, until she was below the high-water mark. Waterlogged sand gave way to slippery rocks. She turned, checking she was still heading the right way, and shone her torch in the direction of Jones’s outstretched arm.

  Then she spotted what he was pointing at. About halfway across.

  Rhona splashed into the water.

  He’d dressed for the weather when he’d joined the search party for Inga. But not well enough to protect him from a sea of water. Rhona crouched beside the body that had once been Sam Flett. His skin had a spongy look, the cheeks and eyes nibbled as though they’d been the starter, the main course waiting beneath the waterproof clothing.

  Rhona did a quick calculation. Tides were semi-diurnal, twice a day with a period of roughly twelve hours and twenty-five minutes between. So the time between high and low tide was just over six hours. She’d read the tide clock wrong before, but going from when she’d made her return crossing, she estimated the next low tide had been around midnight, which meant it was likely to be on its way back in.

  The body would have to be moved from here as soon as possible. But where? Protocol said secure the body, and keep it clean and safe. It certainly couldn’t stay here on a tidal causeway. The cottage was too warm, but an outhouse might work until they could transport it off the island.

  As Rhona made her way back, McNab came running along the track.

  ‘Is it Inga?’

  ‘It’s Sam Flett,’ she said.

  Relief flooded McNab’s face, to be replaced by puzzlement. ‘How?’

  Rhona didn’t attempt to answer his question. ‘I need you to bring me a new tarp from my gear and a roll of brown parcel tape. We have to secure the body and bring it ashore before the tide turns.’