None but the Dead Read online

  Intrigued, Rhona did so.

  He sounds so like Magnus, was her first thought, as they went through the relevant greetings. Erling Flett had gone to school with criminal psychologist Professor Magnus Pirie and they’d been firm friends too. Both tall, and built like Vikings, Rhona remembered the first time she’d seen the detective waiting for her as she’d arrived by helicopter near the Ring of Brodgar.

  When a small silence followed their initial exchange, she said, ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve found something I believe is a speciality of yours.’

  ‘A buried or concealed body?’

  ‘A digger working in the grounds of an old schoolhouse unearthed a skull and a long bone. I’ve taken a look in the hole and it’s definitely a grave.’ He paused. ‘I’ve informed the powers that be, so no doubt they’ll be in touch with you officially. I just wanted to give you the heads-up on the find.’

  ‘Is this somewhere on the mainland?’ Rhona said.

  ‘No. On one of the most northern isles. Sanday.’

  Rhona knew about Sanday. Not because she’d been there, but because a forensic team from Aberdeen-based R2S, Return to Scene, had been involved in the forensic investigation of a murder case some years back on the remote island of around five hundred inhabitants. A love triangle gone wrong, the victim’s body had been buried on one of the many white beaches that Sanday was renowned for.

  ‘The remains may be too old for Police Scotland to be interested,’ DI Flett added, ‘but …’

  ‘I’d be happy to take a look.’

  ‘Let me know when you’re coming and I’ll take you out there.’

  ‘Is there somewhere I can stay on Sanday? Or do I have to travel back and forward to Kirkwall?’ she said, knowing that’s what the R2S team had had to do.

  ‘We’re out of season now, but I’ll see if I can sort something out.’

  Rhona rang off, then gave Chrissy’s mobile a call.

  It rang out for a while before Chrissy finally answered. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll be back in the lab in the next half hour,’ Rhona told her. ‘How’s the body?’

  ‘Fancy taking a look?’

  The rain had followed her from the west, or alternatively Glasgow had sent its own version to meet her. The city was drenched, as were its inhabitants. The constant beat of the windscreen wipers did little to countermand the downpour. Sitting at another set of traffic lights, Rhona watched the blurred faces of the pedestrians, heads down against the wind, with the entertainment of an odd umbrella deciding it had a mind of its own.

  Alongside her now weren’t the choppy waters of the Minch, but the fast-flowing waters of the River Clyde, swollen with the rain that had obviously been falling heavily in its catchment area.

  Despite this, her mood on re-entering the city had been upbeat. First DI Flett with his Orkney burial, now Chrissy wanting her opinion on another body had lifted her spirits. Holidays were all well and good, but, she decided, you only realized how much you enjoyed your work when you were away from it for a while.

  Rhona smiled as a brolly detached itself from its owner and set off along the street. The young woman made no attempt to follow, mouthing what looked like, ‘Fuck off, then,’ instead.

  Ten minutes later Rhona drew up outside a tenement block with a broken downpipe that was turning the front of the building into a mini waterfall. Three vehicles were parked outside. A patrol car, Chrissy’s van and what looked like McNab’s car.

  An officer stood just inside the open doorway, sheltering from the rain and the leaking pipe. The young woman checked her ID and let her pass. Heading up the stairs, Rhona found a male officer manning the door with a supply of suits.

  Kitted up, Rhona went inside.

  The smell of decomposition and all the other odours that accompanied death were there, except the tell-tale metallic scent of blood. So whatever had happened here, it hadn’t been a bloodbath.

  Entering the flat was like stepping back in time. Linoleum flooring in the hall, with faded floral wallpaper. There were three doors off suggesting the layout of a typical room and kitchen, with a small bathroom.

  Hearing movement behind one of the doors, Rhona pushed it open.

  There were two suits in the room. One dusting for prints, the other definitely Chrissy.

  Rhona stood for a moment surveying the scene.

  This room too had an old-world feel to it. A central rug lay over linoleum that must have been put down half a century ago. Two winged-back chairs faced an old-fashioned two-barred electric fire. The room was overly warm, although the fire was turned off.

  The body sat in the furthest-away armchair. The elderly man was dressed in a shirt and knitted cardigan with leather buttons, and wore plain trousers. On his feet were dark socks and well-worn checked slippers. His hands were open, sitting side by side on his lap.

  Flies had obviously been feasting in the heat, more of them than she would have expected at this time of year. Blowflies were the insect family most associated with dead bodies because of their acute sense of smell – they could pick up the scent of blood at a hundred metres. The scent of decomposition brought them too, and they colonized a body more swiftly than any other insect form.

  You couldn’t hide blood or a body from blowflies, however hard you might try.

  Chrissy had registered her, but had chosen not to interrupt Rhona’s train of thought.

  Rhona now approached the body and attempted to look on it with fresh eyes, aware that Chrissy thought something ‘wasn’t right’.

  An elderly man dying in his armchair next to the fire wasn’t unusual, perhaps even a good and peaceful way to go. So why wasn’t her assistant happy? Chrissy, aware of Rhona’s intention, motioned that she was heading out for something to eat and she would leave Rhona to it.

  Which was just what Rhona wanted.

  ‘You’re going where?’

  ‘Sanday,’ Rhona repeated.

  ‘It’s one of the Orkney islands,’ McNab offered knowledgeably. ‘With lots of beaches.’

  Chrissy turned on him. ‘How do you know that?’

  McNab merely raised an eyebrow and drank down the rest of his espresso.

  After her brief examination of the body and scene, Rhona had located the two of them in the nearest cafe, enjoying filled rolls. Rhona had ordered up one for herself, which she’d then attacked with gusto. The mug of tea that went with it was definitely builders’-brew strength, but hot and surprisingly delicious.

  Eventually Chrissy could wait no longer on Rhona’s findings and had asked her outright.

  ‘The wounds on his legs and arms suggest he was restrained before his death,’ Rhona had said. ‘I’d be interested to see if there are marks elsewhere.’

  At that point Chrissy had thrown McNab a look of triumph, so she obviously agreed.

  ‘So someone duffed up the old boy. Maybe even caused his death?’ McNab had said.

  ‘We won’t know how he died until the postmortem,’ Rhona had reminded him. ‘But he was restrained with some force. By the nature of the marks, I’d say rope was used.’

  ‘I picked up what might be a rope fibre from his sock,’ Chrissy had intervened.

  ‘Once we have full access to his clothing, we’ll know more.’ Rhona had turned to McNab. ‘The place looks undisturbed, especially the other room. The dust layer was untouched apart from round one drawer.’

  ‘That was me,’ McNab had said. ‘I found a marriage certificate and a death certificate inside for his wife.’

  ‘Nothing was taken as far as you know?’

  ‘Not even his wallet,’ Chrissy had said.

  ‘Which doesn’t suggest the motive was robbery.’

  It was in the brief silence that followed their discussion that Rhona had chosen to spring her news about going to Sanday.

  ‘So you’re off on a jolly,’ Chrissy said with a haughty look.

  Her forensic assistant mi
ght be a gallous Glaswegian lassie, but she had a wardrobe full of regal looks to select from in such circumstances.

  Rhona tried to keep her face straight as she answered. ‘I thought you might like to come with me.’

  Whatever Chrissy had been expecting in reply, it hadn’t been that.

  The look dissolved. ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ll excavate quicker with the two of us.’

  ‘What about Jock?’

  ‘You’ve processed the scene. It’s up to the pathologist and DS McNab to find out what happened to him.’

  Chrissy was definitely warming to the idea. Rhona watched as McNab registered that he alone wasn’t going on this jolly.

  ‘It’s very windy up there, especially at this time of year,’ he said in a discouraging fashion.

  ‘I bet there’s a nearby pub with live music and handsome farmers.’ Chrissy smiled at the thought.

  ‘The forensic tent won’t stay up,’ McNab warned.

  ‘You don’t like the countryside, remember?’

  By his expression McNab was torn between imagining he was missing out on something in tandem with the fact that he disliked anything more rural than a Glasgow park. He shrugged as though he didn’t care.

  ‘So when do you two head off?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ Rhona said.

  Chrissy suddenly thought of something. ‘How exactly do we get there?’

  ‘That all depends on the weather.’

  7

  The wind had continued to rise, just as Derek had forecast. Now over the jeep radio, the Ranger confirmed that Erling wouldn’t be catching the hopper back to the mainland.

  ‘Can we make the next ferry?’

  ‘We can,’ Derek said confidently.

  Leaving now meant Erling wouldn’t get a chance to speak to Sam about the flowers in the schoolhouse loft, but that could keep. Erling was keen to get back to Kirkwall, especially after the call from Rory.

  They’d been together for a few short months, yet it seemed much longer. Rory was an incomer, currently working as a diver, based on Flotta in Scapa Flow, the terminal that provided the landing for the Piper and Claymore fields pipeline system. Flotta, no longer solely a small farming community, was in fact home to the second largest oil terminal in the UK after Sullom Voe in Shetland.

  They’d met when Rory had chosen to spend a week’s leave in Stromness to dive for pleasure rather than work. Erling occasionally dived himself, and when he’d gone out with the local club, he’d found himself buddied up with an English bloke, who Erling suspected from the outset had a lot more experience in diving than he had.

  When they got talking in the pub afterwards, he found out why.

  ‘Don’t you want to do something different on your days off?’ Erling had asked.

  ‘Diving for pleasure is something different,’ Rory had assured him, with a smile. ‘So, what do you do for a living?’

  Since most of the people in the pub knew who he was and what he did, there had been little point in avoiding an answer. Rory’s eyes had widened somewhat and he’d given a small whistle between his teeth.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ He glanced around the packed pub. ‘In a place where everyone knows your name.’

  A Liverpudlian, Rory was outspoken and not remotely reticent about his sexuality, although perhaps already aware that Orcadians rarely broadcast anything about themselves, he had chosen to take his time with Erling.

  They’d done a second dive together, alone this time, taking in more of the sunken ships that Scapa Flow was famous for, after which Rory had given a potted history of his own life up to now.

  ‘Married at twenty,’ he’d declared with a shake of his head. ‘I was trying to be what my father wanted me to be.’ He’d paused then. ‘Or maybe what I wanted to be.’ At that point, he’d taken a couple of mouthfuls of his pint. ‘My wife Gail knew before I did, or at least faced up to it before I did. We’re on good terms and she’s remarried now.’

  His sad smile at that point had melted Erling’s heart.

  ‘What about you?’ Rory had asked.

  So Erling told him.

  ‘My best friend at school, Magnus Pirie, was the one to tell me. He became a professor of psychology, so he was obviously good on the subject of people’s behaviour. He also had and still has a very strong sense of smell. When I demanded to know how he knew, he said he could smell it.’ Erling hesitated. ‘Apparently pheromones do have a scent.’

  ‘You had the hots for this guy?’ Rory had laughed.

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘He has the house next to Houton Pier, where you catch the boat to Flotta, but he’s not always there. He lectures at Strathclyde University. He also occasionally works with Police Scotland as a criminal profiler.’

  ‘So,’ Rory had said, suddenly serious. ‘Everyone knows about you?’

  ‘I suppose so. I never think about it any more. When I went off to university, I thought I wouldn’t come back here to live, because I wouldn’t be able to be myself. I was wrong. Orcadians are a very tolerant people. It’s also pretty much a classless society. The incomers who get it wrong don’t realize that. Orcadians aren’t impressed by people who think they’re somehow grander than others.’

  Rory had grinned at that. ‘Okay then, we’re equal, but I can guarantee I’m the better cook.’

  And that had proved to be the case. On leave and staying at Erling’s place, Rory always did the cooking. As would be the case tonight, Erling hoped.

  As they drove on to the long pier at the southern tip of the island, they found half a dozen vehicles waiting to board the ferry. Erling had chatted to Derek en route from the schoolhouse and asked if he’d check out somewhere for Dr MacLeod to stay.

  ‘The hotel doesn’t usually take guests in the winter months, but they might make an exception in the circumstances. Otherwise, I could see if one of the self-catering cottages would be available. How long would it be for?’

  ‘That depends on the age of the bones. If they’re more recent, then it’s likely to be a murder enquiry which won’t just involve Dr MacLeod,’ Erling told him.

  ‘So we might need space?’

  ‘An MIT, a major investigation team, would appear.’

  Derek nodded. ‘We’ve been here before.’

  That was true.

  There were a lot of words left unsaid in the Ranger’s remark. The community of Sanday had been shaken by a previous murder committed on the island by, it had to be said, incomer on incomer. Yet it had brought the eyes of the world on this small island and had turned the eyes of the islanders on one another.

  The arriving ferry was discharging its cargo and vehicles, the array of which signified the diversity of island life.

  ‘I’ll contact you once I know when to expect the forensic team,’ Erling said. ‘Can Mike Jones be trusted to leave the grave untouched?’ Erling was aware that had the find been on the mainland, the site would already be cordoned off and a policeman on duty.

  ‘I’ll check in on him, but I assume you’ll send an officer tomorrow?’

  Erling said he would. There was a chap from Sanday working at the police station in Kirkwall. If he sent him, he could perhaps find accommodation with his family. He would also no doubt gather information more readily than a stranger. On the other hand, his loyalty might lie with his kith and kin, should it become a murder enquiry.

  Ninety minutes of choppy crossing later, Erling was disembarking at Kirkwall harbour. Dark now, although only just late afternoon, the wind was driving rain across the frontage of the Kirkwall Hotel, where a few disconsolate oil workers stood around the door, smoking and wondering when they would get back to Flotta, or wherever else they were working.

  Erling had a sudden image of the tarpaulin, and wondered if the six stones he’d loaded it down with would be sufficient. Even the shallow stretch of water that lay beyond the harbour was frothing in anger. Erling took shelter at the back of the
Ayre Hotel and rang the old schoolhouse number.

  ‘Mr Jones? DI Flett here. I hope to have a forensic team out to your place sometime tomorrow depending on the weather. Can you do your best to keep that tarpaulin secure until then?’

  ‘It’s wild here, but I’ll try.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll call you when I have word of their arrival.’

  Erling rang off, dipped his head and stepped back out into the wind. The street ahead of him was empty, anyone with any sense staying inside. He began to wonder if Rory had made it back from Flotta. Depending on the time of day, the crossing might take between eighty minutes and an hour and a half. In bad weather it could take longer – if the ferry had ventured forth at all.

  Erling remembered hitching a lift on a fishing boat to Flotta when a teenager. Stuck in the wheelhouse with the captain, who seemed unconcerned by the giant waves breaking over the boat, Erling had thought his end was nigh and that he was bound for a watery grave. Tight-lipped, both to control his fear and his heaving stomach, he’d realized in that moment that he wasn’t invincible and that death courted everyone, including his teenage self.

  When they’d finally docked, the captain had drawn him to one side and told him, ‘It wasn’t your turn today, son, and it wasn’t mine, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be your turn tomorrow.’ He’d laughed then. Probably because of the look on my face, Erling thought.

  The police station loomed into view. Once he set things in motion for tomorrow, he would pick up his car and head for home, hoping Rory was already there. He could call and check, of course, but that felt like tempting fate.

  The Orphir road was quiet. No one followed him out of town and he met only the headlights of a couple of cars heading into Kirkwall. On his left Scapa Flow was barely visible on the odd occasion that the moon escaped from behind the scuttling clouds. The darkest part of the year was approaching when an endless night would swallow most of the day. Nevertheless, the sky was rarely covered by a grey blanket the way it was in the southern cities. An Orkney sky was vast and varied, with sharp shafts of sunlight competing with fast-moving dark clouds. Locals said if you couldn’t see Hoy then it was raining. If you could see Hoy then it was about to rain.