Time for the Dead Read online

  Rhona brought up his number. There was something she hadn’t told Sean. Something he of all people ought to know.

  Whether she felt free of her prison and could say the words, Rhona didn’t know.

  7

  Afghanistan, six months earlier

  They call the robes the women are forced to wear the Blue Prison, with its little barred window to look out on the world. I am wearing one now. Beneath it, I am naked. Sweat runs in rivulets down my body, the biggest and most free-flowing between my breasts. My hair is clamped to my head, the sweat there mixed with sand and blood under the blue hood.

  The view I have of the world is through a cobweb. Almost blind, I have grown to rely on my other senses. Smell has been the strongest. I know each of my guards by their scent.

  I don’t think of smell in the same way any more. I think of it in a hundred ways. I know when they’re fearful, angry, depressed, sexually aroused. The last one is the scent I fear most.

  Night has fallen with a depth of darkness that is difficult to describe. Strangely now, in the coldness of the night, I wish for the sweat to flow free again, trickling moisture on my lips. But the sweat has solidified in the cold, sticking to my body like a second layer.

  The door suddenly clangs open and, through shouts, they propel him into the room.

  I can smell his blood and realize they must have reopened old wounds, or made new ones. A light outside frames the faces now pressed against the barred opening on the door.

  His head is covered with a sack, but I know who it is, because I recognize his smell. The fear, the blood and the lust.

  This one will do in the dark what is ordered. Not to save his life or mine, but because he wants to.

  8

  It was dark when Alvis drew up outside the police station. He had planned, as he’d told Rhona, to meet with Sergeant MacDonald in the morning, until Rhona had bizarrely revealed her decision to forensically search a possible crime scene in the woods behind a place called A.C.E Target Sports.

  He’d been as taken aback as McNab by that, and probably for similar reasons. He’d hoped to spend longer with Rhona after the Skype call had ended, maybe learn a bit more about this strange turn of affairs, but she’d made it pretty clear that she wanted him gone and she’d avoided arranging to meet him again during his week’s visit.

  Despite his conversation with Chrissy about the sin-eater case, Alvis definitely hadn’t been prepared for the Rhona he’d found here.

  She looked thinner. And fragile – a word he could never have imagined using to describe Rhona MacLeod.

  Alvis parked up and headed inside to discover he wasn’t the only visitor at this hour. What appeared to be a noisy family gathering was giving the PC on reception a hard time. By the raised voices, he made out that an elderly and confused relative had taken a car and could have gone off the road anywhere between Portree and Osmigarry. They were being very precise about Osmigarry.

  At that point Sergeant MacDonald appeared and urged Alvis inside the station proper. Once in the relative quiet of the inner sanctum, they shook hands.

  ‘If you’re busy . . .’ Alvis motioned towards reception.

  ‘There’s a patrol car out looking for Jake Ross. He’s eighty and he’s done this before. He’ll likely head for Osmigarry.’ Lee repeated the destination mentioned outside.

  When Alvis made a questioning face, he said, ‘That’s where the Flora MacDonald statue is,’ as though that supplied the answer. ‘So,’ Lee went on, ‘how are things in Stavanger?’

  ‘Cold and snowy, like here,’ Alvis obliged.

  ‘And you’ve come to climb?’

  Alvis nodded. ‘I had been planning Cairngorm but . . .’

  ‘You heard what happened and wanted to check in on Dr MacLeod?’

  Alvis regarded the kind face of one of the men who had searched so long and so hard for Marita in the snowy wastes of Cairngorm.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want her to know that.’

  ‘Probably best. DS McNab also asked us to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘He’s that thorough?’ Alvis wondered why he’d ever thought otherwise.

  ‘You bet.’ Lee paused. ‘Rhona’s been in a few times. More to placate McNab than anything else. She seemed okay . . .’

  ‘If you don’t know her well,’ Alvis said with conviction.

  Lee nodded. ‘I wondered. But it takes time. You and I know that.’

  ‘I also know that cutting yourself off from colleagues and friends doesn’t help. And neither does running away.’

  They both fell silent at that.

  ‘So, what can I do, if anything?’ Lee said.

  ‘I wondered if anyone other than Jake has been reported missing?’

  Lee looked puzzled by Alvis’s question. ‘No. Well, not in the last few days, but it does happen fairly regularly. Climbers, of course, but more often vulnerable folk like Jake. Why are you asking?’

  Alvis explained about Rhona and her supposed find in the woods.

  ‘At Matt’s place?’ Lee said in surprise. ‘We’ve never had a problem at A.C.E Target Sports, even with stag events. Matt’s a good guy. I visit often to check on safety. If someone got hurt there, he would have reported it.’

  ‘The dog Blaze apparently took Rhona to a spot in the woods, and she detected signs of a scuffle and blood which she thinks may be human.’ Alvis explained what Rhona planned to do. ‘She didn’t intend to call you unless she was certain.’

  ‘We get plenty of punch-ups on Skye. Mainly domestics and drink-fuelled fights, but they don’t normally take it into the woods and we usually hear about it. News travels fast here.’

  ‘Might it be drugs-related? Over a stash maybe?’

  ‘We’ve taken a couple of big hauls of cannabis and cocaine recently. But no indication of internecine wars over it. Most visitors bring it with them, if they’re so inclined.’

  ‘Where does the general supply come from?’ Alvis said.

  ‘The nearest distribution centre, Glasgow, although Inverness is fast catching up, and we have the coastline. Fishing boats and yachts coming and going.’

  ‘We have the same problem in Stavanger,’ Alvis nodded.

  ‘Well, Dr MacLeod doesn’t strike me as someone who would be easily mistaken,’ Lee said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll make some enquiries. Check the hospitals here, Fort William and Inverness, and let you know.’

  9

  When Rhona stopped at the edge of the clearing to don her kit, indicating that Blaze should come no further, the collie did not demur, but sat down to observe whatever it was this white-suited woman was planning to do.

  On first inspection the evening before, she’d looked for any indication of something being buried nearby. Although back then the dog hadn’t made a point of digging anywhere, and Rhona had picked up no scent of decomposition.

  Walking the area again, Rhona could find no evidence of disturbed earth and no discoloured vegetation. A buried body would have produced a sinking in ground level as it decomposed. Plus, she suspected, Blaze would have led her straight to such a point of interest.

  She now approached the tree that had caused her disquiet the previous night. The contact environment round the mature birch consisted of exposed soil. And it was this area that had so excited Blaze. Blood could leave behind a change in the microbial community and in the volatile organic compounds which emanated from the soil. Police recovery dogs hit on blood in soil and got excited. Just as Blaze had done.

  Then there was the compressed vegetation . . .

  Rhona adjusted her camera, taking multiple shots of the contact area, more convinced than ever that a body had lain here, a body that had definitely been bleeding.

  Now she turned her attention to the tree.

  She’d detected blood at around five feet from the ground on her last visit. Now a phenolphthalein test confirmed her suspicions, suggesting someone’s head had hit off the bark. She used a magnifying glass to take a closer look.

  The m
aturity of the birch tree had caused strips of silver bark to peel back. She could see the tree’s insect inhabitants scurrying out of sight of her prying eyes, except at one particular spot.

  An area they obviously had no desire to leave.

  At first she assumed it was blood, rich in nutrients and a veritable feast, but closer inspection suggested something more. Rhona used tweezers to extract the material.

  A hair, blood-soaked but probably blond in colour, was attached to what definitely looked like scalp tissue.

  So someone’s head had hit the tree trunk with enough force to cause a scalp wound or maybe even a skull fracture?

  Even minor cuts on the head often bled heavily because the face and scalp had many blood vessels close to the surface of the skin. Judging by the blood on surrounding soil, this one had too. From the compressed vegetation, it appeared that the injured person had been sufficiently traumatized to end up on the ground.

  So maybe more than a scalp abrasion?

  The average thickness of a man’s skull was 6.5 millimetres. Women’s skulls were thicker at an average of 7.1, although in back-to-front measurement and width, male skulls won the size game. She couldn’t tell here if the material in her hand belonged to a male or a female, but she could say it had come from a human.

  Having drawn the tarpaulin back into place, Rhona gathered her samples. Realizing she was finished with whatever she’d been doing, Blaze sprang up to lead her back to the camp. But Rhona wasn’t ready to go there yet.

  Whoever had been injured here had either walked out, aided or unaided, or else they’d been carried. Either way they had to have left tracks. Tracks she might be able to follow. But if not her, then certainly the dog that had brought her here in the first place.

  10

  McNab stared at the big bloke across the table from him. Beside him, DS Clark maintained a calm expression, although he knew her well enough to know her blood was at boiling point.

  ‘Fucking pair of tits ordering me about.’

  It wasn’t clear if the punk’s utterance referred to the female detective before him or the girl whose nose he’d ‘allegedly’ broken.

  ‘Tell us again what happened,’ McNab said.

  ‘Just like she told you. She fell.’

  ‘She fell just like that?’

  ‘Tripped over the fucking dog. Silly bitch. Banged into the door.’

  McNab had often wondered what it was that doors and door frames had against the female population of Glasgow. They seemed to take a perverse delight in banging into them, with no provocation whatsoever.

  ‘Jess tells a different story.’

  The smug look shifted a little, then resettled, fear quickly dispensed with.

  ‘Jess would never—’

  ‘Never say never,’ McNab offered with a knowing smile.

  Some words were said under the radar, the punk’s lips barely moving. He went back to focusing on Janice, or on her breasts to be exact.

  McNab thought of the young woman next door, and whether she would find the courage to do what he had just said. If not . . .

  Outside the interview room now, McNab made for the coffee machine for his caffeine fix, a silent Janice alongside.

  ‘We won’t get him on the domestic,’ she offered as he put in the money and selected a double espresso. ‘She tells the same story,’ she reminded him, ‘regarding the door.’

  ‘Fucking doors.’ McNab banged at the coffee machine to hurry it up. ‘Misogynist bastards all of them.’

  Janice gave a laugh and its sound reminded McNab of why he’d once nursed the notion of a pairing with DS Clark.

  ‘You’ve become quite the feminist,’ she offered. ‘Is this Ellie’s doing?’

  ‘I’ve always liked women,’ McNab countered.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Janice said in a not altogether believing tone.

  McNab experienced something he realized might be hurt feelings.

  ‘I’m surrounded by capable women. What’s not to like about that?’

  ‘At least you don’t stare at my breasts,’ Janice offered.

  McNab was tempted to say, ‘That’s what you think,’ but wisely didn’t.

  Janice changed the subject. ‘Any word about Dr MacLeod returning to the fray?’

  ‘Nope.’ McNab grabbed his espresso.

  ‘Will she be able to go back to her flat after what happened?’

  McNab hated hearing Janice voice the question he’d been asking himself for some time.

  ‘There are other flats in Glasgow,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Have you spoken to her recently?’

  ‘Is this a fucking interrogation, DS Clark? Would you like me to accompany you to the interview room?’

  His tone had both offended and worried her. McNab almost said sorry, but knew that wouldn’t wash. Better to be honest. After all, that’s how Janice dealt with him.

  ‘She’s working an investigation on Skye.’

  Janice’s eyes opened wide. ‘Officially?’

  How could he say he thought it imaginary? That every time he looked at Rhona’s face on Skype he grew more concerned for her well-being. As for her latest revelation about a crime scene in the woods. Fuck’s sake.

  Everyone knew DI Wilson had been pressuring Rhona to see a counsellor. Everyone knew she’d refused to go to Castlebrae. They were all acquainted with staff who’d been traumatized on the front line. As the Chief Constable said, the officers at the top weren’t the heroes of the force. The heroes were the guys who turned up never knowing what an incident might hold for their own safety.

  McNab had met with DI Wilson first thing, keen to offload his concerns about what was happening on Skye. The boss had matched McNab’s disquiet. Apparently during the fifteen-minute consultation with Dr Bailey, Rhona had made it clear she was there on sufferance.

  ‘They scheduled another appointment for next week, but Dr Bailey doesn’t think Dr MacLeod is likely to turn up,’ had been the boss’s worried response.

  ‘You could go and see her?’ Janice offered, after McNab had related the story.

  McNab shook his head. ‘She doesn’t like seeing my mug on Skype. Turning up at her door wouldn’t go down well.’

  ‘Get Chrissy to go then,’ Janice suggested. ‘Rhona won’t turn her away.’

  She’d waited until McNab, the caffeine addict, had got what he needed; now she pressed for hers.

  ‘So, it doesn’t look like we’re going to get McNulty on his latest domestic,’ she said.

  ‘It was a way to get him in here.’

  ‘But not what we really want him for,’ Janice said, reminding McNab what this morning’s performance was really about. ‘You ready?’

  Checking his watch, McNab nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  The room was packed. All were observing the board, the title of which was:

  From Kabul to Glasgow

  McNulty, a small cog in a big wheel, was up there along with his more important associates. In the centre was a circle with the title Sandman. Surrounding the unidentified head of the operation were three names or pseudo names. Glaswegians had a penchant for entertaining nomenclature. Wee Malky, one Malcolm Stevenson, Sparky, suspected title for Norman Watts, and last but never least, Stephen Bawbags McClusky. None of whom had yet been brought to court for drug trafficking.

  DI Wilson was doing the intro. McNab only half listened, because he knew the story already. Glasgow had the highest percentage of heroin deaths in Europe. The path to Glasgow from Afghanistan was well trodden. Afghanistan produced over 94 per cent of heroin on the open market and production was at its highest for a decade. Afghanistan was the forgotten war, but only to uninformed Western populations. The USA had a minimum of 17,000 troops still there. The UK was about to up its contingent above the 9,000 mark.

  The heroin now produced was 46 per cent purer than what many of Glasgow’s addicts had started out on, laced as it was back then with paracetamol. Hence one of the reasons for the current rise in deaths. />
  ‘We can’t stop it being trafficked from Helmand province. We can try and stop it reaching Scotland’s streets, and locating the Sandman, as he’s known, is our key to this.’

  McNab thought back to McNulty with his pasty face and tattooed knuckles. They had nothing on him apart from the fact he wasn’t a proponent of marital bliss.

  He was suddenly aware that the boss was looking straight at him.

  ‘Well, Detective Sergeant?’

  McNab made a guess at the unheard question. ‘McNulty’s still with us, sir, plus his partner, Jess.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Things are progressing, sir.’ McNab’s lie brought a small expulsion of air from Janice.

  ‘Any mention of the Sandman?’

  ‘I’ve yet to bring that into the conversation, sir. Didn’t want to spook him.’

  McNab was pretty sure he heard a ‘Fuck’s sake’ from Janice, and he hissed back, ‘So, you answer next time.’

  Thankfully the heat had moved on and someone else was now in the firing line. McNab breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘I suggest we talk to Jolly Jess again,’ he said. ‘You take the lead this time. Woman to woman. Maybe she’s heard of the Sandman.’

  11

  The Isles bar, Portree, the previous night

  The pub was busy, with a group of young local musicians playing fiddles and uilleann pipes being the draw. For a while she imagined it would be okay. The games had all gone well earlier. She’d excelled at the knife and axe throwing, mostly because she’d carefully followed the instructor’s advice. The dog, too, had helped her feel at ease. She smiled at the memory of the big Border collie and its herding of her towards the target range. In the bar tonight, it had already come over to say hello to her and Sugarboy.

  They had been their usual bullish and combative selves at A.C.E, laughing and mocking each other’s attempts at axe and knife throwing, but all the while gracious about her success.

  They were, she realized, treating her with kid gloves.

  She was trying not to study them openly, but joined in with the alcohol-induced camaraderie, all the while imagining what might be going on in their heads.