None but the Dead Page 5

  Passing Houton Bay on his left, Erling noted that the ferry was sitting at the jetty, which either meant it had made it back from Flotta or alternatively it hadn’t gone across earlier. Erling noted too that the lights weren’t on in Magnus’s house, which didn’t surprise him. Usually if Magnus planned to be back on the island, he would contact Erling and let him know.

  Turning right onto the Scorradale road, he passed the old primary school and the building opposite which had once been home to the local shop, selling everything from wellie boots to bere bannocks.

  Had he been heading into town, topping the hill he climbed now would have afforded what Erling regarded as the best view on mainland Orkney. When his grandmother had left him the croft house in her will, Erling had rejoiced in the fact that he would take in this view across Scapa Flow to Hoy from the highpoint of the island every morning on his way to work.

  As he neared the white-painted croft house nestled below the road on the left-hand side, Erling noted with a rush of pleasure the light on in the single tiny window that faced the road.

  Then again, maybe I left it on this morning?

  He drew into the narrow parking space. As he headed down the flagstone steps, the wind trying to prevent his descent, he could see now that there was more than one light on in the cottage, signifying that Rory had indeed made it back.

  Opening the door that led from the porch into the flagstoned kitchen, Erling was greeted by a delicious smell of cooking. Rory stood facing the range, stirring a pot. The radio was on, giving out the Orkney news, which Rory was listening to intently.

  Erling stood for a moment taking in this domestic scene and deciding he liked it.

  As he was about to announce his arrival, Rory’s mobile rang. Checking the screen, he immediately answered.

  ‘Hey there.’

  The soft tenor of Rory’s voice halted Erling’s greeting in his throat and made him step back into the porch. He found himself both suspicious and guilty at the same time, which seemed ridiculous.

  He’d only known Rory for two months, and most of that time they’d spent apart. They weren’t a couple, just an occasional item. Both free to go their own way. Even as Erling told himself that, he knew it wasn’t true. It may have remained unspoken, but that hadn’t been the arrangement. At least not for him.

  Retreating outside, Erling took refuge in the homebrew shed, selecting a couple of bottles of beer to take back in with him. This time when he opened the door, the radio was off.

  ‘I thought I heard the car a while back,’ Rory said with a smile.

  Erling brandished the bottles. ‘I was in the shed. Good smells,’ he indicated the pot. To cover his discomfort, he immediately set about opening a bottle and pouring the golden liquid into two glasses. ‘God, it’s wild out there.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Rory said. ‘The ferry was pitching like a roller coaster.’ He accepted the glass Erling handed him, put it down on the surface and drew Erling towards him.

  ‘We have half an hour before the meal’s ready.’

  8

  Mike eased his way along the support between the rafters. Above him the wind whistled, skimming the roof, puffs of it catching his face as it found its way below the slates. He was reminded of when he’d first arrived and had stayed in a caravan parked on site as he’d worked on the main room to make it watertight.

  On the Ranger’s first visit, Derek had warned Mike to build a wall round the caravan to stop the wind getting underneath.

  ‘And weigh her down with rope and blocks.’

  Mike had thought the man was exaggerating to make him feel, as an incomer, he knew nothing of the place he’d chosen to come and live. He’d been wrong, as he’d swiftly found out. At midsummer the wind could be as strong as at midwinter. Waking to the scream of it round the caravan, he’d finally taken refuge in the partly restored building, preferring stone walls round him, even if rain was coming through the roof.

  It had been the dampness on the ceiling that had sent him up here in the first place. Checking the state of the loft, he’d found the layer of peat ash, and the flowers.

  Which was why he was back.

  His mobile in his right hand, Mike positioned himself to take a photograph. Even now, he recognized this one as quite different from the flower that still sat in its plastic bag on the kitchen table. He was no gardener, but to his mind this one resembled a budding rose. He took a selection of photographs, then began to crawl towards the next one.

  The wind had dropped, or maybe it had only paused for breath.

  And in that moment of stillness he heard it again. The sound of children’s voices.

  Mike froze, straining to hear, feeling if he moved at all the sound would cease.

  For a moment he thought he heard a girl’s voice now separate from the others and she was singing. A rhyme perhaps? A playground rhyme?

  When he’d first come to the island, he’d listened intently to the locals talking to one another, only half understanding what was being said. Despite his incomprehension, he loved the musical sound of the voices, the cadences, the rhythms.

  He’d purchased Sanday Voices – An Oral History from the heritage centre. Along with the small book came a CD which he’d played over and over again because he took pleasure in both the stories and the voices themselves.

  Is that what was happening to him now?

  Was he replaying those voices in the head? Matching them to the wind?

  The other thought returned. The one he didn’t like to contemplate.

  What if removing the flower from the attic had been a mistake?

  What if he had disturbed the soul of a child? A girl?

  He began slithering backwards, keen now to get out of the loft. When he reached the trapdoor, he dropped down, his feet searching for the rungs of the ladder. A trick of the light seemed to him to pick up the row of flowers, six each side of the central plank like a path leading between tiny graves.

  Then the light snapped off and all was darkness.

  Later, having cooked and eaten his evening meal, Mike downloaded the photographs he’d taken in the loft. The second flower, he realized, was smaller than the first. Did the size of the flower have anything to do with the age of the child?

  He went to view his original painting again and found himself imagining, if it did represent a child, what would he or she have looked like? Picking up his pad and charcoal, he began to draw.

  A heart-shaped face, wide questioning blue eyes, a small nose, dark hair, cut straight at shoulder length. As he drew the mouth, he found himself giving it the hint of a smile.

  He stood the drawing on the stand next to his painting of the flower. It had been a girl’s voice he’d imagined he’d heard singing. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what the words had been, but couldn’t.

  The metal flue on the stove rattled suddenly as a further gust of wind hit the chimney.

  I’d better check the grave before I go to bed.

  Mike had no wish to open the back door again. Nor to gaze on that tarpaulin, knowing what lay beneath, but he didn’t want the inspector to focus on him for any reason.

  He opened the back door and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Immediately the sensor picked up his presence and switched on the outside light. Mike tried to focus in the sudden glare.

  The tarpaulin had shifted, he realized. One of the stones was missing, with a corner now flapping.

  ‘I should have checked sooner. The policeman won’t be happy,’ he said to himself.

  As he tried to secure it again, he realized that the long bone now lay exposed on the broken tar. Swearing at both the wind and this discovery, he fetched it back and slipped it under the tarpaulin, moving the stone back into place.

  ‘I can’t be blamed for the fucking wind,’ he muttered.

  Shaken, he retreated indoors again.

  The sooner they excavated and took the thing away, the better.

  9

  Tom t
he cat at her heels, Rhona walked around the flat, reclaiming her space. Sad to leave Skye, she found herself happy to be home again. Although it looked as though it was going to be a short stay. Arrangements had already been put in place for the trip to Orkney tomorrow. According to DI Flett, there was to be a lull in the weather for forty-eight hours at least, which would give her a window of opportunity to excavate. After that the situation was expected to deteriorate. A tent would probably be out of the question because a light wind Orkney style still amounted to a gale elsewhere. The hours of daylight would be short. Excavating a grave was a painstaking business, but she and Chrissy worked well as a team and, if given a full two days, it might be done.

  Rhona called out for a pizza, then set to work unpacking from her Skye trip and repacking for the next one. In between times she called Mrs Harper one floor down, who kept Tom alive when Rhona wasn’t there. Mrs Harper welcomed her home then immediately asked after Sean, who was even more of a favourite than the cat.

  ‘He’s playing in Paris for a week,’ Rhona explained.

  ‘I’ll feed Tom, no problem. How long will you be away this time?’

  ‘Hopefully a couple of days, depending on the weather.’

  The pizza having arrived, Rhona settled down to eat.

  The shriek of the alarm woke her at six. Having gone to bed at ten, in an effort to get a good night’s sleep, Rhona had still been awake at midnight. Sleep had come after that but it had been an exhausting experience. Her entire dream time had consisted of trying to get to the excavation site with every possible obstacle preventing her. When she finally did arrive, she’d lost both her equipment and Chrissy on the way.

  Showering quickly, Rhona turned the final blast of water to cool to waken her properly. By 6.45 a.m. she was heading west alongside the Clyde towards the helipad where the Air Support helicopter was based. Under a dark sky, the city appeared to slumber, its residents for the most part not yet ready to face the day. Overnight the wind had dropped, the rain had ceased and, Rhona thought, it had got colder.

  That’s all we need now – snow.

  Chrissy had beaten her to it. Dressed in what looked like a cagoule for Arctic conditions, she peered out at Rhona from a fur-framed hood, an excited expression on her face.

  ‘Neil says we’re going to land on a beach,’ she informed Rhona.

  Rhona’s first thought was that Chrissy had requested they land on a beach.

  ‘There’s a field right next to the site,’ she said.

  Chrissy shrugged, defeated for the moment. ‘It was worth a try.’

  ‘Did you bring supplies of food?’ Rhona asked.

  Chrissy patted her rucksack. ‘Enough for today, at least. I take it we have transport and a place to stay tonight?’

  ‘According to DI Flett, the resident Ranger is our transport and we have a place to stay.’

  ‘With meals?’ Chrissy checked.

  ‘It’s a self-catering cottage.’

  Chrissy didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Who’s doing the cooking?’

  ‘You are.’

  Ten minutes later, Glasgow dropped beneath them and Chrissy fell silent, registering that it was impossible even for her to be heard above the noise of the blades. As the sun rose, they headed north, the snow-dusted mountainous landscape of the Highlands extending out on all sides. Then they were crossing the flat peatland of Caithness and Sutherland with its scattering of deserted crofts and the ridges of abandoned peat banks.

  After that came the Pentland Firth, the stretch of fast-moving tidal water between the Scottish mainland and the Orkney islands. Rhona had seen all this before. To her assistant, the sight of the dark humpback of Hoy, the golden curve of Rackwick Bay and the wide waters of Scapa Flow were fascinating and new. Chrissy, sensing Rhona’s eyes on her, turned, grinned and gave her the thumbs-up, indicating what McNab had feared – this was in fact a jolly and one he wasn’t party to.

  As they flew over Scapa Flow, Rhona looked for Magnus’s house next to the jetty at Houton, pointing it out to Chrissy. The grey stones of Kirkwall appeared below them with the majestic centrepiece of the red sandstone St Magnus Cathedral, then they were out over the harbour and heading northeast towards Sanday, passing the islands of Shapinsay, Stronsay and Eday on the way.

  Seen from above, it was clear why Sanday was so named. It seemed that there was as much white sand to be seen as green fields, so Chrissy’s desire to alight on a beach could certainly have been realized.

  During the midnight hours she’d spent awake, Rhona had checked out the island in some detail. The location they were bound for lay in the remote northern part, where the World War Two radar station had been housed, and home too to the famous black-and-white-striped Stevenson lighthouse. It was also some six miles from the nearest shop, something Rhona hadn’t mentioned to Chrissy.

  The helicopter was hovering now like a big noisy bluebottle deciding where to land. A long sandy bay was visible on the southern side, a similar beach to the north. After a moment or two, the decision was made and they dropped steadily down, not on either of the beaches, but on the strip of grassland between.

  As she climbed out of the helicopter, Rhona spotted a jeep parked a short distance away, a man standing either side of it. Then came a wave of recognition from the taller of the two and DI Erling Flett came striding towards them.

  On the short drive to the schoolhouse, Erling explained that their driver, Derek Muir, was the resident Ranger and would be their transport while they were on the island.

  ‘Derek knows everyone and everything about Sanday.’

  At that point, Chrissy had brought up the subject of food.

  ‘My assistant has a formidable appetite, which isn’t diminished by digging up bodies,’ Rhona explained.

  Derek had smiled at that. ‘I’ll make sure there’s plenty of provisions at the cottage,’ he promised. ‘And some Orkney ale.’

  The schoolhouse stood alone, surrounded by grassland. Rhona could hear the sound of surf breaking, indicating how close it was to the sea.

  The owner must have heard the jeep’s arrival or perhaps had been watching for it, because he opened the front door as they entered through the old school gates.

  He was tall and lean, with a shock of sandy hair. Rhona’s first impression was that he was nervous about their visit, which was only to be expected. Finding a body buried in your garden was a disquieting business. What could prove to be an interesting forensic task for her was more of a nightmare for him.

  But it seemed there was something more than just the presence of the remains that was worrying him, as they discovered when he led them round the side of the building and through a further gate.

  ‘There was a problem last night with the wind,’ he explained. ‘I came out to check around midnight and found the cover had broken free and the bone was outside. I put it back, of course, and secured it again.’

  Erling made some reassuring noises and thanked him, but that didn’t seem to ease his worry.

  Now at the rear of the building, a mound covered by a tarpaulin was visible just yards from Mike Jones’s back door. When Erling indicated that he and Derek would lift off the cover, Rhona stopped him.

  ‘It’s better if Chrissy and I get kitted up first, then we’ll take a look. I’ll come and speak to you once the site’s secure.’

  Erling nodded, looking pleased that she’d taken charge.

  Suited now, Rhona set up the time-lapse camera in the corner nearest the building where it couldn’t be knocked down, then covered it to protect it from the rain. One image would be taken every ten minutes of excavation, then stitched together in an MP4 movie, which could be used in court if required.

  Glancing at her watch, she estimated that they had maybe four good hours of daylight left, daylight being essential to see the soil layers. After which they would cover the grave with plastic tarp and peg it down with archaeological arrows every few feet.

  Ready now to remove the current cover, she se
nt Chrissy round the other side and they both set about getting rid of the stones. Lifting the sheet back, they got their first sight of the grave. The single bone Mike had mentioned lay on the perimeter of the mound. The hole dug by the shovel was about three feet deep. On the opposite side Rhona could make out what might be a portion of exposed ribcage. All of this was as Erling had described and evidenced by the photograph he’d taken on his mobile.

  Bar one thing.

  There was no skull now atop the mound of earth.

  ‘Where’s the skull?’ Chrissy said, echoing Rhona’s own thoughts.

  Assuming it had been dislodged when the tarpaulin had broken free, they checked both the hole and the surrounding playground.

  Ten minutes later they were convinced it was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Could someone have removed it?’ Chrissy suggested, mystified.

  At that moment, Rhona could think of no other solution to the mystery. The skull had been here yesterday and was now gone. She took her first time-lapse video, then instructing Chrissy to lay out an alphanumerical grid round the suspect area at 0.5m intervals for reference purposes, she went inside.

  The three men were seated silently at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Mike Jones, she thought, looked no more at ease than he had been outside. Rhona wondered if the missing skull was the reason for his discomfort.

  ‘The skull’s not there,’ she told Erling.

  ‘What?’

  All three men were observing her with the same expression of mystification.

  ‘It was on top of the mound,’ Erling said. ‘You saw the photograph.’

  ‘It’s not now.’

  ‘Did it fall into the hole?’

  ‘No.’

  At that point everyone looked at Mike Jones.

  ‘Mike?’ Erling said.

  He looked back at them, aghast. ‘I didn’t remove it. It must have been blown away when the tarpaulin came loose.’