None but the Dead Page 9

  As he’d lain there, he’d imagined the scene outside. Wind stripping everything from the surface of the earth – buildings, creatures, humans. At any moment he’d expected the roof to be torn off, exposing the people inside in all their frailty. He’d thought of that German destroyer beached not that far away, the sea further demolishing that which it couldn’t blow to smithereens.

  Why would anyone choose to live in such a place?

  According to the brief lecture he’d been subjected to last night by Chrissy, it appeared that people had chosen to live in Orkney before anywhere else on the British Isles. When he’d questioned that assertion, she’d told him Neolithic remains proved her point.

  Rhona hadn’t intervened in the heated discussion, preferring to write up her notes at the kitchen table on her laptop. On his surprise arrival, he’d been greeted with a hug from Chrissy and a questioning look from Rhona. McNab had quickly explained how he’d arrived on the last helicopter, courtesy of the boss.

  ‘Because it’s a serious crime.’

  Rhona had thrown him a look at that point which had dented his bravado somewhat.

  ‘It could have waited until the weather improved.’

  ‘What’s a bit of bad weather?’ he’d said, deliberately forgetting how his stomach had performed on board the chopper.

  It was at that point a gust of wind had hit the building with such force that he’d risen to his feet, then realizing what a prick he looked had headed for the fridge and the beer to cover his sudden attack of the vapours.

  As he’d opened the fridge door, his eye had caught sight of a bottle of unopened Highland Park nearby on the worktop. What he would have given at that moment to pour himself a glass. The fact that he had made it through the night on the settee only yards from the whisky was a cause for celebration, even if he’d had no sleep, he decided.

  McNab rose with a groan for his cramped limbs and went in search of the bathroom. There were no sounds from either of the women’s rooms. He found himself impressed by the thought that they might well have slept through the storm, unlike himself.

  The howl of the wind had abated somewhat, but rain still lashed at the small windows and he could see the white-topped waves crashing onto the beach. As he stood, in awe of the edge-of-the-world scene, a very large cat made its way past the window, pausing briefly to examine him on the way. It was, he’d learned last night, one of ten wild felines who called the outhouses home and were fed by the farmer’s wife.

  That’s all I need. Ten fucking cats.

  He stripped off and turned on the shower, catching sight of the bullet scar on his back via a wall mirror. Being out of normal view, he usually managed to ignore the life-threatening injury he’d acquired when Chrissy had been pregnant with baby Michael – until he’d met and bedded Freya, that was. She, he’d come to realize, was obsessed by it. She liked to trace it when they made love. Often spoke of it. Interrogating him on what had happened when he’d died in the street in Rhona’s arms, then been brought back to life in the ambulance.

  McNab held no beliefs in the afterlife and, if he was honest with himself, he had no desire to examine either his feelings about his death or what had happened in the interim between breathing his last and his reappearance.

  But Freya was a Wiccan who believed in resurrection, if not of the body, then of the spirit. McNab also suspected she’d been trying to resurrect the spirits of her murdered fellow Wiccans, Leila and Shannon. He’d woken up in the middle of the night to find her in her temple, chanting. Listening through the door, he’d caught their names, discerning words in her spell that caused him disquiet.

  Then she’d brought Leila’s cat to live in the flat with her.

  McNab turned the shower abruptly to cold. In his mind’s eye he saw the angry red of the scar pale as he forced his own anger to fade.

  His feelings towards Freya he’d interpreted as love. He had risked his own life to save hers. Yet here he was, getting angry because of a bloody cat.

  He forced himself to stay under the cold water longer than need be, then stepped out and rubbed himself dry.

  Which is why I asked to come here. The man who’s more alarmed by wide open spaces than he is of a knife fight, or a bullet for that matter.

  McNab glanced at his face in the mirror, surprised at the honesty of his thoughts.

  Well, he was here now and there was a job to do. Including finding a bed more comfortable than that couch, preferably somewhere that didn’t have cats.

  The scent of frying met him on entry to the sitting room. Through the open door to the small kitchen he could see Chrissy at work. Rhona was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘She’s gone to check on the grave,’ Chrissy informed him. ‘Although it’s not calm enough yet to start work again. What do you want in your fry-up?’

  ‘Everything,’ McNab told her.

  Rhona walked the short distance along the sandy track, the sea beating the white shore on one side, empty fields on the other. The squalls of rain and wind had subsided from last night, but according to Derek they were entering the eye of the storm and there was more to come.

  Which meant she would spend today viewing the images she’d taken of the excavation so that McNab could see what they were dealing with. When McNab had surprised them with his appearance last night, Rhona realized he was the result of her conversation with Erling. She hadn’t expected a response quite so quickly, which suggested McNab had definitely put himself forward. But for what reason?

  Since the formation of Police Scotland, specialist units were drafted in to help the local force deal with homicides, many of whom had never encountered a murder on their doorstep before. In those cases, the first few days of an investigation, if carried out properly, usually produced a result. The community officers would work with the local population, backed up by the expertise of seasoned officers.

  The discovery of the body at the schoolhouse didn’t fall into that category, although McNab was on the MIT list. Last night he’d spoken of Jock Drever’s death and the likelihood that he had come from Sanday, which made Rhona suspect McNab was here as much because of Jock Drever as the skeleton she’d unearthed.

  The playground was covered in sand whipped up by the wind. Even now she could feel it on her face like pinpricks and taste it on her lips. The tarp, she was glad to note, had stayed secure. A quick peek below determined that the lower layer of sandy soil remained undisturbed.

  Rhona, pleased, headed for the shed. Solidly built from the flat stones Orkney was famous for, its roof was, like the cottage, constructed with larger flagstones.

  No wind, she thought, however fierce, could dislodge this building.

  She tried the door, then suddenly remembered that Mike had said he would lock it – and was surprised when it opened under her hand. She had stacked the equipment, the bags of recovered soil and, of course, the bones carefully at the rear of the shed. In the dim light she was relieved to find that all looked as it had done last night. The shed had proved as robust as Mike had promised.

  Hearing footsteps, she turned to find Mike, looking a little startled and wielding what appeared to be a length of driftwood.

  ‘Sorry, I saw the door lying open. I didn’t realize it was you,’ he said, lowering his weapon. ‘How did you get into the shed?’

  ‘It wasn’t locked.’

  ‘It was,’ Mike said in a determined fashion. ‘That’s why I came with this.’ He gestured to the driftwood cudgel, then looked around wildly as though expecting an intruder to suddenly appear from the shadows. ‘I definitely locked the door.’ He flashed a key at her.

  Rhona wondered if he had, in fact, forgotten his promise and, spotting her arrival, wanted to cover his forgetfulness.

  ‘Maybe the elusive children came back?’ Rhona tried to make light of the situation.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ He darted her a suspicious look. ‘You think I’m making them up?’

  ‘No, I—’ Rhona h
alted as Mike strode past her.

  ‘Have you checked your evidence is okay?’

  ‘I was just about to.’

  Mike located a light switch and flicked it on, then headed for the rear of the shed, Rhona at his heels.

  From her viewpoint at the door, the carefully stored evidence had looked secure, but not from where she stood now. Rhona stared down at the torn evidence bags and scattered soil, a rush of emotions sweeping over her, guilt being the main one. If only she’d transported everything back to the cottage. But how would that have been possible?

  ‘An animal got in?’ she tried.

  ‘There’s no entry other than the door. And,’ Mike said, catching her thought, ‘no cat or any other animal could have done this. This is wilful destruction.’

  As Rhona studied it, she was inclined to agree.

  ‘I’ll call Erling,’ she said, internally reminding herself that McNab would have to be told too.

  At the policeman’s name, Mike blanched. ‘Please make sure he knows I had nothing to do with this.’

  Rhona, shaken and puzzled by what she had just witnessed, took herself outside.

  In all her time in forensics, she had never had the evidence she’d collected tampered with. True, she’d had a severed foot found in the waters off Skye removed from the lab fridge, but that had been by order of Her Majesty’s Government, a situation she’d had no control over, however much she’d complained.

  Here, it had begun to look like someone was trying to thwart this investigation.

  But for what reason?

  She assumed young people could be as mischievous on Sanday as anywhere else. Derek had assured them the skull would turn up, and she’d bought his explanation that it might be children who’d removed it. Tampering with and destroying evidence collected in the course of an investigation was a very serious matter.

  When Rhona called DI Flett from the schoolhouse landline to report the latest developments, Erling listened in his usual calm manner, before asking, ‘Is Constable Tulloch with you?’

  Rhona had forgotten Ivan.

  ‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘I understand DS McNab managed to land last night?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Have him and Tulloch work together. Tulloch’s no detective, but the locals will answer his questions. Hopefully I’ll get out there by tomorrow, although it’s not looking promising.’ He paused. ‘As for the remaining evidence, I would suggest the safest place to store it would be at the heritage centre, next to the community shop. I’ll ask Derek to help you transfer it down there.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry this has happened.’

  ‘In normal circumstances, the evidence would have been off the island and at my lab by now,’ Rhona told him.

  Chrissy and McNab appeared as she rang off.

  ‘What’s up?’ Chrissy said swiftly, seeing her expression.

  ‘Come and see.’

  ‘The wee bastards,’ McNab said.

  ‘You don’t know it was kids,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Kids or cats,’ McNab thundered.

  ‘You just have a downer on cats,’ Chrissy said, dropping to her knees beside the mess. ‘And we all know why.’ She studied the reason for his outrage. After a few minutes, she gave her expert opinion. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. We’ve lost five maybe six bags. I think the rest’s intact and I have it all logged. What about the recording?’

  ‘I took the camera back with me,’ Rhona glanced about, ‘and left the stand over there.’

  ‘Well, it’s not there now,’ Chrissy said. ‘So even if the weather improves we can’t continue the excavation.’ She looked to Rhona. ‘Someone’s screwing with us.’

  At that point Mike Jones appeared at the door, causing the trio to fall silent.

  ‘That was PC Tulloch on the phone. He’ll be here shortly.’

  16

  McNab observed the four children before him, who ranged between eight and twelve years old. The girl, who seemed most inclined to speak, was the eldest and definitely an incomer by her accent. The biggest boy regarded her with annoyance, as though he thought he should be the spokesperson. It was like any gang, with a sprinkling of the clever, the not so bright, the foolhardy and the timid. He had pegged the younger boy with the shock of blond hair to be foolhardy. The talkative girl with the dark hair, the brightest. The younger girl was just plain terrified.

  They had been given an empty office at the school to chat to the group, all of whom lived within a short walking distance of the excavation site. PC Tulloch was apparently known to all of them – a local boy turned cop. A female teacher was there too, in place of the parents. This wasn’t a formal interview, just a chat about the excavation, and in McNab’s opinion, Tulloch was doing pretty well.

  He’d addressed the kids in the local dialect, switching to English when he realized the older girl was struggling to understand. He knew all their names, where they lived and what their parents did. He made them laugh. Then he’d asked them about the skull.

  At that they’d fallen silent and looked to the girl.

  McNab had a sudden memory of a book he’d read in school, or been forced to read, about a group of children born in strange circumstances in an English village. The book had been made into a film, called Children of the Damned. McNab had preferred the book’s title, The Midwich Cuckoos. In the story the children had all been born on the same day, at the same hour, in the same place. And they’d all thought the same thing at the same time, which was, in McNab’s opinion, what was happening now.

  Three faces turned to the girl at exactly the same moment and waited for her to speak.

  Her bright blue eyes sought his, rather than Tulloch’s, as though she was aware who was really in charge.

  ‘We didn’t take the skull,’ she told him. ‘We could help you try and find it.’

  Of course, the skull wasn’t the only item missing now. McNab acknowledged the girl’s earnest offer and nodded at Tulloch to continue.

  None of the group had given any indication that the girl was telling porky pies. McNab had looked for all the fairly recognizable signs, and spotted none. No one shuffled or avoided eye contact, licked their lips or scratched their nose or looked out of the window.

  McNab found himself believing that they hadn’t taken the skull.

  Tulloch now spoke about the storm and how wild it had been, encouraging them to tell their own tales of the previous night. Had anyone seen the flashes of lightning? Heard the wind? Been out in the rain?

  They each in turn said they’d been confined indoors, or had slept through it.

  Except the girl.

  ‘I visited a friend,’ she said. ‘Mr Flett.’

  ‘You went out in the storm?’ Tulloch asked.

  ‘His house is minutes away. I wanted to make sure he was all right.’

  She’s telling the truth, McNab thought, but maybe not all of it.

  ‘Sam Flett was a teacher here. He’s retired now and runs the heritage centre,’ Tulloch told him in an aside. ‘He’s related to DI Flett.’

  The girl interrupted their exchange. ‘Sam was nearly killed in the 1952 hurricane. It reached over 130 miles an hour. He was trying to rescue his favourite hen before the henhouse blew away.’

  She said this in such an earnest fashion, McNab had to smother a smile, then the thought occurred that she’d just successfully averted the line of questioning.

  ‘What did you and Mr Flett talk about?’ McNab said.

  He had nonplussed her. She drew her eyes away from him and refocused on Tulloch.

  ‘I checked whether he’d had his tea. He doesn’t eat enough since his wife died. He misses her a lot.’

  ‘And you like to keep him company?’ McNab tried to draw her back to him.

  ‘I’m new here so he tells me stories about Sanday. Like when the troops were here during the war,’ she added. ‘He knows everything about the place. That’s why he runs the heritage centre.’

  A bell
rang and the teacher stood up. It seemed their time together was at an end.

  McNab thanked them all, his Glasgow accent jarring in his ears after PC Tulloch’s musical cadences.

  When the door closed behind the platoon, Tulloch said, ‘Well, what do you think, sir?’

  ‘You’re the local. What do you think?’

  ‘They didn’t take the skull, and they’re trying to find it.’

  McNab agreed. ‘My feeling exactly. Inga has them on the job.’

  ‘Do we stop them, sir?’

  ‘And how exactly would we do that?’ McNab shook his head. ‘The girl is bright and inquisitive. She might find out something we can’t.’

  ‘But will she tell us?’

  ‘If not us, then maybe DI Flett.’ McNab made for the door. ‘Where to next?’

  ‘The hotel, to see if we can organize a bed for you tonight?’ suggested PC Tulloch.

  McNab was very much in favour of that.

  ‘Rain and gales. Or gales and rain. That’s Sanday weather for you,’ PC Tulloch said cheerfully as he pulled into a passing place to give way to an approaching car.

  Staring out at what he regarded as a bleak landscape, McNab wondered how anyone who lived here could be so cheerful.

  ‘Are there no trees at all?’ McNab wasn’t a big fan of trees, but even he missed them a bit.

  ‘There used to be woods at Otterswick. They found the remains of ancient trees buried beneath the sands. They’re marked on an old Admiralty chart from 1858. And there’s an old poem that mentions them.

  ‘The Ba’ Green o’Runnabrek

  The Horse Buils o’Riv

  If it wasnae for the woods o’Otterswick

  What wey wid wae liv?’

  McNab hadn’t a clue what Tulloch had said and didn’t ask for an explanation, as a large red-brick building loomed up on the passenger side a few metres from the road.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The old mortuary from the Second World War. It’s the only building that wasn’t concrete clad against bombardment – I suppose because the people inside were dead already.’