by V Clifford
Mac crouched to examine the fringes of exposed earth. ‘Some size of stone or what?’
The officer nodded. ‘Yeah, it took those five guys,’ she pointed to the group, ‘with crow bars to lever it up.’
Viv interrupted. ‘Is it just me, or shouldn’t you expect to find bones beneath a grave slab?’
Mac and the DI looked at her.
Viv continued, ‘So, what I mean is, they must have noticed more than a few disturbed tussocks.’
Coulson looked at Mac for permission to give more information.
Mac said, ‘She’s one of us. You’re okay.’
Coulson continued. ‘Well, there were tyre tracks. Which is really odd because the only vehicle on the island belongs to Historic Scotland’s groundsmen. A small electric caddy, like a golf buggy. And it’s not those tyres that made the tracks.’
‘And the bones?’
‘The grave contents had definitely been disturbed. And according to her,’ she pointed to a slim dark-haired woman speaking to a group behind them, ‘there are too many bones, Sir, and unless he was two headed . . .’
Mac looked intrigued.
The DI continued. ‘There’s one too many skulls for it just to be from the guy whose name is on the slab.’
‘Were the archaeologists able to say who that was?’
‘Yes, Sir, the grave isn’t that old and belonged to . . .’ she took out her pad to check the name, ‘the Byron Ponsonby family. We now think that perhaps Sir and Lady Byron Ponsonby were both buried in there because another stone with her name on it lies further along the chancel.’ She pointed to a smaller stone in the ground. ‘And that’s empty.’
Viv said, ‘Often if the wife dies first she’ll be buried in her own grave, until her husband dies, when they’ll be interred together.’ Viv recognised the name. The Byron Ponsonbys were a literary family, she’d only a couple of nights ago been flicking through a book that Sal had about local landed gentry, one of whom had been Sir Byron Ponsonby. He had earned the name of Don Giocasanova, and was a poet of sorts, which to Viv’s mind was probably a euphemism for his being the family’s naughty black sheep. He died in the nineteen thirties though, so why would he, and his wife, be buried on this little island at all when it had been gifted to the nation, by the Duke of Montrose, in the nineteen twenties?
Mac hadn’t shown any recognition at the name but that needn’t mean he wasn’t aware of who the DI meant. Light was fading fast and the generator chugged into life, bringing with it enough illumination for a football pitch and enough noise for them to have to shout.
‘Who is leading the dig?’ Mac asked.
Coulson looked flustered. ‘Sure. Sorry. Over here.’ She led Mac and Viv over to the opposite side of the grave, where an archaeologist stood with his hands on his hips.
Mac produced a wallet with a laminated National Task Force card, and held it up. The man squinted, and although there was no way he’d be able to read it in the glare of these lights, he nodded his assent that Mac was official.
They drew away from the din. Mac enquired, ‘Have you sent anything away yet?’
The archaeologist was distracted. ‘No. No, we haven’t taken anything out. The grave is too new. We’re only pawns in this. Bones are not what we’re interested in.’
‘Okay. So take me through how you found it, and exactly what you did when you discovered that the stone had been tampered with.’
‘The thing is, lots of stones get moved one way or another, by grass cutting machinery, or if someone digs nearby the earth moves. The earth moves anyway, but with old gravestones tussocks of couch grass are often what secure their position. This one had not only been loosened but there was also a piece of sweetie wrapper. One of the team recognised a Snickers bar.’ He pointed back to the grave. ‘A tiny edge of it was sticking out from beneath the stone. It could only have got there if the stone had been lifted then dropped on it.’
‘Did you bag it?’ Mac eager to make sure that anything from the area was secured.
Coulson coughed. ‘It’s still in situ, Sir. Everything has been done by the book, Sir.’
‘I’m not doubting you, Coulson, I’m just trying to build a picture. Besides, it’s what happened before you arrived that we have to establish.’
Coulson nodded, reassured that Mac wasn’t getting at her or her team.
Mac turned to Viv. ‘Now why would someone take the trouble to open this monster sized grave? Surely to take something out? I don’t imagine it was to put something in. But I could be wrong about that. Or what, to check if there was anything inside worth stealing?’ He was obviously struck by something. He stared at Viv but she sensed he just needed a sounding board. ‘This is another of those grey areas. Until we know whether something is missing or someone has left something behind, beyond the Snickers paper . . . but we can’t know what, if anything, is missing until we know what was in it in the first place.’ He turned to the DI. ‘Could you find out from Historic Scotland if there are any family members who visit, or anyone else for that matter who comes to tend the grave? Are there ever any flowers left? Let’s build up a picture of the Byron Ponsonbys who are still above ground, see if they have anything to tell us.’
Chapter Six
They were about to walk round the edge of the sacristy when Mac suddenly yelled, ‘Watch out!’ and pushed Viv so hard that she pitched forward and landed on her hands and knees. Mac wasn’t so lucky. A piece of carved stone, the size of a bowling ball, toppling from a ridge above the chancel, narrowly missed his head. It caught him on the back and, winded, he fell to the floor.
Faster than she went down, Viv jumped up and motioned for everyone to stay back, ‘Don’t touch him . . . or the stone!’
She knelt beside Mac while he caught his breath. Viv beckoned to a female in overalls who bent under the tape and came to Mac’s aid. He brushed her away and struggled to get to his knees. The white-gloved examiner checked the stone.
‘It’s hard to say, without getting up there, but it does look as if this has been worked recently.’ She pointed to striations along one edge of the stone. ‘These weren’t made with the tools of a medieval stonemason. It’s too late to take a look now, but we’ll get up there in the morning and see what’s what.’
Mac had managed to get to his feet but was doubled over, resting his hands on his thighs. The colour had drained from his face, and in this weird artificial light, his profile looked distorted.
‘You okay?’ Stupid question, but a start. ‘You look like you’ll need help to get back across the loch.’
He blew out a breath. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’ But when he tried to straighten up it was clear that there was no way that within a minute he’d be any different.
The woman, who Viv assumed was the scene of crime manager, glanced over at Viv. ‘I’ll take a look at that.’
Mac started to protest but between them they soon persuaded Mac’s jacket off his shoulders. Viv shook her head when she saw the mark on his back. The stone had caught his ribs and a horrendous swelling was already rising.
‘There are bound to be broken ribs. You’ll be lucky if that’s all you get away with. We can’t say for sure until it’s x-rayed; you could have internal bleeding. Hope you’re lucky.’
Mac whispered looking up at the female. ‘Not feeling too lucky, Doc.’ He had dropped to his knees again while they were freeing him from his jacket and with his head bowed he looked as if he was praying.
Viv, more worried now that she’d seen the damage, shook her head. ‘Shit, Mac. We’ll need to get you to A&E; it’s not looking good at all.’
He tried to stand up again but agony was written all over his ashen face.
Viv spoke to the SOCO. ‘You must have brought the proper kit to take a skeleton away from the site. Could we use that to get him over to the mainland?’
The woman nodded. ‘Don’t see why not. But will he agree?’
Mac interrupted them. ‘I am here you know, and lucid. I got hit on t
he back not on the head. And I’m not going on any stretcher. Just give me time and I’ll be okay to get back in the boat.’
Viv shook her head. He was as determined as she was. It would take all her powers of persuasion to talk him into A&E. If he wouldn’t go, what was the best course of action? Could they make it back to the cottage? Sal had a fold-down bed in the cupboard under the stairs but he would probably insist on going home.
‘Right, if we can get you back over the lake, I’ll drive us back to Doune.’
She watched his effort as he struggled to his feet again and began to take baby steps in the direction of the jetty. Viv indicated with an outstretched pinky and thumb, to Coulson, who had already started to cordon off the area with blue and white tape, but began to punch in a number into her mobile, which Viv hoped was the boatman’s.
It took a few minutes for her to get Mac sufficiently upright, and willing to lean on her, and at a snail’s pace return to the shore. Viv heard an engine gunning and in hardly any time the boat was leaving the opposite side.
‘Well done, Coulson,’ she whispered.
As they waited, Viv tried to get Mac to continue leaning on her but he was having none of it. Suddenly he edged away from the jetty as the boat approached, and she heard him retching into the reeds.
Boarding a boat is an easy thing to do if you are in working order, but the minute there’s a muscle out of place, or a broken bone or two, the whole stepping over a rail and down onto the deck becomes a drama. Viv looked at Mac’s struggle and asked the boatman what the large lit-up building on the other side was.
‘Lake Hotel,’ he grunted, oblivious to Mac’s pain, clearly grumpy about having to do an extra night run.
Viv snorted, ‘Creative. . . Is there a jetty there?’
He looked at her with a furrowed brow. ‘Yes, but . . .’
Viv nodded. ‘Take us straight there. D’you know their number?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll not need to worry about getting a bed. They’re having a quiet season.’ He coughed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as the boat chugged away from the island toward the hotel.
The building they were approaching had an Edwardian edifice with a conservatory running the full length of the lakeside. It wasn’t particularly beautiful, but it was substantial, and all Viv could think about was getting Mac space to lie down and with a bit of persuasion, strapped up.
The landing area was not so much a jetty as a series of dilapidated pallets. Viv panicked as they drew alongside because the drop was a couple of feet more than the one they’d left behind and that had been traumatic enough. Mac sat with his head in his hands, his breathing laboured and his pallor nowhere close to normal.
Viv rubbed his arm. ‘Look, do you think you’ll manage this?’ She gestured to the wooden structure up ahead.
Mac turned and nodded. ‘Not many options, have I?’
‘We could take the boat back to the car park and offload you there. It would be easier than this. You’ll have to jump here.’
‘We’ll give it a try. Don’t look so worried, Viv, I’m not dead yet.’
Viv was worried. Mac was a big man. Tall, broad and solid muscle, she’d be of little help if he fell. His familiar aftershave mingled with his sweat and alerted her to the smell of her own anxiety. No one likes to be anxious or out of control. Viv hated that she was powerless to do anything for Mac. The boatman leapt off and attempted to tie up his craft, a wooden thirty-two footer, which he held with all his might as he looped the rope over a post sticking out of the loch.
The Lake of Menteith was one of Scotland’s shallowest lochs and used to be a favourite venue for curling matches when it froze. The shoreline, a tangle of reeds, was impossible to walk through. Viv needed to get Mac right onto the shore. After a few minutes of pulling and much grunting, the boat was close and steady enough to disembark. Mac sat on the side of the boat, but with a line of tyres acting as buffers along the hull, he had to push himself off in order to clear them. Viv leapt onto the jetty, and pretended she would catch him if he stumbled. She almost felt his pain as he landed, grimacing, with his eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched.
He leant on her as they made their way to the front of the hotel. Viv pushed open heavy wooden doors and spotted a seat where she could park Mac. She went in search of a receptionist. Within five minutes she was back with a room key.
‘They only have one room ready, but I reckoned with the condition you’re in I’m pretty safe.’
‘Yeah, but what about me?’ He smiled, again more of a grimace than joyful, but Viv saw it as a positive sign.
She indicated which direction they were going in and set off along a corridor. ‘I asked if they had a room on the ground floor and hey presto, all disabled rooms are on this floor, and still have views over the loch. Not that you’ll be interested in views.’ She turned to look back at him. ‘Hope the beds are hard.’
‘D’you think they’d have a first aid kit anywhere? It would help if we strapped up my ribs.’
‘Once I get you settled I’ll go and find out . . . Oh God, I must phone Brian and get him to see to Moll.’
The hotel was in the middle of an up-grade and there had only been two presentable bedrooms left, a single on the top floor, and the one that she was just about to enter. The room was standard size, en-suite with a shower and bath. Walls of pale grey made it gloomy and unwelcoming. Viv shuddered as she closed the door behind them. She switched on all the lamps. Mac sat on the bed with its charcoal and off-white covers. There was a tiny desk, a small tub chair and a window seat. A glass door led out onto a paved area where there were two white plastic seats upended over a tiny table. It was too dark to see anything beyond the end of the patio. Viv ran her hands down the heavy silk curtains then checked out the loo.
‘Everything that you need for now is within ten paces. I’ll be back in a jiff.’
Viv had been in difficult situations with Mac before, but she had always been the one who felt compromised. Mac had rescued her on a few occasions, but now that she was here she wasn’t sure if she could share a room with him, no matter how injured he was. Her belly contracted. She thought she recognised the feeling but couldn’t be absolutely sure.
The same guy that had checked them in managed to find a first aid kit. So she headed straight back to the room only to find Mac curled up, out for the count. She closed the door quietly, and began to remove her outdoor clothing: boots, jacket and Mac’s scarf. She lingered, holding the scarf to her face, drawing in the smell of him; odd, no trace of cologne. She removed his boots and gently laid them one by one on the floor: dropping size elevens would be sure to wake him. His feet were enormous, but in fine black cashmere socks, they looked as if they were perfectly formed. She held his toes, an intimate gesture that sent a prickly sensation through her. She quickly pulled the duvet from the other side of the bed and folded it over him - weird seeing him so vulnerable. She stood with hands on her hips and glanced around the room, taking in its hideous decor. Deciding there wasn’t much she could do, she retreated to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath. Piping hot water gushed from the tap as she tried to identify what the prickle was about.
Up to her chin in suds, she thought of all the people on the island who could have been injured by the falling rock. It was simple bad luck that Mac copped it; it could so easily have been her or anyone else who’d stood in that position. Or could it? How recently had someone been up there? Was it intended for an archaeologist? Or one of Coulson’s team? Strange that it happened in the dark. She hoped these same questions would be in DI Coulson’s mind right now. Could it have been one of Coulson’s lot irked by NTF sticking their oar in? It was possible but unlikely.
She’d emptied another small bottle of Molton Brown’s bath foam into the running stream, and now couldn’t see any part of herself beneath the bubbles. She slipped under the surface of the water and held her breath. Luxuriating in the fact that there was endless hot water she turned the tap back on
until her feet were poached. What would Sal say to the day’s capers? Once her skin began to look, and feel, like orange peel she stepped out and wrapped an over-sized white towel round her body. Just as she reached for the smaller towel for her hair she heard a crash in the bedroom and ran through to find Mac bolt upright but confused on the edge of the bed. Glass shards were scattered over the floor by the door to the garden.
Viv backed into the bathroom, pulled on her trousers and shirt, then fumbled with her boots and jacket. She tried to open the now broken French door but the lock was jammed. She raced out of the bedroom door and down the corridor in the opposite direction to where reception was. She kicked open a fire door and stepped into the garden. She waited, listening, hair dripping onto her shoulders. She thought she heard a rustle from her right. A huge rhododendron bush stretched into the darkness and she followed the noise along its length, no idea where it would lead. Who or whatever it was kept moving but after a few minutes they were out of earshot. She stood still again and strained her ears, surprised at how many sounds echoed in the night air. A breeze sent a chill over her and, shivering, she about turned and retraced her steps to the room. The receptionist, jack-of-all-trades, was there with Mac who although standing to his full height was grimacing with pain. If you didn’t know him you’d assume he was the aloof type.
‘What d’you think happened, Sir?’ The receptionist said, sounding marginally pissed off that there was action at all in this, normally anaesthetised area of the National Park.
Mac didn’t answer but pointed to Viv who, still shivering, said, ‘I’ve no idea what happened. He was asleep and I had just got out of the bath when I heard the sound of breaking glass. I ran through, didn’t see anyone except . . . Mr Marconi sitting on the bed. The door to the outside was jammed, so I took off down the corridor and exited through a fire door at the far end. I heard someone . . . or something in the garden beyond the bush but couldn’t see anything.’
The guy sucked air over his teeth. Not a good sign, Viv thought. Then he said what she’d predicted. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to get maintenance in at this time of night and I’ve got no other rooms that you can use. I suppose I could put some cardboard over it.’
