The Lewis Man

by Peter May

  Gunn felt his face colour with indignation. “You told me not ten minutes ago that you were not a bloody carbon-dating machine.” He enjoyed putting the emphasis on the bloody. “How can you possibly know that?”

  Mulgrew smiled. “Take a closer look at the right forearm, Detective Sergeant. I think you’ll see that what we have here is a crude tattooed portrait of Elvis Presley above the legend Heartbreak Hotel. Now, I’m pretty certain that Elvis wasn’t around in the time before Christ. And as a confirmed fan I can tell you, without fear of contradiction, that ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ was a number one hit in the year 1956.”

  Five

  Professor Mulgrew took almost two hours to complete the autopsy after breaking for a lunch of onion bhaji, lamb bhuna with garlic fried rice, and kulfi ice cream. George Gunn had a cheese sandwich in his office, and was having trouble keeping it down.

  The leather-like quality of the skin had made it impossible to open up the chest using a simple scalpel, and in the end the pathologist had resorted to the use of a pair of heavy scissors to cut through it before switching to his accustomed scalpel to reflect the remaining skin and muscles away from the ribcage.

  Now the body lay opened up, like something that might be found hanging from a butcher’s hook, internal organs removed and breadloafed. But this had been a strong, healthy young man, and nothing found internally had detracted from the notion that his death had been caused by anything other than a brutal murder. A murder perpetrated by someone who might, just conceivably, still be alive.

  “Bloody interesting corpse, Detective Sergeant.” Beads of sweat had gathered in the creases on his brow, but Professor Mulgrew was enjoying himself. “Didn’t have quite as interesting a last meal as I did. Flakes of soft meat, and minute translucent fibre-like material resembling fish bones. Fish and potatoes probably.” He grinned. “Anyway, happy to give you a hypothesis now on how he might have died.”

  Gunn was mildly surprised. From everything he had heard, pathologists were almost invariably reluctant to commit themselves to anything. But Mulgrew was clearly a man supremely confident of his own abilities. He closed up the ribcage, folded the skin and tissue back across the chest towards his initial incision, and poked with his scalpel at the wounds.

  “He was stabbed four times in the chest. From the downward angle of the strokes I would say that his attacker was either very much taller than him, or the victim was on his knees. I favour the latter, but we’ll come to that. The wounds were inflicted by a long, thin, double-bladed knife. Something like a Fairbairn-Sykes, or some other kind of stiletto. This one here, for example”—he indicated the topmost wound—“is about five-eighths of an inch in length and pointed at both tips, which almost certainly indicates a thin, double-bladed weapon. It is five inches deep, passing through the apex of the left lung, the right atrium of the heart and into the ventricular septum. So it’s quite long, and typical of the other three wounds.”

  “And that’s what killed him?”

  “Well, any one of them would almost certainly have been fatal given a few minutes, but I suspect that it was this deep incised wound crossing the front of the neck that did for him.” He turned his attention to it. “It’s more than seven inches long, extending between the mastoid area on the left, just below the ear, to the sternocleidomastoid area on the right.” He looked up. “As you can see.” He smiled and returned to the wound. “It completely transects the left jugular vein, severs the left carotid artery, and nicks the right jugular. It’s about three inches at its deepest, and even cuts into the spinal column.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “In my opinion the angle and depth of the cut would suggest that it was made from behind, and almost certainly with a different weapon. Which is backed up by the stab wound in the back. That wound is one-and-a-half inches long and has a squared superior tip, and a pointed inferior tip. Which would suggest a large, single-edged knife, better suited to cutting so deeply into the neck.”

  Gunn frowned. “I’m having trouble getting the picture here, Professor. Are you saying the killer used two weapons, stabbed him in the chest with one, then grabbed him from behind and cut his throat with another?”

  A smile of mild condescension settled on the pathologist’s face behind his mask, visible to Gunn only in eyes that glimmered on the far side of the giant tortoiseshells. “No, Detective Sergeant. I am saying that there were two attackers. One holds him from behind, forces him down to his knees while the second stabs him in the chest. The stab in the back was probably accidental as the first assailant prepared to draw his knife across the victim’s throat.”

  He moved around the table to the dead man’s head, and began peeling the skin and flesh back over the face and skull from an initial incision.

  “Here’s the picture you should probably keep in your mind. This man was bound by the wrists and ankles. He had a rope tied around his neck. If it had been used to hang him, the abrasion would have canted up towards the suspension point. But it doesn’t. So I’m suggesting to you that they used it to drag him along a beach. There is a fine silver sand in his nose and mouth, and in the broken skin on his knees and the tops of his feet. At some point they forced him on to his knees and repeatedly stabbed him before cutting his throat.”

  The picture that the pathologist painted with his words was suddenly very vivid to Gunn. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow he pictured it at night, with a phosphorescent sea breaking over compacted silver sand glowing in the moonlight. And then the blood turning white foam crimson. But what shocked him almost more than anything else was the thought that this brutal slaying had taken place here, on the Isle of Lewis, where in more than a hundred years there had been only two previous murders.

  He said, “Would it be possible to take fingerprints? We’re going to have to try to identify this man.”

  Professor Mulgrew did not answer immediately. He was focused on reflecting the scalp away from the skull without tearing it. “It’s so bloody desiccated,” he said. “Brittle as hell.” He looked up. “The fingertips are a bit wrinkled from fluid loss, but I can inject a little formalin to rehydrate them and you should get perfectly acceptable prints. Might as well take a DNA sample, too.”

  “The police surgeon already sent off samples for analysis.”

  “Oh, did he?” Professor Mulgrew did not look pleased. “Unlikely to provide any enlightenment, of course, but you never know. Ah . . .” His attention was suddenly taken by the skull, revealed finally by the peeling back of the scalp. “Interesting.”

  “What is?” Gunn reluctantly moved a little closer.

  “Beneath our chap’s surgical scar here . . . a small metal plate sewn in to protect the brain.”

  Gunn saw a rectangular, dull grey plate about two inches long, sewn into the skull with metal sutures looped through holes at either end of it. It was partially obscured by a layer of lighter grey scar tissue.

  “An injury of some kind. And very probably a little mild brain damage.”

  At Mulgrew’s request Gunn stepped out into the corridor and watched through the window that gave on to the autopsy room as the pathologist took an oscillating saw around the top of the skull to remove the brain. When he went back in, the professor was examining it in a stainless-steel bowl.

  “Yes . . . as I thought. Here . . .” He poked at it with his finger. “Cystic encephalomalacia of the left frontal lobe.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, my friend, that this poor bugger didn’t have much bloody luck. He had some kind of head injury that damaged the left frontal lobe, and probably left him . . . how can I put it . . . one sandwich short of a picnic?”

  He returned to the skull, and with a delicate scraping of his scalpel, pared away the film of tissue growing over the metal plate.

  “If I’m not mistaken, this is tantalum.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A highly corrosion-resistant metal pioneered in the first half of the twentieth century in cranioplasty
. Quite often used during the Second World War to repair shrapnel wounds.” He leaned closer in as he scraped deeper into the metal. “Highly biocompatible, but tended to produce terrible headaches. Something to do with electroconductivity, I think. The development of plastics in the sixties superseded it. Now it’s used mainly in electronics. Aha!”

  “What?” Gunn overcame his natural reticence to get even closer.

  But Professor Mulgrew simply turned away to rummage in his pathologist’s toolkit, which sat up on the counter beside the sink. He returned with a three-inch-square magnifying glass which he held between thumb and forefinger to hover it over the tantalum plate.

  “Thought so.” There was a hint of triumphalism.

  “Thought what?” Gunn’s frustration was evident in his voice.

  “The manufacturers of these plates often engraved them with serial numbers. And in this case a bloody date.” He stepped back, inviting Gunn to take a look.

  Gunn took the magnifying glass and held it gingerly above the skull, screwing up his face as he leaned in close to see for himself. Beneath a ten-digit serial number were the Roman numerals MCMLIV.

  The pathologist beamed. “That’s 1954 in case you hadn’t worked it out. About two years before he had his Elvis tattoo. And judging by the amount of tissue growth, three years, maybe four, before he was murdered on the beach.”

  Six

  At first Fin was completely disorientated. There was an intermittent beating in his ears above the sound of wind and water. He was hot, sweating profusely beneath the covers, but his face and hands were cold. A strange blue light permeated the brightness that dazzled him when he opened his eyes. It took a full thirty seconds before he remembered where he was, and saw the white lining of his tent breathing erratically in and out like a runner gasping for air at the end of a race. All around him was a shambles of clothes, a half-unpacked canvas satchel, his laptop, and a scattering of papers.

  In the failing light he had chosen a patch of ground which had seemed relatively flat for the pitching of his two-man tent. But now he realized that it sloped with the land down towards the cliffs and the sea beyond. He sat upright, listening for a moment to the guy ropes creaking and straining at their pegs, then slipped out of his sleeping bag and into some fresh clothes.

  Daylight blinded him as he unzipped the outer shell and crawled on to the hill. There had been rain during the night, but already the wind had dried the grass. He sat in it, barefoot, pulling on his socks, and screwing up his eyes against the glare of sunlight on the ocean, a burned-out ring of luminescence that flared briefly before the gap in the clouds above it closed, like turning off a light switch. He sat, knees pulled up to his chest, forearms resting on top of them, and breathed the salt air, and smelled peat smoke and damp earth. The wind tugging at his short, fair curls stung his face and sent a wonderful sense surging through him of simply being alive.

  He looked back over his left shoulder and saw the ruins of his parents’ crofthouse, an old whitehouse, and beyond it the remains of the blackhouse where his forebears had lived for centuries, and where he had played as a child, happy and secure, never once imagining what life might hold in store for him.

  Above that the road wound down the hill through the strung-out collection of disparate dwellings that made up the village of Crobost. Red tin roofs on old loom sheds, houses whitewashed or pink-harled, irregular fenceposts, tufts of wool snagged on barbed wire fluttering in the wind. The narrow strips of land known as crofts ran down the slope towards the cliffs, some cultivated to raise basic crops, grains and root vegetables, others supporting nothing but sheep. The discarded technology of distant decades, rusted tractors and broken harvesters, littered overgrown plots, the rotting symbols of a once hoped-for prosperity.

  Beyond the curve of the hill, Fin could see the dark roof of Crobost Church dominating both the skyline and the people over whose lives its shadow fell. Someone had hung out washing at the manse, and white sheets flapped furiously in the wind like demented semaphore flags urging praise and fear of God in equal measures.

  Fin loathed the church and all it stood for. But there was comfort in its familiarity. This, after all, was home. And he felt his spirits lifted.

  He heard his name carried on the wind as he pulled on his boots, and he turned, scrambling to his feet, to see a young man standing by his car where he had abandoned it at the gate of the crofthouse the night before. He set off, wading through the grass, and as he got closer, saw the ambivalence in his visitor’s smile.

  The young man was about eighteen, a little less than half Fin’s age, with fair hair gelled into spikes, and cornflower-blue eyes so piercingly like his mother’s that they raised goosebumps on Fin’s arms. For a moment they stood in awkward silence sizing each other up, before Fin reached out a hand and the boy gave it a brief, firm shake.

  “Hello, Fionnlagh.”

  The boy thrust his jaw in the direction of the pale-blue tent. “Just passing through?”

  “Temporary accommodation.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “It has.”

  Fionnlagh paused for a moment, to give his words emphasis. “Nine months.” And there was a definite accusation in them.

  “I had a whole life to pack up behind me.”

  Fionnlagh canted his head a little. “Does that mean you’re back to stay?”

  “Maybe.” Fin turned his gaze over the croft. “This is home. It’s where you come when you’ve nowhere else to go. Whether or not I stay . . . well, that remains to be seen.” He turned green eyes back on the boy. “Do folk know?”

  Their eyes locked for several seconds in a silence laden with history. “All that anyone knows is that my father died out on An Sgeir last August during the guga hunt.”

  Fin nodded. “Fair enough.” He turned to open the gate and walked down the overgrown path to what had once been the front door of the old whitehouse. The door itself was long gone, a few remaining pieces of rotten architrave still clinging to the brick. The purple paint with which his father had once lavished every wooden surface, including the floors, was still discernible in odd, flaking patches. The roof was largely intact, but the timbers were decayed and rainwater had streaked every wall. The floorboards were gone, leaving only a few stubborn joists. It was a shell of a place, no trace remaining of the love that had once warmed it. He heard Fionnlagh at his shoulder and turned. “I’m going to gut this place. Rebuild it from the inside out. Maybe you’d like to give me a hand during the summer holidays.”

  Fionnlagh shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe.”

  “Will you be going to university in the autumn?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I need to find a job. I’m a father now. I have responsibilities to my child.”

  Fin nodded. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Fin ignored the sarcasm. “And Donna?”

  “Living at home with her parents, and the baby.”

  Fin frowned. “What about you?”

  “Mum and I are still at the bungalow down the hill.” He nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the house that Marsaili had inherited from Artair. “The Reverend Murray won’t let me go up to see them at the manse.”

  Fin was incredulous. “Why not? You’re the baby’s father, for God’s sake.”

  “With no means of supporting either his daughter or her mother. Occasionally Donna can sneak her up to see me at the bungalow, but usually we have to meet in town.”

  Fin swallowed his anger. No point in directing it at Fionnlagh. Time enough for that. Another place, another person. “Is your mother at home?” It was an innocent enough question, and yet they both knew how charged it was.

  “She’s been away in Glasgow, sitting exams for university entrance.” Fionnlagh registered Fin’s surprise. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “We haven’t been in touch.”

  “Oh.” His eyes wandered back down the hil
l towards the Macinnes bungalow. “I always thought that you and Mum might get back together again.”

  Fin’s smile was touched by sadness, and perhaps regret. “Marsaili and I couldn’t make it work all those years ago, Fionnlagh. Why should it be any different now?” He hesitated. “Is she still in Glasgow?”

  “No. She came back early. Flew in this morning. A family emergency.”

  Seven

  I can hear them talking in the hall as if I’m deaf. As if I wasn’t here. As if I was dead. Sometimes I wish I was.

  I don’t know why I should have to wear my coat. It’s warm in the house. No need for a coat. Or my hat. My lovely soft old cap. Kept my head warm for years.

  I’m never sure these days when I come through from the bedroom which Mary I will find. Sometimes it’s the good Mary. Sometimes it’s the bad Mary. They look the same, but they are different people. It was the bad Mary this morning. Raising her voice, telling me what to do, making me put on my coat. Sitting here. Waiting. For what?

  And what’s in the case? She said it was my stuff. But what did she mean? If she means my clothes, I have a wardrobe full of them, and they would never fit in there. Or all my papers. Accounts going back years. Photographs. Everything. It certainly wouldn’t all go in a case this size. Maybe we’re going on holiday.

  I hear Marsaili’s voice now. “Mum, that’s just not fair.”

  Mum. Of course. I keep forgetting that Mary’s her mum.

  And Mary says, speaking English of course, because she never did learn the Gaelic, “Fair? You think it’s fair on me, Marsaili? I’m seventy years old. I can’t take it any more. At least twice a week he soils the bed. If he goes out on his own he gets lost. Like a damned dog. He’s just not to be trusted. Neighbours bring him back. If I say white he says black, if I say black he says white.”

  I never say black or white. What is she talking about? It’s the bad Mary talking.