by Lin Anderson
‘You’re going to bring it forward and simply release it.’
Rhona rarely handled anything that might be described as a weapon, if you omitted the tools she used to do her job. But then again, anything might become a weapon in an emergency, she thought. At which point a flashback hit her with surprising force and for a moment her hand held, not the tomahawk, but a bloodied slither of glass from a broken wine bottle.
Rhona stared down at her hand, remembering . . .
‘You okay with this?’ Matt whispered under his breath.
Rhona dispelled the memory of the last time she’d tried to stab something. ‘Tell me one more time.’
Matt guided her hand back so that the axe would begin its flight from just behind her right shoulder. ‘At this distance when released it will turn once, then embed in the target. And remember,’ he reminded her, ‘it’s not about strength.’
Rhona took a deep breath and relaxed, then followed his instructions exactly.
It was over in a second, followed by the whooping of all three men as her axe embedded itself firmly in the top of the target.
‘Very few get it first time,’ Matt said, fetching the tomahawk. ‘D’you want another go?’
‘I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead,’ Rhona said, slightly overcome by her success.
Matt handed her an ace of spades card. ‘For an ace axe thrower.’
As Rhona stepped back to allow Jamie his turn, Blaze began barking at her and running back and forth towards the woods.
‘He wants you to go with him,’ Donald said. ‘Show you around.’
Rhona looked to Jamie.
‘I could be here a while,’ he said as his first attempt bounced off the wooden backdrop and fell to the ground. ‘Maybe better if the ace player doesn’t watch. And Blaze seems pretty insistent.’
‘Okay,’ Rhona told the collie. ‘Take me for a walk and spare Jamie his embarrassment.’
According to Matt, the twelve-acre site where the airsoft games were played was thickly covered in birch trees, rising to open ground higher up. At first the dog followed a clear path through the lichen-covered trunks, where, on either side, the interwoven bare branches appeared impenetrable. At ground level it was obvious by the thick russet tangle that in spring and summer bracken would grow to waist height.
Overhead, the light was already beginning to fail as the midwinter solstice approached. Any snow that had fallen here had since melted, although through the spidery branches Rhona could still see the white-topped mountains.
All was silent apart from the panting of the dog as it ran a little ahead, turning frequently to check on Rhona’s progress. She passed two small clearings set up with wooden barriers for the pursued to hide from their attackers during airsoft games. At the top of the hill the trees parted to reveal a grassy clearing in the middle of which stood a wooden fort, where the defenders made their last stand.
At this, the highest position among the trees, the defenders might survive a concentrated attack from below, in much the same way that Scots had defended hilltops over the centuries. Rhona halted here to climb on the palisade and stare down into the skeleton trees, until Blaze barked at her to indicate she hadn’t yet reached her required destination.
With the path petering out, the dog now made off into the trees to the right of the fort, its bushy tail swaying.
Trying to follow, Rhona was immediately met by a web of interlocking branches which necessitated ducking and weaving, even as she stumbled over rocks buried under mounds of dying bracken.
If you’re chasing a rabbit or a deer, Blaze . . .
As Rhona paused for breath, she spotted Blaze a little distance ahead, standing to attention, the shaggy coat glistening with moisture from the undergrowth. The dog was looking towards her, obviously waiting for her to come and join him. Whatever Blaze wanted her to see, it seemed they had reached it.
Rhona began to force her way upwards through the undergrowth.
They had reached a small break in the tree cover. Rhona registered the sound of a burn running somewhere close by. A bird rose with a hoarse call that startled her, raising her heartbeat.
As she drew alongside the dog, it turned to lick her hand, whining a little.
‘What is it, boy? What’s wrong?’
Everything, the answering whine told her. Everything about this place is wrong.
‘Show me, Blaze. Show me what you’ve found.’
A worried Jamie met Rhona at the gate. ‘We thought you’d got lost!’
‘No, although Blaze did take me a fair distance into the woods.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Jamie asked, taking note of her perturbed expression.
Rhona didn’t know what to tell him, because she wasn’t sure herself if anything was wrong.
‘I need to speak to Matt and Donald.’
‘They’re in the office.’
‘What’s up?’ Matt looked up from his laptop when Rhona appeared in the doorway.
Rhona got straight to the point. ‘Did someone get hurt recently in the woods?’
‘You mean during an airsoft battle?’ Matt said, with a worried expression. He looked to Donald, who shook his head, as puzzled it seemed by her question as Matt was. ‘We’re dead quiet at the moment. Just one group yesterday. Soldiers on leave. They really went to town, but they all left unhurt. Why?’
‘Blaze took me directly to a spot in the woods he was obviously interested in, just like a police dog would.’
‘He catches game. Might he have killed something up there? He’s dragged me to a couple of places he’s made a kill and buried it for later,’ Donald offered. ‘Oh, come to think of it, he did ask to be let out late last night.’
‘That could be it,’ Rhona said, to ease their concern. ‘But I’d like to come back with my forensic bag. Take a proper look.’ She’d said this almost to herself, then realized that Matt and Donald were looking at her, slack-jawed.
‘Forensic bag?’ Matt repeated, stunned.
Jamie came in then, speaking directly to Rhona. ‘Do you want to talk to Sergeant MacDonald? We could call in at the station on our way back.’
Rhona wasn’t sure she did. ‘I’ll take another look first. Check if it’s human blood.’
‘There was blood?’ Matt repeated, horrified.
Rhona ignored his panicked expression. ‘I’d like to protect the area until tomorrow morning,’ she told him. ‘D’you have a tarpaulin I could use?’
Jamie was silent when they eventually exited the site after stretching and securing the tarpaulin, although Rhona knew he really wanted to question her further. The problem was she had nothing to tell him, nothing concrete anyway. Just an informed feeling about the scene.
‘You really think something bad happened there?’
Rhona tried to make light of it. ‘I think I’m maybe missing my work.’
Jamie’s face broke into a relieved grin. ‘And that’s good, isn’t it?’ When she nodded, he said, ‘You didn’t half scare the shit out of Matt, though.’
Rhona changed the subject. ‘Did you organize the stag do?’
‘I did.’ Jamie seemed pleased to talk about something else. Then a worrying thought occurred. ‘Will your investigation be over by next weekend?’
‘It will,’ Rhona assured him.
As they drew into the square at Portree, Jamie asked if she wanted to eat with him at the Isles before heading home.
‘I have to get back,’ Rhona said. ‘I’m expecting a Skype call.’
‘Chrissy?’
‘DS McNab.’
Rhona had felt it necessary to give Jamie some explanation for her extended time on the island, although he’d never questioned her himself. And he was no fool, nor was he off-grid. Therefore he had to be aware of the sin-eater case and at least the fact that she’d been involved in it.
Rhona tried to make light of things. ‘McNab asks how I’m doing. I tell him fine, which is true. Although I suspect if I don’t agree to such calls, he
may well get on his motorbike and head back here.’
‘He’s that protective of you?’ Jamie said.
‘He’d be the same with Chrissy,’ Rhona told him. ‘Her wee boy’s called Michael after McNab,’ she said to illustrate. ‘And not because he’s the father.’
Jamie drew into the square and turned off the ignition. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to run your suspicions about the site past Lee MacDonald?’
‘I’d rather wait and see if there’s anything to tell him first,’ Rhona said.
‘D’you want me to come back with you tomorrow?’ Jamie looked so worried for her when he said that, Rhona almost laughed.
‘I specialize in hidden and buried bodies, remember?’
‘At least we have the burying bit in common.’ He gave her a half-smile. ‘You’ll let me know?’
‘Of course,’ Rhona promised.
The sky was a brooding grey mass as she crossed into Sleat. The pleasure she normally took in the long stretch of road was missing tonight, replaced by the recurring image of that small clearing in the woods.
In most cases you knew you were entering a crime scene, but not always. Like the time she’d been called to the Shelter Stone cave on Cairngorm to view the bodies of three dead climbers. Death had many guises on the mountain, the majority being the result of the weather and the terrain. Not in that particular case, though.
Studying a body and the context in which it was found eventually told death’s true story.
There had been no body in the woods, but there had been enough to suggest there had been, if she respected her instincts . . . and those of the dog.
She’d seen enough police dogs in action to know their response to the discovery of human blood. According to Donald, Blaze had been trained like a rescue dog and the collie had all the instincts of one.
Someone had lain injured there. That was all she knew . . . until tomorrow.
As she turned down the track that led to the cottage, Rhona realized that she had a visitor, although who might have arrived here in a black SUV, she had no idea. A horrible thought that it might actually be McNab entered her head momentarily, but the vehicle was an unlikely match for the detective sergeant.
So if it wasn’t McNab, who was it?
6
‘Rhona,’ Alvis said in obvious surprise as he appeared round the side of the cottage. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could say the same thing to you,’ Rhona said, suspicion already forming in her mind as to why Inspector Alvis Olsen of Stavanger Police should be standing on her doorstep.
‘I’m on a climbing holiday. Arrived yesterday afternoon and decided to start easy with a walk today to the Point of Sleat. I remembered you talking about the cottage, so I thought I’d check out if you were right,’ he said brightly.
‘Right about what?’
‘You told me it had the best view on Skye, remember?’
Rhona did remember. Her suspicions abating a little, she said, ‘Was I right?’
‘Most definitely.’
They stood for a moment in awkward silence. What to say next? Rhona knew it would seem odd if she didn’t ask Alvis in, but she wasn’t certain how long she could keep up a pretence of normality. And he was sure to ask why she was here.
The suspicion re-formed. Or maybe he knew already? She could of course say she was on holiday, like him, but then he might suggest they do some walking together.
In the absence of a decision, Rhona retrieved the key from below the stone and proceeded to open the door.
‘I thought you said no one locked their doors on Skye?’ Alvis jokingly reminded her.
‘Times have changed,’ was all Rhona could muster in response.
The cottage was warm, the fire still lit. Rhona busied herself stoking it and putting on more peat.
‘How long are you here for?’ she said as she moved to set up the coffee machine.
‘A week,’ Alvis told her.
Squashed together in the small kitchen, Alvis seemed taller and broader than Rhona remembered. But his voice was the same. The clear concise English, with a touch of humour. Standing so close, she also recalled his scent, and with it came a rush of memories from the night they had spent together in the Aberdeen hotel room, where they had tried to forget, however briefly, the terrible world their case had led them into.
‘How have you been?’ Rhona found herself saying the words she didn’t want to hear from him.
‘Okay.’ He sounded slightly unsure.
‘Last time I saw you was—’ Rhona began.
‘At Loch A’an,’ he finished for her.
They shared an unspoken memory that brought a fleeting look of sorrow to his eyes as Rhona recalled watching Alvis walk off into the hills to finally revisit the place he’d lost his beloved wife, Marita.
‘How’s Detective Sergeant McNab?’ Alvis said swiftly, perhaps to change the subject.
At McNab’s name, Rhona remembered. Checking her watch, she said, ‘He’s about to Skype me.’ She glanced at her laptop sitting open on the small dining table.
‘If you want to talk privately I can go outside and admire the view again,’ Alvis immediately offered.
‘No. He’ll be pleased to see you,’ Rhona said, realizing that spotting Alvis’s presence would alter what McNab planned to say, which would have undoubtedly referred to her appointment that morning.
Rhona carried both mugs to the table and, pulling up a chair alongside, suggested Alvis join her. Not usually known for his timekeeping, McNab had been more than punctual on his arranged calls up to now. He had been adamant about this regular method of keeping in touch before he’d agreed to leave her here, ‘alone in the Highlands’. Rhona had accepted his conditions, all the while assuming that eventually pressure of work at home in Glasgow would let her off the hook.
The sound of the sing-song Skype ringtone indicated that it hadn’t.
And there he was, a little rough and ready, the reddish stubble just a bit too long, the eyes in need of sleep. McNab’s face broke into that characteristic smile as he spotted her. ‘Dr MacLeod. It’s yourself – or should I say Tha thu fhèin?’
Rhona ignored his attempt at Gaelic and swivelled her laptop so that he might see Alvis. ‘And look who’s with me.’
McNab’s face now presented a picture, and not a pretty one, before he swiftly assumed a less gobsmacked look.
‘Inspector Olsen. What are you doing there?’
‘Good to see you, McNab. I’m on holiday, just like Rhona. How’s Chrissy and DI Wilson?’
‘Okay,’ McNab finally managed, his expression betraying the thought processes going on behind it.
‘Please give them my regards.’
Rhona’s initial suspicions regarding Alvis came into full bloom at this interchange.
Alvis knows. He must have called the lab for some reason and Chrissy told him I was here and probably why. But she didn’t tell McNab about that call.
Rhona broke into the conversation and said in a bright voice, ‘Tell Chrissy my holiday’s about to be over.’
‘You’re coming back?’ McNab said in delighted surprise.
‘Not exactly.’ Rhona described the possible crime scene, embellishing it a little for effect. ‘I plan to take a closer look in the morning.’
‘You’re having us on?’ McNab said in disbelief.
‘Can I come with you?’ Alvis said with obvious enthusiasm, which didn’t please McNab, by the look on his face.
‘You’re on holiday. Remember?’ Rhona reminded him.
The conversation ground to a halt after that. She knew McNab was itching to find out if she had gone to her appointment with Dr Bailey that morning, but there was no way he could bring himself to ask her in front of Alvis. Eventually, Rhona brought the stilted interchange to an end, but not before McNab got the next date set up.
‘I’ll see you then,’ McNab said, meaning I’ll question you then.
‘Over and out,’ Rhona said and switched o
ff the video link on his determined expression.
After Alvis had departed, Rhona walked down to the shore. She and Alvis had talked a little after the Skype conversation with McNab, but not of the true reason why either of them were here on Skye.
He’d spoken of where he might walk tomorrow. That he was staying at the Isles on the square in Portree. That he planned to call in at Portree police station, and make his presence on the island known. Before she’d had a chance to ask why, he’d said, ‘Sergeant Lee MacDonald’s a member of Skye and Lochaber Mountain Rescue Team. I met him in Aviemore when Marita . . .’ He’d tailed off at that, knowing Rhona didn’t require any further explanation.
Rhona looked across the wide and now smooth expanse of the Sound of Sleat towards the snow-capped mainland. This part of Scotland appeared vast and empty, yet the myriad connections between the people who lived here were as intricately spun as a spider’s web and stretched even as far as Norway.
Alvis’s cover had been good, Rhona had to grant him that. He may well have come walking here as an alternative to Cairngorm. But it hadn’t been coincidence that he’d visited the cottage. Chrissy had undoubtedly had a hand in that.
Rhona thought of the worried face of her forensic assistant. After McNab, Chrissy knew her best. Even thinking that made Rhona feel a little guilty, because that put Sean at number three in the list, maybe even four if she brought DI Bill Wilson into the frame.
Bill had been her mentor since she’d started on the job. He’d been there that terrible night in the dingy little room that had smelt of sex and death, when she’d examined the teenage victim of a sexual predator and thought that it might, just might, be the son she’d given up for adoption seventeen years previously.
And yet . . .
It had been Sean who’d encouraged her to find her son. Sean who’d persuaded her that Liam would like her. Sean who’d made the mother-and-son meeting possible, even a success.
In the quirky nature of things, here on the shore behind the cottage was where she got the best signal. She’d spoken with Chrissy, with Bill and with McNab since she’d come here. What she hadn’t done was speak to Sean.
