by Lin Anderson
Sadly for the bored officer still on duty outside the room, whose eyes had lit up at the sight of the approaching coffee cups, McNab passed without stopping. His gratitude was therefore overwhelming when McNab told him to take a thirty-minute break while he chatted to Prince Harry.
McNab now proceeded to take a seat next to the bed and, handing Harry the coffee, said, ‘I assumed you would take sugar so I put three in.’
Harry’s surprise and concern at McNab’s reappearance weren’t assuaged by the offer of coffee. That much was obvious. Nevertheless, McNab settled himself back in the chair and set about his own caffeine fix.
Eventually, with nothing being said, Harry did the same.
‘When did you join the army?’ McNab asked after a minute or so.
‘As soon as I could.’
‘So sixteen?’
He nodded. The shot of caffeine had turned the pasty look to something a little less pale, but the jittery nature of his voice spoke of other needs that hadn’t been satisfied.
‘I had mates who did the same,’ McNab said. ‘Three of them.’
Harry hadn’t expected that.
‘I thought about it, right enough,’ McNab admitted. ‘Learn a trade. Be a hero. All the shite they tell you.’
‘It’s not all shite,’ Harry came back at him.
‘No? So why did you leave?’
‘I told you.’
McNab paused for a moment and really studied the face Harry was pointing at.
‘How’d it happen?’ he said simply.
The shadows moved in and Harry’s eyes clouded over. He shook his head. ‘Best forgotten.’
McNab rose and, taking off his jacket, threw it to one side.
‘You never forget,’ he said, pulling up his shirt and turning to display his back.
He heard a whispered ‘fuck’ as the bullet hole and its skull disguise came into view. McNab rearranged his clothing.
‘Ellie did the ink work,’ he said. ‘She’s good. I’ve only seen it in reflection, of course. Maybe you could get her to work on your face?’
‘Turn my face into a skull, you mean?’ The laugh was hollow but at least he’d laughed. ‘I think I’m managing that all on my own.’
Silence fell as they both contemplated the truth in that.
‘You get any help afterwards?’
Harry snorted. ‘You’re fucking joking. Not when they saw my record.’
‘So it wasn’t an honourable discharge then?’
‘Fucked out of my brain a lot of the time. Afghanistan’s a junkie’s paradise.’ He gave a laugh. ‘What about you when you took the bullet?’
‘I pressed the morphine button a lot,’ McNab admitted. ‘When I rose from the grave I went for a whisky alternative.’
‘You still doing that?’ Harry said, looking interested.
‘Sometimes,’ McNab admitted. ‘I’m trying caffeine as a substitute.’
‘Once an addict, always an addict.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know, brother.’
Harry’s face clouded again. ‘Two mates died when I got this. Blown to fuck. Bits of them stuck to my face.’ His hand grasped at his cheek and he motioned as though scraping it clean.
McNab had been playing the role of brother-in-arms up to now, but at that moment Harry’s remembered horror almost sank him. Eventually, he said the words that he didn’t want to hear coming out of his mouth.
‘Ellie’s willing to give you a place to stay when you’re discharged.’
‘What?’ Harry regarded McNab with astonishment.
‘I don’t like it, but I can’t stop her.’
Harry’s face was suffused with colour, as if his heart had finally started to beat.
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Good,’ said McNab.
Harry threw him a look that said he had no idea what the hell was going on.
‘But Ellie doesn’t give up easily. I can vouch for that.’ McNab paused. ‘If you were to move into a room at her place, she would move into mine. That bit I do like.’
‘She’s your girlfriend?’
‘Correct. So maybe we might come to some arrangement that works for us both?’
37
Lee hadn’t seemed keen when Rhona had announced her intention of heading home to Sleat that afternoon.
‘I assumed you’d be staying over at Jamie’s again,’ had been his response.
‘There’s no problem with the road, is there?’ Rhona had checked.
‘Some surface water, because of the heavy rain.’
‘Doesn’t sound any different from Glasgow.’ Rhona had attempted to add a little humour into the awkwardness.
‘Is Chrissy going with you?’ Alvis had ventured at this point.
Chrissy in fact had been equally discouraging when Rhona had announced her intention in the production room. It seemed her forensic assistant already had her evening planned, which included food at the Isles and time spent in Donald’s company.
‘You don’t have to come back with me, anyway,’ Rhona had assured Chrissy.
‘Can’t you just stay at Jamie’s again? It’s more convenient.’
‘For what?’ Rhona had said. ‘Our part in the investigation is over. You should be heading back to Glasgow.’
Chrissy had looked startled by such an idea. ‘I was assuming we’d stick around for a bit, at least until the results come back on the evidence we’ve submitted.’
‘I am “sticking around” as you call it. You’re the one heading back.’ Seeing Chrissy’s reaction to that announcement, Rhona realized that Chrissy had assumed she would be returning with her, whereas she had no intention of going back to Glasgow yet.
‘I want to go home and sleep in my own bed at the cottage,’ Rhona had said, trying to lighten the mood.
For once Chrissy had nothing to say in response. In fact Rhona could almost see her bite her tongue in an effort to remain silent.
So here she was, driving the dark road through the rain alone, and glad of it.
Rhona turned the windscreen wipers up a notch as the radio informed her that the west of Scotland in particular was experiencing very heavy rain and flooding in a number of locations.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said in return as she drove through another sheet of water.
It seemed the worst affected at the moment wasn’t Skye, but the Rest & Be Thankful pass in Argyll, which was closed to traffic as two very large boulders were threatening the road, despite the fact that the extra-strong fences erected along the pass were containing the debris from the current run-off.
At least the road to Sleat was relatively flat, Rhona thought, and she wasn’t being sent on a sixty-mile detour in order to get home, unlike the poor residents of Argyll.
Her thoughts returned to the track up through the plantation and the small encampment hidden among the Sitka spruce. It wouldn’t be pleasant up there in heavy rain, and probably worse than during the recent snowstorms.
The girl’s words, ‘we can take anything Skye throws at us’, had suggested she would be unfazed by the new conditions, yet what people said and what they actually thought could be entirely different.
As I know too well.
Rhona ran over the strange meeting in the woods once again, looking for some reason other than her own state of mind for her disquiet about it. She was used to trusting her own judgement, often against the odds, but the sin-eater case had seemingly changed things and she found herself constantly questioning her ability to read people and situations.
Something had told her that the girl was frightened. Was it because she too was living on the edge of fear and not admitting to it? Was she merely transferring her own emotions onto the girl?
Rhona shook her head in an effort to dispel such thoughts. What was the point of avoiding psychotherapy if she was analysing herself all the time?
The latest episode in the plantation, she acknowledged, had unnerved her. Similar events had plagued her since her captivi
ty, but they had been diminishing in frequency and power. Something she’d put down to her stay here on the island.
What if the resurgence had been caused by her being back on the job? If that were the case, did that mean she could no longer deal with the stress associated with her profession?
She had been fine on the beach, but if she was required to process a body anywhere more confined, that might lead to the same attack as she’d experienced among the densely packed trees.
Which meant she couldn’t do her job properly.
She wasn’t even sure if she would welcome being back in the lab. Something she hadn’t divulged to Chrissy. Being confined in a PPI suit for long periods of time, with her mouth and nose covered? On a beach with a view of the sky that had been manageable, but . . .
Rhona rolled down the car window and let the air rush in. Raindrops splattered her face, but she didn’t care. She could stop the car any time she chose, she reasoned. The car wasn’t a prison even though it was enveloped in darkness.
Turning off the main road, the beams of the jeep eventually found the cottage. The surge of relief Rhona felt at seeing the reassuring steadfastness of that small white building with its blue-painted door seemed out of all proportion to its size against the expanse of grey sea and the stormy sky.
But it was there, and in and around it she knew she would feel safe.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she drew up outside and switched off the engine. The patter of rain on the roof of the jeep had ceased and now all she could discern was the rush of the sea as it met the nearby shore.
The door opened with its usual creak, wood against wood. Cold air met her nostrils, but no colder than she’d endured with the window open in the car. It seemed the temperature had risen after the rain.
She set about turning on the lamps and lighting the stove, putting on the kettle, then pouring herself a dram. The terrible sense of failure that had consumed her in the car was dissipating.
Food wasn’t so swiftly dealt with. Rhona chose the biggest potato she could find, forked it, then set it in the tiny microwave, before opening a can of beans. It was never going to be one of Sean’s slow-cooked meals, full of flavour, but it would satisfy a need.
Taking her whisky outside, she made for the beach and her favourite rock.
A few lights twinkled from the opposite shore, but the still heavily laden sky didn’t allow a glimpse of moon or stars.
Yet they were there.
It would take time for the bad memories to fade. Although, according to Bill Wilson, that time would have been shortened if she’d agreed to go to Castlebrae.
‘They know what they’re doing there,’ he’d told her. ‘Take my advice and go.’
It had been difficult to turn down Bill, her mentor and her friend. But gut instinct had told her that constantly talking about it would make the memories more powerful. So she’d chosen instead to leave the memories behind in Glasgow, which had been working until today.
Glancing at her watch, she realized it was nearing time for McNab’s check-up call. She could of course ignore it, but if she did, that might result in him suddenly turning up on Skye unannounced, especially if he’d been told of the incident in the plantation.
No, better to speak to him, Rhona decided.
She was barely inside when her laptop sitting on the kitchen table indicated an incoming Skype call. Rhona braced herself and answered.
If McNab had been informed about what happened today, it wasn’t obvious in his demeanour.
‘Dr MacLeod, you’ve come home,’ he said, somewhat relieved, she thought, as the view behind her put her back in the kitchen of the cottage.
‘I have.’
‘Is Chrissy with you?’
‘She’s still in Portree,’ Rhona said, keeping her voice light. ‘Keeping an eye on Blaze, my other forensic assistant.’
McNab’s laugh sounded genuine. ‘And his owner, I suspect. So where are you in the investigation?’
‘You haven’t spoken to Sergeant MacDonald then?’ Rhona said, a little suspiciously.
‘I thought I’d speak to you first.’
Rhona wondered if that were true. McNab was perfectly prepared to tell an outright lie if he believed one was necessary. Despite her knowledge of his capability to do so, she still found it difficult at times to recognize that that’s what he was doing.
‘We found the female medic,’ she said without embellishment. ‘The others, she said, were out doing individual survival training somewhere on Skye. It seems they split up after the time the body on the beach was first spotted.’
‘And they’re conveniently off the radar so we can’t check up on them?’
‘You did speak to Lee,’ Rhona accused him.
McNab assumed a wide-eyed look. ‘You, as I said, were my first port of call.’
‘Bastard,’ Rhona whispered under her breath, while desperately wanting to believe him. ‘Anything your end?’
‘This Pete bloke seems to be bona fide. His credit card and email are okay. Not used much recently, so one assumes he was on active duty somewhere. MOD don’t take kindly to questions about army clientele and where they’ve been. If Pete does become officially missing, and we get feedback on the body, and can’t identify it by other means . . .’ McNab tailed off.
‘What about the post-mortem?’ Rhona said.
McNab cleared his throat a little. Not a good sign.
‘According to Dr Sissons, there was no birch residue anywhere in the wounds. Evidence of basalt from the rockfall, nothing suggesting knife or axe wounds, though. He did give me an extended written treatise on what an injury is.’ McNab paused here before obviously reading from Sissons’s script.
‘Injury is the result of tissue distortion as a consequence of transfer of energy, usually kinetic energy in mechanical injury, which in turn is related to half of the mass multiplied by the square of the velocity (speed) of the impact. The distinction between self-infliction, accident and assault is based on other evidence (witness and circumstantial), pattern of injury and common sense.’ He gave Rhona a characteristic grin. ‘So that’s you told,’ he added.
Rhona laughed. ‘He’s right, of course. Which is why pushing someone off a cliff is a good way to kill them and not be found out.’
‘But you thought he was already injured?’
‘I made the mistake of linking the scene in the woods with the scene on the beach,’ Rhona said. ‘And hoping they matched.’
‘You don’t normally make assumptions, Dr MacLeod, without careful thought.’
At that moment Rhona could have hugged McNab. Why, she wasn’t sure, except for the fact that his voice told her he had courage in her convictions, even if she did not.
McNab continued, ‘So we need to locate all the medics just to be sure. And –’ he paused for a moment – ‘someone got injured in those woods you checked out and, from your evidence, cocaine was involved. I for one would like to know who that was.’
That had been Rhona’s thought too. ‘The scalp residue and hair I retrieved from the birch tree needs to be compared to the body from the beach.’
‘Agreed.’
When the call ended, Rhona took her whisky through to the sitting room where the stove was now burning brightly. Her mood had lifted, especially after McNab had filled her in on his own current investigation and its possible links to the cocaine trail from Afghanistan.
‘The Sandman’s like bloody Amazon, delivering to your door throughout Scotland. Why would Portree not be on his delivery list?’
‘The medics were stationed somewhere in Afghanistan,’ Rhona had told him.
Now that did interest McNab. ‘As was the former soldier stabbed in the alley.’
At this point he’d revealed his plan for Prince Harry. As Rhona listened, she’d realized he was telling her something no one else knew, except Ellie.
‘That could land you in trouble,’ she’d said, concerned.
‘Ellie doesn’t take no for an answ
er.’ McNab didn’t add a bit like yourself, but it was there in his voice anyway.
McNab had finished by saying, ‘Do me a favour, Dr MacLeod, and give Maguire a call. The poor bastard thinks I know something about your incarceration that he doesn’t. I have no idea what that is, but if I was him, it would make me mad too.’
Rhona stared into the flames.
Nobody knew what she’d decided during her captivity. Not Chrissy. Not Sean. Not McNab. She doubted whether she would tell anyone. Ever. Maybe that was why she’d avoided Castlebrae and the psychologist’s couch. She never wanted that pried out of her. If that meant she must live with what she recognized as PTSD, then so be it.
38
Alvis stepped out into the night air. Portree, used to rain in abundance, had dealt with the downpour as always, diverting it into its gutters and drains and sending it back out to sea.
A well-washed Somerled Square glistened in the street lights and the air smelt fresh and clean. It was, he accepted, like being at home in Stavanger. No weather flung at Norway or Scotland could ever defeat the resilience of their populations. After all, they’d had centuries of practice in surviving its extremities.
Visitors who came to walk and climb didn’t let the weather put them off either, whatever the time of year. Alvis could understand why soldiers might come to Skye, to test themselves in its terrain and escape memories of Afghanistan for a short period of time at least.
His first impression of the group that night in the bar had been of a stag party. It was the presence of a girl that had put paid to that idea. From memory, the female member of the group appeared more than a little lost in thought, trying to join in the fun from duty, rather than desire.
The reaction when the rescue helicopter had flown over had exemplified that. The tall blond male that Donald may have encountered in the toilet was the one bringing the shots and encouraging everyone to toast the chopper.
The girl, on the other hand, had appeared more frightened than ecstatic at whatever memory the helicopter had evoked, although she’d successfully covered this by engaging with the big collie and encouraging his tricks.
