Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Ellie wasn’t here, his still-inebriated brain told him. The ruffled bed was not Ellie.

  McNab swung his feet to the floor and switched on the light.

  Now he could see that the bag she’d brought her clothes in was missing. He went back to the bathroom, looking for the stuff she’d put in there, wondering why he hadn’t noticed its absence when he’d showered.

  Because I was pissed and pretending not to be.

  McNab rummaged for his phone in the strewn clothes he’d thrown down earlier. It was well after midnight. Too late to call her?

  He did it anyway. Her voice answered with the usual funny message, asked him to state his business and she’d get back to him. McNab, tongue-tied, hung up instead.

  He lifted his clothes as though considering putting them on again, then brought them through and sat down on the bed, undecided.

  Should he go round to her place and check on her? He couldn’t ride the bike or drive, not in his state, but he could call a taxi. And he had a key, one that he’d been supposed to give to Harry. So he could get in without disturbing her.

  A thought suddenly struck him. Was this about Harry? Had Ellie found out that he’d disappeared?

  McNab registered that his last moment of clarity had been when he’d spoken to Rhona to tell her about the tracing of the service number, which he’d then used as an excuse to order another drink, telling himself although he’d lost one soldier, he’d found another.

  He moved to the kitchen and went through the motions of making real coffee, as strong as possible. Two shots later, his brain began to break through the fog. The trouble with not drinking regularly was this mind fog when you did.

  Last night he’d concentrated on personal matters. Even worse, it was where his personal life impacted on his professional world. That was why he hadn’t wanted Harry staying at Ellie’s, and he’d been right. He’d known it would end badly.

  McNab allowed himself a moment of righteous resentment that Ellie had put him in such a position. He should never have okayed it. He recalled Ellie’s face at this point, her voice as she’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t need his permission.

  And she didn’t. If Ellie wanted to be kind-hearted, it wasn’t his place to dissuade her.

  But look how it had turned out. And it could have been worse. Harry could have had dealers turning up at her door. Invited his mates to squat there. Brought bad things down on her for her kindness.

  He stopped his negative ramblings there and tried the alternative.

  There was always a chance her help might have set Harry on a different path and helped Ellie lay the ghost of her brother to rest.

  McNab dressed and, grabbing his jacket, left the flat.

  The snow was still falling, light and wet, melting swiftly underfoot. Walking would help him think, he decided, and it was better than sitting brooding in the flat so close to the whisky.

  They had misplaced Harry, but he had a lot to thank the guy for. He’d obviously decided when he’d left that he wasn’t planning on seeing McNab again, but Harry hadn’t left him with nothing. He’d left him with a lead to follow and it seemed that the lead led to the Isle of Skye.

  52

  Rhona heard the key turn in the lock and realized her solitude was over. A blast of cold air heralded Jamie’s entrance, his face reddened by wind, his hair tousled.

  ‘Rhona.’ He gave her a wide smile. ‘I was hoping when I saw the light on that it might be you. And thank you for lighting the fire,’ he said, heading there to warm his hands.

  ‘Can I get you something hot, or something strong?’ Rhona offered.

  ‘Black coffee would be good with a decent measure of whisky added.’

  When Rhona returned with a large mug as requested, Jamie thanked her and quickly took a mouthful.

  ‘How’d it go?’ she said, already concerned by the look in his eyes.

  ‘We found him.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Rhona said hopefully.

  Jamie met her eye and shook his head. ‘He was already dead.’

  Rhona waited, not sure what to say next. Deaths on Highland hills were fairly common, but that didn’t make dealing with them any easier.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm.

  ‘It looks like he got caught in a rockfall on a scree slope below Sgurr nan Gobhar. He was partly buried by the rocks and had fallen a fair bit, by the state of the body, in particular his face.’

  ‘He was climbing the Cuillin in this weather?’ Rhona said, glancing at the window.

  ‘We think he’s been lying up there a while, but there’s no sign of an abandoned vehicle left at the Fairy Pools’ car park, or further down near the Youth Hostel.’

  ‘So how did he get there?’

  ‘From the gear, he was equipped to stay out in the open for some time, so he could have simply walked in – from where, we don’t know.’

  ‘Any idea who he was?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Despite the gear, he had no ID, no mobile or wallet on him.’

  ‘Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Some folk leave their valuables back where they’re staying or in their car. And a serious walker knows there’s no mobile signal where they’re going.’

  ‘Was he reported missing?’

  ‘No. It looks like a lone climber. That’s not unusual. And neither is the absence of a car. Some folk make a point of not bringing a vehicle, relying on the island bus service. Feels more authentic that way.’

  ‘Then how did you know to look for him?’

  ‘A drone image.’ He took another mouthful of the whisky coffee. ‘We had to carry him out. That’s why it took so long. Bristow don’t lift dead bodies and even if they did, the visibility was down to nothing, so no night flying.’

  ‘God, you must be starving,’ Rhona said, suddenly realizing just how long he’d been out. ‘I’m not much of a cook, but I can make you a fry-up?’

  ‘Thanks, we had rations with us, and now I’m way past eating. I just need a shower and bed, with another Talisker to send me to sleep.’ He swallowed the remains of the coffee.

  Rhona hesitated. ‘There’s no chance he might be one of the medics? Alvis and I spoke to the girl yesterday, and she said the four men were out on survival training but couldn’t tell us where. Lee’s keen to locate them.’

  Jamie looked taken aback by this. ‘I’ll speak to Lee in the morning. The body’s in the mortuary at Broadford. No post-mortem or police facilities, but you could take a look tomorrow, before he’s shipped off to Glasgow.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Rhona said.

  ‘So, any news regarding the beach body?’ Jamie said cautiously.

  ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘It’s Paul Watson, better known on Skye as—’

  ‘The Snowman,’ Jamie finished for her. ‘Jesus. That’s bad, very bad.’ He looked at her. ‘You know why?’

  ‘Archie told me.’

  ‘His nephew and quite a few others were buying from him.’ Jamie hesitated, his face darkening. ‘God, I hope no one local is involved in him going over the cliff.’ He hesitated. ‘Any evidence of a connection between the Snowman and your scene in the woods?’

  ‘No. DNA doesn’t match,’ Rhona said. ‘But—’ She stopped herself before she mentioned McNab’s phone call. ‘Nothing. It’ll keep until tomorrow. Get some sleep.’

  He rose with a groan. ‘I’m glad there’s no one due to be buried tomorrow,’ he said with a half-smile, ‘otherwise I would likely fall into the grave with them. Will you bank up the fire? It’s going to be a cold one.’

  He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Goodnight and sleep well. If you get cold there’s extra blankets in the cupboard.’

  Rhona watched Jamie trudge wearily upstairs, realizing she’d almost revealed McNab’s startling revelation from earlier, because it had been very much on her mind.

  If there was a link between current servin
g army personnel and the delivery of heroin and cocaine on the streets of Glasgow, as McNab had suggested, it would blow the Sandman investigation wide open . . . provided the MOD permitted this to happen, of course.

  She recalled her own run-in with the MOD after a severed foot had been discovered in the nearby Raasay Sound, a favourite route for their submarines, the presence of which had proved a danger to local fishing vessels by snagging their nets. How swiftly the MOD had moved to deny and cover any involvement, even to the point of removing the foot from the fridge at her lab before she’d completed her study of it.

  But there were also other issues to consider.

  If Harry McArthur’s contact was with the same Pete Galbraith who was one of the group of medics currently on Skye, could there have been any significance to their trip other than to play games at A.C.E Target Sports, get drunk and take themselves off into the wilds to do survival training?

  If their presence was linked in some way to Watson’s sojourn on the island, then her sense of a connection between the scene in the birch woods and the beach might have been right all along.

  And now another unidentified body, partly buried in scree, with a damaged face and no identification.

  Rhona thought of the mementos from Afghanistan hanging in Seven’s tent. The bag she’d left behind. What had happened there to bind the group together? And what had brought them here?

  She glanced at the window where a rising wind was whipping the snow against the glass in a frenzied dance, and thought of Seven, wherever she might be this night.

  53

  McNab had listened to the boss’s early morning call through a thick head, caused not by too much alcohol, but by too little sleep.

  He’d walked all the way to Ellie’s flat in the sleet and had stood looking up at her window. He’d opened the street door with her key and climbed the stairs. He’d stood outside her door and listened for what seemed an age.

  Then he’d taken out his notebook and written her a note explaining what had happened in the hospital. That he was sorry Harry had gone before he’d arrived, but Harry had left a positive message for him in the sign-out book and assured the nurse in charge that all was well.

  He apologized for coming home late and promised he’d be in touch again soon. And he was looking for Harry to make sure he was okay. He signed it ‘Michael’ and posted it through her letter box. Then he’d walked home and fallen into bed to be wakened by a call from the station that said DI Wilson was coming on the line.

  ‘The team didn’t make it to Skye last night due to bad weather. Get yourself down there, Detective Sergeant, and go with them.’

  ‘But, sir, you said I was to look for Harry McArthur.’

  ‘Someone else can do that now we have the lead on Peter Galbraith being on Skye. Find him and bring him back with you.’

  McNab muttered his agreement, hung up and headed for the shower, standing under a tepid spray to help himself wake up. He had no desire to travel in a helicopter again and hadn’t done so since the Sanday case. Neither did he like the idea of going back to Skye, which he’d seen very little of when he’d deposited Rhona there what seemed like months ago.

  Then again, he would rather follow up the lead Harry had left him than look for Harry himself. And when he returned, things might have cooled down on the Ellie front. But not too cool, McNab hoped.

  Emerging from the shower, he checked the wardrobe for clothes suitable for a cold, wet and possibly snowy Skye, cursing the fact he was going there and at the same time wearing a smile because he would see Rhona in the flesh again as opposed to just Skyping her.

  Surely between himself and Chrissy they would succeed in bringing her home?

  ‘You’re late,’ Janice told him on arrival at the helicopter station. ‘There is a window of opportunity, according to the pilot, and we need to take it.’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased I’m coming with you?’

  DS Clark dismissed his desire for a response with a raised eyebrow and a silently mouthed expletive.

  ‘I feel the same way about you,’ McNab assured her with a smile.

  The skies above Glasgow had cleared, the streets below barely recognizable from McNab’s wet midnight tramp about town. To keep his mind off the fact that he was up in the air, McNab concentrated on the view he had of the city. The heliport was close to the Death Star and from the fly-past he could even identify the exit near the discharge lounge . . . or at least he tortured himself with that thought.

  After the city faded from view, McNab focused on the meandering ribbon of the Clyde for as long as possible, but as they made their way north and west into what he would term ‘the wilderness’ he stopped looking and, since conversation wasn’t really possible, retreated into his thoughts on the email Ollie had sent first thing.

  It was a report on Peter Galbraith’s information gleaned from his service records.

  Galbraith had served in Iraq, then Afghanistan for the last four years as a combat medical technician in the Royal Army Medical Corps. He was currently on leave, due to return for a further posting to Afghanistan shortly. Ollie’s email continued:

  The information I was allowed to access was basic stuff. His service record for the previous five years. When he was out there, when he was back here.

  There’s an oddity, though. Something happened to him, I think. Injured maybe? Anyway, for a period of a month he was declared unfit for work, but didn’t come home. The language used in the record refers to a hostile incident but doesn’t give any details.

  McNab had written back:

  Find out. Get the boss to insist. We have to know everything about his time here and in Afghanistan. What he gets up to when he’s back on leave in Glasgow. Has he got a girlfriend, boyfriend? Who he served with. All personal details.

  ‘Look,’ Janice ordered, pointing at a line of rock pinnacles, rising like grey teeth from the surrounding hillside. ‘The Old Man of Storr . . .’ Her excited voice was drowned by the chopper blades, the view swiftly changing as they made a turn towards a spread of brightly painted buildings clustered round a small harbour.

  ‘Portree ahead,’ the pilot informed them. ‘That’s where we’re putting down.’

  As they started to do exactly that, McNab chose to shut his eyes and await his possible death. But if his card had been taken out of the box and examined, it had then been put back in, for shortly afterwards the chopper touched down and the noise from the blades dissipated.

  McNab opened his eyes again, hoping Janice hadn’t noticed they’d been closed, only to be proved wrong.

  ‘You missed everything,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘I was watching my entire life flash before me,’ McNab declared. ‘Anyway, I’ve been here before, remember? And the only way to travel to Skye is by motorbike.’

  Urged out, McNab found his feet on terra firma, albeit a decidedly wet terra firma, and following Janice’s lead, he made his way towards a couple of parked police vehicles.

  Minutes later he was being greeted by Sergeant Lee MacDonald, whom he’d been in touch with since Rhona had come back to the island.

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab, it’s good to finally meet you.’

  McNab took the firm handshake offered, while ignoring the questioning look being thrown at him by Janice as to how they were already acquainted.

  ‘And this is?’

  Janice, having regained her composure, introduced herself.

  ‘Let me welcome you both to Skye,’ the sergeant said, as he ushered them towards his vehicle, ‘although I wish it was under different circumstances. Have you been here before?’ he asked Janice as she and McNab settled themselves in the back seat.

  ‘No, always wanted to, though. The scenery’s pretty magnificent.’

  ‘A top-ranking worldwide destination now that folk have seen some of the images posted online.’

  ‘And in the movies,’ Janice said.

  ‘We like the visitors, but they can cause problems at some of the m
ost popular spots, and they don’t know how to drive on single-track roads.’

  ‘McNab knows all about that,’ Janice said. ‘He headed up a team to Sanday in Orkney for a while.’

  ‘Really?’ the sergeant looked surprised. ‘With the nearest police station being an hour and a half away by ferry in Kirkwall, that couldn’t have been easy.’

  When McNab didn’t respond, he continued, ‘The conference room at the station’s to be your base, and we’ve booked you both accommodation at the Isles hotel, just across from us in Somerled Square. You’ll have a vehicle, of course, and as much help as we can spare.’

  ‘And Dr MacLeod?’ Janice asked, with a sideways look at McNab.

  ‘Rhona was staying in town last night at Jamie McColl’s place, five minutes away from the station. So she’s likely there now. Chrissy might take a little longer to arrive.’

  ‘Where’s Chrissy then?’ McNab said, finding himself slightly peeved by the first-name basis of the conversation.

  Sergeant MacDonald smiled at them via the overhead mirror.

  ‘She’s been staying out at A.C.E Target Sports with Donald and Blaze.’

  ‘That’s her new forensic assistant, or so I hear?’ Janice said.

  ‘Aye, Blaze makes a fine police dog, although he’s not one of our own.’ Sergeant MacDonald hesitated. ‘Before we arrive, I think I should fill you in on the background of Paul Watson and Skye.’

  ‘I’ve read a fair bit about his dealings here,’ Janice immediately said. ‘And Detective Sergeant McNab brought his case to court.’

  ‘I understand that, but we’ll have to tread carefully locally. There were a lot of folk here whose families were damaged by that man. And many will be privately celebrating his demise.’

  ‘Enough to organize it?’ McNab butted in.

  Sergeant MacDonald went quiet for a moment, before saying, ‘I used to work in Edinburgh before coming here fifteen years ago. Policing has to match the people we work with. You wouldn’t want me to come to Glasgow and work as though I was on Skye, would you?’

  McNab didn’t answer, despite being prodded, so Janice did. ‘You’re the SIO on this, Sergeant, we’ll take your advice, of course.’