Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  This part of Scotland was a first for Sean and he was obviously seriously impressed by the surrounding scenery, in particular the view of the Cairngorms.

  ‘Fancy a run up the funicular?’ he said as they completed their short tour of the village.

  ‘Okay, but we should check the weather first. My memory of coming here as a teenager was that it could be okay in the valley, and a howling gale up top.’

  They decided to take a chance and headed for the Coylumbridge road that led to the ski slopes. The road was black, evidence that the plough had been along, but snow blanketed the surrounding countryside, the branches of the Scots pines stooped low with its weight.

  Rhona recalled their trip through Drumochter Pass the previous evening, where they’d been part of a cavalcade of cars following a snowplough in what at times had been a white-out. Sean had done the driving and by the expression on his face had relished the experience.

  ‘It’s quite magical,’ Sean said of the view.

  ‘If you’re well wrapped up.’

  ‘You used to ski?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But not any more?’

  ‘Maybe, on a sunny day in the Alps. A howling gale on the summit of Cairngorm, with horizontal ice biting my face, doesn’t offer the same attraction.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking you were up for anything.’ Sean smiled round at her.

  I made the right decision to tag along, Rhona thought. She’d initially turned down Sean’s invitation to accompany him to his Hogmanay gig in the Highlands. Sean rarely played outside the jazz club, or Glasgow for that matter, except for his occasional visits to his beloved Paris. She’d visited that city with him back in the early days of their up-and-down relationship. Rhona smiled a little at the memory of Sean’s determination to entice her there. How she’d eventually succumbed to his Irish charm. But here was different. Aviemore was a trip down a different memory lane, not one Rhona relished taking. She had come here with Edward, her former lover and father of her son, Liam, in the days when she was young and thought she was in love.

  A lifetime ago.

  Besides, she rarely took time off from her work as a forensic scientist. And it was Hogmanay after all.

  To her right Loch Morlich lay unmoving, its surface covered by a film of ice. Beyond stretched the Forest of Rothiemurchus and the towering massif that was Cairngorm.

  ‘The road’s closed,’ Sean read the digital sign. ‘Due to high winds and snow.’

  Rhona had expected as much.

  ‘Let’s take a walk along the head of the loch instead,’ she suggested.

  Sean followed her directions into the car park, which had been free once, but was no longer. They parked up and set off through the ancient pines, where a few hardy souls were camped out in a mix of tents, camper vans and the occasional caravan.

  ‘They must be mad,’ Sean ventured as he pulled his woolly hat down over his ears.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Rhona told him. ‘With survival clothing and a good sleeping bag.’

  ‘You’d rather we’d stayed here than at the hotel?’ Sean slipped his arm about her shoulders.

  ‘Definitely not,’ she said, grateful for his warm embrace.

  Ice puddles cracked underfoot and a couple of dogs slithered on the frozen ripples that edged the sand.

  ‘We should come back in the summer,’ Sean offered. ‘I bet it’s beautiful then.’

  Rhona didn’t respond. Planned holidays were not her thing, especially with Sean.

  Reaching the far side of the loch, they located the path that followed a burn. Other walkers had paved the way for them, their footsteps visible in the powder snow. The swift-moving river was ice free, except in the stiller waters close to the edge. As they walked, the silence of the forest was broken by the sound of a helicopter. Glancing upwards, Rhona spotted the distinctive red and white shape of a Bristow patrol. With a headquarters in Inverness, Bristow, she knew, had taken over Search and Rescue from the RAF.

  ‘Trouble?’ Sean said.

  ‘Probably just monitoring the road.’

  As the chopper disappeared into thickening grey clouds, large flakes of snow started fluttering down. In moments the light began to fail, apart from a thin bright streak at the treeline.

  ‘We should head back,’ Rhona said. ‘Before this gets any worse.’

  The car park was empty of all but their own vehicle. It seemed the other visitors had already assumed the weather was about to deteriorate.

  On the return journey, the thickening snow forced Sean down to a crawl as the drivers in front took fright at the sudden lack of visibility. Then the roundabout at the entrance to Aviemore came into view. Across the road the bright Christmas lights in the windows of La Taverna Italian restaurant offered a vision of checked tablecloths, warmth and food.

  ‘Fancy an Italian, in preparation for the long night of celebration ahead?’ Sean suggested.

  A quick nod from Rhona saw them tackle the roundabout, then take the exit that led into the restaurant’s car park.

  4

  Cairngorm, Hogmanay

  Hearing the distinctive sound of chopper blades, he looked skywards.

  Had someone seen and reported the wreckage?

  The white-out had protected him until now, but the appearance of a search team would restrict his movements and make it more difficult for him to locate the girl.

  She has to be dead, he told himself once again. His blow had sent her flying. It was a rocky area.

  But yet I can’t locate the body.

  As soon as dawn had broken, he’d emerged from the Shelter Stone cave and made for the place she’d gone over. Heavy overnight snow had covered the boulder slope and he couldn’t see a body anywhere, although there was evidence of a small localized avalanche which might have buried it. Buried bodies, he knew, were rarely discovered before spring when the snow melted.

  And yet. It would be better to make sure.

  The red-and-white chopper was back, circling the hill above him, obviously fighting the increasing wind gusts. The weather was worsening. Whatever the reason for the presence of the helicopter, it would have to abandon the hill soon. His clothing wasn’t the bright colours usually sported by climbers but there was still a chance they might spot him. He dipped behind the nearest rock and waited for the beat of the blades to pass.

  Did the helicopter’s appearance have something to do with the climbers in the cave or the wreckage on the loch? Or were they simply monitoring the ski road for trapped cars?

  Then another thought took shape. One he liked least of all.

  What if the girl had survived? What if she’d managed to raise the alarm?

  As the chopper headed away, he extracted himself from his hiding place and, checking his compass and position, considered which route he should take out. The most obvious would be to head up Coire Raibert to the ski slopes. Then again if a mountain rescue team did appear, it would likely come from that direction. There was of course another route. Longer, maybe twenty miles, and it would take him back towards the wreckage. Alternatively, he could dig himself a snow hole, and sit it out for a few days. He had both the equipment and supplies, and if he stayed close by, he could monitor what happened.

  With an eye on the sky, he made his decision.

  5

  Glasgow, Hogmanay

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Chrissy McInsh gave McNab a penetrating look.

  When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘You scored last night?’

  McNab chose not to respond.

  ‘You’ve plans to score tonight?’ she tried.

  That was one way to describe it.

  McNab headed for the coffee machine. Chrissy’s coffee wasn’t strong enough for his taste, but it was a caffeine fix.

  ‘Well, are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just visiting my favourite forensic people,’ McNab said with studied nonchalance.

  ‘Rhona’s not here,’ Chrissy told him
.

  McNab tried to prevent his face falling, but couldn’t.

  ‘She’s in Aviemore,’ Chrissy paused for emphasis, ‘with Sean.’

  McNab was stuck for a response to that piece of news, so he changed the subject. ‘You have plans for Hogmanay?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?’ she said, with a glint in her eye.

  ‘I’m working,’ he said mysteriously.

  Chrissy was studying him in a manner McNab knew too well. She should be the detective, he thought, and not for the first time.

  ‘Really, on what exactly?’ she prodded.

  McNab assumed his can’t say expression.

  ‘Piss off, McNab, I’ve more important things to do than massage your ego.’

  ‘I might be free after midnight,’ he offered, ‘if there’s a party on?’ He assumed a pleading look.

  Chrissy laughed. ‘You need my help with your social life?’

  ‘Always,’ he admitted truthfully.

  Chrissy relented. ‘Text me when you’re finished, I’ll let you know where we are.’

  McNab retreated then. He would have loved to tell Chrissy what the job was. It had been in the planning long enough, but Rhona’s forensic assistant, with her army of spies, would be one of the first to know once it went down.

  Emerging from the building, he found darkness had descended and the snow had come back on. Plus the temperature had dropped considerably, freezing the slush. McNab watched as unsuspecting fellow pedestrians found their feet going out from under them.

  A&E will be busy tonight.

  Reaching the car, he eased his way out onto the black road which now glistened as the surface water started to freeze. Nearing rush hour, the traffic was nose to tail. McNab took his place in the queue.

  Half an hour later he was at his flat. He ordered pizza before heading up the stairs. His plan was to free himself of the cling film he’d been wrapped in (having waited the obligatory two hours), and have a shower. Ellie had been pretty insistent as to the need to keep the inked area clean and had given him a sheet of paper with instructions on it.

  In the bathroom, McNab stripped off and stood naked at the full-length mirror, trying not to recall the photograph of the tattooed penis. Gingerly unwrapping the cling film, he stepped under the running shower. Ellie had told him to wash the tattoo three times a day and wear cling film for at least three days, and that included overnight. In fact she’d gone so far as to suggest they wait for thirty-six hours before sharing that drink. McNab had chosen to take that as an indication that she might like to see him naked, before he had the other side done.

  Then again maybe she was into cling film.

  The sound of the buzzer as he stepped out of the shower suggested that his pepperoni pizza had arrived. McNab quickly secured a towel round his middle and went to answer it. Gus, his usual delivery boy, turned out tonight to be Sandi, a girl. McNab had been looking forward to showing off his tattoo to the person who’d recommended the Ink Parlour in the first place.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I assumed it would be Gus.’ McNab hoped his dripping hair and body would prove that he had just got out of the shower, and wasn’t the weirdo suggested by the look on her face.

  Sandi didn’t respond, but merely handed over the pizza and waited to be paid.

  ‘I have an account,’ McNab explained.

  ‘I’m new,’ she countered. ‘I was told to get the money.’

  McNab went to retrieve his wallet and felt her eyes on his back. On his return, she said, ‘Cool tattoo,’ with what he interpreted as an admiring smile.

  McNab quickly paid her, conscious that a pretty girl’s admiration coupled with his own nakedness was having an effect. The door firmly shut, he perched on the edge of the settee, clicked on the TV and set about the pizza. In exactly three hours’ time, his Hogmanay party would begin.

  6

  Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Centre, Hogmanay

  ‘Four climbers from Glasgow, all experienced. Two men, two women, mid-twenties.’

  Owen Drummond, leader of the Cairngorm Mountain Rescue team, glanced at the window where the wind was fashioning the driving snow into an intricate paisley pattern on the glass.

  His long-time fellow team member and local piper, Kyle Dunn, continued: ‘They set off two days ago from Glenmore Lodge. The warden said their plan was to bivouac at the Shelter Stone and make an early start on Hell’s Lum yesterday morning and be back down that night in preparation for Hogmanay.’

  The Shelter Stone, the huge slab of rock that had fallen from the crag above forming a natural cavity in the jumble of boulders and granite slabs of the lower slopes, was regularly used as a mountain refuge and bivouac for climbers. Hell’s Lum, which had been the group’s goal, was a deep chimney cleft on the face of a neighbouring crag, its apocalyptic-sounding name incorporating the Scots word for chimney. A serious place full of pitfalls for the inexperienced, and a long way from help if an accident occurred.

  ‘No communication?’ Owen said.

  Kyle shook his head. ‘The weather came in pretty quickly from the north.’

  Had the climbers emerged from Hell’s Lum to find a strong north snow-laden wind hitting them head-on, it would have made sense to retreat rather than try to make for the Coire Cas car park.

  ‘You think they’ll have headed back to the Shelter Stone?’ Owen said.

  ‘Or made for one of the snow holes along Feith Buidhe.’

  If they were experienced, that would be what to expect.

  A sudden gust brought his attention back to the window. Owen watched as the powder snow birled in mad pirouettes around the Land Rover, the wheels of which were already half buried.

  ‘Looks like we might be here for the duration ourselves,’ he said.

  The centre was well equipped with plenty of food and a warm bed for the night. So they were a great deal better off than anyone out on the hill. Still, experienced climbers knew what to expect and wouldn’t have ventured onto Cairngorm in winter unless they enjoyed a challenge.

  ‘I’m planning to bring in the New Year at Macdui’s,’ Kyle said.

  ‘With Annieska?’

  Kyle nodded. ‘She’s working behind the bar.’

  ‘Better get moving then,’ Owen urged him.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll maybe catch you later.’

  When Kyle had set out like an Arctic explorer into the blizzard, Owen made himself a mug of coffee and settled down with a book. He’d already made up his mind to stay where he was. He didn’t mind bringing in the New Year alone here. Since Shona had moved out, he’d found himself avoiding spending much time at home. Too many memories and few of them good. In fact crossing the threshold of the Aviemore flat they’d shared felt like re-entering a crime scene.

  Where I was the perpetrator.

  Thirty minutes later, he laid the book down. The shriek of the wind had increased, the driving snow now blocking any view of the yard and the surrounding trees. He hoped Kyle had made it into Aviemore with the vehicle. If he had got stuck, he would no doubt have walked the rest. He could take the shortcut by the railway and reach the village that way.

  Owen rose and, abandoning his book and cold coffee, went walkabout, intent on checking that all was secure against the storm. A former Free Church of Scotland place of worship, the building had stood among the ancient Rothiemurchus pines since 1895, the solid stone surviving numerous severe winters and wild storms such as this one.

  Owned now by the team, it had been transformed into the Rescue Centre. Designed like many churches in the form of an upturned boat, the big doors that had once welcomed in the faithful now led into a well-equipped kitchen. The room where they’d worshipped had been split in two and housed a small lecture theatre and the place where the team gathered prior to a rescue.

  Owen stood for a moment in the lecture theatre. The pulpit had gone but the arch of wood above it had been retained, maintaining the excellent acoustics enjoyed by the minister as he’d
given his sermons in both Gaelic and English. Owen found it easy to imagine the call and recall of Gaelic psalms resonating in this room. Below were the shelves which housed their extensive library of mountaineering books, dedicated to a former team member.

  Satisfied that all was well and that the leaded windows with the four-inch squares of glass were resolute against the onslaught, Owen walked through the tidy assembly area and from there back into the control room. When a rescue was in full swing this room would house three team members coordinating twenty or more members of the search team and of course the police.

  But no rescue tonight.

  He found himself almost wishing there was. At least it would keep him busy and prevent him from thinking about what an arse he’d been with Shona.

  Owen checked the time to find he was half an hour away from the New Year. He imagined Kyle at Macdui’s, no doubt enjoying a pint, and felt a little sorry for himself.

  I should have gone with him. Too late now.

  He decided he would have a dram to welcome in the New Year, then bunk down in one of the four small bedrooms, each named after one of the Cairngorm peaks: Macdui, Cairngorm, Braeriach and Cairn Toul. Tonight he would sleep in Macdui, minus the party.

  7

  The dog’s eyes met his own, its panting forming a balloon of mist in the cold air. Straining at the handler’s leash, it was exhibiting the same excitement that McNab was experiencing. Behind him three officers awaited his instructions. From beyond the thick door came the heavy beat of music. By the locked door and the noise, it looked like the Delta Club was hosting a private party.

  All the better for us.

  McNab waved the Enforcer forward. Close to two feet long and weighing thirty-five pounds, with an impact of almost three tons, in the hands of a trained officer the ‘big key’ would open any door. McNab’s shouts demanding entry were swallowed in the thumping beat. Even the sound of the door being broken down went unheeded.

  McNab, first in, led the way swiftly down the dimly lit corridor, the sniffer dog at his heels, its squeals of pleasure suggesting it could already scent its prey. By the far end, the sound was deafening, and McNab had to rely on hand signals. Having got this far, he didn’t want a screw-up now.