Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘If it’s another fucking Amazon delivery for that guy upstairs …’ He grabbed the handset. ‘What?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab?’ a polite male voice answered.

  ‘Who are you?’ McNab retorted.

  ‘Police Inspector Alvis Olsen of the Norwegian National Bureau of Investigation. May I come up?’

  A mystified McNab clicked the door free, then, suddenly registering his lack of clothing, made a quick attempt to get decent. A few moments later as he struggled to fasten his shirt over the dressing and cling film, there was a soft knock at the door. McNab composed himself, then striding over, opened it.

  The man facing him was tall, perhaps a couple of inches taller than McNab. Age-wise, McNab estimated mid-forties. The fair hair was cut close, the square jawline clean-shaven. McNab had the impression that below the padded black jacket was a muscled body.

  His visitor, producing ID, re-introduced himself. Registering McNab’s cautious expression, he said, ‘I’d like to speak to you about the recent raid on the Delta Club.’

  Whatever McNab had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

  ‘In what capacity?’ he said, immediately on guard.

  ‘We believe there may be a Norwegian connection.’

  ‘We being?’

  ‘KRIPOS.’

  ‘KRIPOS,’ McNab repeated, his brain racing at this development.

  ‘The Norwegian National Criminal Investigation Service—’

  ‘I know what KRIPOS is,’ McNab interrupted him. ‘But if Operation Delta has become a joint investigation with Norway, no one told me about it.’

  His visitor, who didn’t appear discomfited by McNab’s sharp response, now said, ‘I believe you were injured in the raid?’ His eyes roamed over McNab as though looking for evidence of that. When McNab didn’t respond, he posed yet another question. ‘The girl taken to hospital. You interviewed her prior to her disappearance?’

  McNab, irritated at what was fast resembling an interrogation, interrupted the request to know what had been said during that interview. ‘Have you spoken to my commanding officer, Detective Inspector Wilson? Did he give you permission to come here?’

  ‘KRIPOS has been in touch with senior officers at MIT.’

  McNab decided that really wasn’t an answer. To indicate this, he walked round his visitor and opened the door.

  ‘I’ll be at MIT in an hour, Inspector Olsen. If you have permission from my commanding officer, then I’d be happy to talk to you there.’

  His visitor looked as though he was ripe for an argument, but wisely chose not to engage in one. As he strode past, a wave of annoyance was directed at McNab. Barely waiting for his visitor to leave, McNab shut the door.

  Heading to the window, he watched Olsen’s exit. Minutes later, his visitor emerged and immediately took out a mobile and made what looked like an irate call, before crossing the road and climbing into a car.

  At that moment McNab’s phone alarm went off, reminding him that his three-hour rest was at an end.

  15

  She woke to the sound of shattering ice. The icicle that had formed near the opening above her head had broken free and fallen like a knife blade towards her, missing her face by inches.

  I shouldn’t lie here. It’s too dangerous.

  But if she shifted to the right, she would immerse more than just her left foot in the moving water. The possibility of easing herself forward was equally dangerous. Close to her feet the stream pooled briefly before cascading over what she took to be a vertical drop.

  She contemplated again the possibility of trying to climb out the way she’d come in. If she’d taken her ice axe with her on that fateful trip to the toilet, that might have been a possibility. After all, she had climbed Hell’s Lum.

  But that was before I hurt my ankle.

  She didn’t think she’d broken it, but her fall had definitely done something. Her foot felt twice its size inside her boot and putting any weight on it was agony.

  She tried to drag herself into a sitting position. Fear of her attacker had diminished as her fear of dying of cold had increased. It would be dark again soon. Surely there were people out looking for her? If so, they wouldn’t find her down here. And what about Gavin and the others? What if something had happened to them?

  Rising to her knees, she let the pain wash over her.

  I can do this, she muttered to herself.

  Raising herself via her good leg to a standing position, and keeping the weight off her right foot, she balanced herself with her hands on the ice wall. She was now a foot and a half below the opening. She had turned off her head torch, keen to preserve the eight-hour battery. Turning it on now, she directed it at the hole, partially covered with a web of powdered snow. Another heavy shower and the crevice would be out of sight completely.

  But if I make the hole bigger?

  She plucked an icicle from the roof and, using it like a knife, she stretched upwards to poke at the opening. As she did so, she heard the muffled sound of what had to be the throb of a helicopter. If she could shine her light through the opening, would they see it?

  It’s like climbing the Lum, she told herself, as every muscle and sinew in her upper body sang with the effort. And she would have done it, but for balance. There were no crampons fixed in place to prevent a fall, no ice axe buried deep to hold her steady. No Gavin above her, ready to help.

  She screamed in fury as much as fear as her one good leg gave way beneath her, the final stretch proving too much for her precarious balancing act. Breath burst from her lungs on impact, carrying a string of expletives with it. Stunned, she lay rigid and groaning, tears springing from her eyes, knowing that the jagged rock she’d landed on had met her spine like a sledgehammer.

  16

  Grey clouds had begun to form as they walked west. Owen’s forecast from the Rescue Centre had warned of intermittent snow showers and a light breeze. The low temperatures would remain, dropping further as the sun went down. They had said nothing as the two men carried the stretcher and Rhona walked behind, Owen’s news of what had been found by the other half of the team reducing them to a studied silence.

  The Shelter Stone was, according to Kyle, a ten-minute walk from the most western end, where a mountain stream met the loch. The only sound that had accompanied them had been the crunch of their boots. Occasionally, patches of ice had been exposed by the wind and, as they’d reached the shallows, Rhona had made out silvery weeds through the ice, where it was made thinner by the burn water as it entered the loch.

  Now, approaching the shoreline, she spotted the other members of the team in the distance, their bright yellow jackets highly visible against the snow cover and background of grey rock. She’d been warned about the size of the Shelter Stone, but was still taken aback when she caught sight of the huge flat boulder that had, at some time in the distant past, detached itself from the towering crag, and rolled down, coming to rest in such a manner that it might offer a place of safety to those passing through.

  But not this time.

  On arrival, Kyle had a swift word with the others. By his gestures, Rhona realized he was detailing someone to carry out the body they’d brought there. The allotted stretcher bearers would retrace their own trail, climbing back up towards the car park, where a vehicle would transport the remains to the mortuary in Inverness.

  ‘Okay, let’s take a look,’ Charlie said.

  Markers had been placed a few yards back from the stone, the equivalent of crime scene tape in standard circumstances. Rhona had dealt with bodies, both buried and exposed, inside buildings and out in the open. She had, however, never dealt with a location such as the one she found herself entering now, on hands and knees. The space was just about big enough to accommodate the two sleeping bags that lay on the earthen floor.

  Both bags were unzipped. The bag nearest to the entrance held two bodies. A male and a female. Its neighbour, although also a double, held only a single male. All were clothed in a base l
ayer of thermal tops and long johns, with hats and gloves. According to Charlie, removing snowy outer garments before retiring for the night was the norm.

  All three corpses were rigid, but not from rigor mortis.

  In low temperatures of minus 15 to minus 20 degrees, bodies would freeze quickly after death, any variability in time dependent on the amount of body fat, which acted as a form of insulation. In this instance the bodies were of three people probably in their mid-twenties. As climbers of Hell’s Lum they had no doubt been fit, with little extraneous fat.

  Charlie, having given the bodies a cursory inspection, came back alongside her.

  ‘It was around minus fifteen last night, but,’ he glanced around at the walls built of a patchwork of smaller stones, semi-sealed by snow, ‘they were sheltered from the blizzard. Their sleeping bags are dry and of winter quality.’ He voiced his thoughts out loud. ‘And two inside a sleeping bag is warmer than one.’ He fell silent, thinking.

  Hypothermia could be extremely subtle, so the circumstances were often key. It had certainly been cold enough, had the victims been exposed to the elements, but for all three to die together in similar circumstances?

  ‘They should have survived?’ Rhona said.

  Charlie looked at her. ‘Should? Maybe, but they didn’t, and we won’t know why until I get them on the table.’

  ‘What about the second girl?’

  ‘If she was suffering from hypothermia she might have become confused and gone wandering outside. Alternatively she realized something was wrong here and went for help.’

  ‘There are only three sets of outer garments,’ Rhona told him. ‘She must have dressed before going out.’

  ‘Which suggests she wasn’t in a confused state.’ He threw Rhona a questioning look. ‘I’m assuming you would like to process the scene before we transport the bodies out?’

  Rhona nodded. That was exactly what she wanted.

  17

  The safe house was a Victorian mansion whose grandeur was long gone. The garden out front had a neglected look with a patchy grassed area surrounded by an overgrown hedge. Yet he was pretty sure that to the women who found their way here, it must appear like heaven.

  McNab pressed the entry button, gave his name and held up his ID for the camera. Seconds later he saw a shadow approach via the patterned half-glass of the door. When it clicked open he found himself face to face with Cheryl Lafferty.

  ‘Detective Inspector McNab,’ she said with a wide smile. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘So long that I’m a detective sergeant again,’ he said with a less than sorry face.

  ‘Bloody hell, what did you do?’

  McNab shrugged. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘I heard about your exploits last night.’ Her face clouded over. ‘Is the girl taken to the hospital okay?’

  McNab gave her a brief résumé of what had happened since the fateful raid.

  ‘You think she ran away or that some bastard took her?’ Cheryl demanded.

  ‘I suspect the latter, but I was hoping the other women might throw some light on that.’

  She looked concerned. ‘I’m not sure they’ll agree to talk to you. They’re all pretty frightened.’

  ‘The missing girl’s name’s Amena Tamar,’ McNab said. ‘She’s a Syrian refugee and she’s thirteen years old.’

  Cheryl gritted her teeth at that news. ‘The others are from various countries in Eastern Europe. Poland, Lithuania, Romania.’

  ‘Can they speak English?’

  ‘They seem to understand it, although they haven’t said much.’

  McNab waited, aware that Cheryl’s job was to protect the women brought to her, and that meant from the police as well if necessary. He was counting on her cooperation though, because of their own history. As a rookie cop he had seen at first-hand what a man like Cheryl’s partner at the time was capable of. Torture was the only way to describe it. The scars on her hands, the broken finger bones. Cheryl had been on the front line, pimped out, abused and terrified. If anyone could appreciate how these women might be feeling this morning, it was her.

  ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll see if anyone’s willing to talk to you.’

  Ten minutes later a young woman appeared in the doorway. McNab didn’t recognize her, his memory of last night’s encounter being a jumble of naked bodies punctured by screams and a barking dog. She was tall, slim to thin, with her brown hair tied back. She had the look of someone recently scrubbed in the shower, and the mix-and-match clothes she wore had obviously come out of Cheryl’s store. Having briefly met his eye, she looked away. McNab forced himself to remain silent until she entered, aware there was every chance she might change her mind and bolt.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McNab,’ he offered. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me.’

  She nodded and took the chair he indicated. McNab sat down opposite, a coffee table offering a safety barrier between them.

  ‘May I ask your name?’

  ‘Ursula … Gorecki.’ The hesitation before she delivered the surname made him wonder if it was a substitute for her real one.

  ‘From Poland?’

  She nodded. A few further questions got answers he’d heard before from other trafficked females. She’d been recruited to work in the care home sector in the UK. When she’d arrived at Glasgow airport, she’d been met by a woman who’d taken her to a house in the city. At first she thought it was going to be all right. Then …

  ‘And the other women at the Delta Club?’

  ‘I met them for the first time last night.’

  ‘You’d never met Amena Tamar before?’

  ‘The little girl who got hurt? No. But …’ She hesitated. ‘A man brought her into the club. She was very frightened. He was rough with her.’

  ‘Amena mentioned a Norwegian she called Stefan?’

  ‘That might have been him, although he spoke English.’

  ‘And he had nothing to do with bringing you here?’

  ‘No. I was recruited by an agency. Everything seemed to be in order, until I got here and they took my passport.’ She paused. ‘Will I be allowed to stay in Scotland?’

  McNab wondered why she would want to, after what had been done to her, but if she was a European citizen, she had every right to remain. Not so, Amena Tamar. Refugee children and unaccompanied minors who found themselves in a hostile Europe were ripe for trafficking. No passports. No redress. No hope.

  Just at that moment, Cheryl appeared at the door, and Ursula grabbed her arrival as an opportunity to leave. She quickly rose and, giving McNab a nod as a goodbye, departed.

  ‘Any luck?’ Cheryl said when she’d disappeared up the staircase.

  ‘She maintains she didn’t know the girl or the man who delivered her to the Delta Club. Of course, she may be lying.’ He looked to Cheryl for confirmation of that possibility.

  ‘Give her and the others some time. Once we gain their trust, you may get more.’

  McNab wasn’t convinced of that. He was already questioning his interview with Ursula Gorecki. He’d been easy on her and he suspected that she’d played him. It could be that neither she nor the other women had been trafficked, but were in Scotland and at the orgy at the Delta Club by choice. Either that or she knew Stefan too and her denial of the supposed trafficker was merely self-preservation.

  Cheryl showed him to the door. ‘I’ll give you a call if there are any developments,’ she promised. ‘A few nights free of fear and they often start to confide in me.’

  ‘You still have my number?’ McNab said, surprised.

  Cheryl gave him a look that spoke volumes. ‘You were my knight in shining armour. I won’t forget that.’

  McNab turned abruptly away, made uncomfortable by both her look and her words.

  Stepping out into an icy wind made him think of Rhona somewhere in the frozen north. Where had Chrissy said she was? Aviemore? McNab fumbled for his mobile and brought up Rhona’s selfie of last night.
Her Hogmanay party had been decisively different from his own, he noted. But what was she doing now? He had a mental image of snow-clad mountains and daft folk slithering down them on skis and snowboards. Is that what Rhona was up to? If so it was yet another aspect of Dr Rhona MacLeod that he knew nothing about.

  And what of Sean Maguire?

  McNab couldn’t imagine the Irishman bothering with such an activity. Sean was more of a townie like himself.

  And that’s not all we have in common, he thought, as an alternative occupation for Rhona entered his mind. One that featured Sean Maguire. One McNab did not relish. Blanking his mind of that image, McNab fastened his jacket against a flurry of snow and went in search of his parked car.

  18

  She could hear the occasional calls of the searchers, but no one came to disturb her. Conscious of the time, and the diminishing light, Rhona worked swiftly.

  Her first thought on entering the cave had been that the three victims had succumbed to exposure. Now she checked for any physical evidence of that. She tackled the woman first. One possible indication of hypothermia was a pink, blotchy discoloration around the larger joints of knees and elbows. When Rhona pulled both sleeves up far enough to check the elbows, she found no such signs.

  And the knees?

  Rolling up the trousers, Rhona found both knees also free of discoloration.

  Repeating her actions, she checked the two men and discovered the same. Her test by no means proved they hadn’t died from exposure but other aspects of the situation didn’t fit either. Paradoxically, as the brain chilled, victims often thought themselves too hot and stripped off in an attempt to cool down. In this case, the bags had been unzipped, but no attempt had been made to get out of them, except in the case of the fourth member of the group.

  It was the uniformity of the scene in the cave that really puzzled her. For three people to become uniformly cold and die together?

  There was perhaps another possible explanation. At the back of the cave she found what looked like a fire brick which had obviously been lit. She had once been called to a bothy where two dead hillwalkers had been found. Having brought a barbecue into such a confined space, they’d succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. But victims of CO poisoning developed cherry-pink postmortem lividity like cyanide poisoning and that wasn’t the case here, and she couldn’t believe that a single fire brick lit in a draughty environment could have caused three deaths.