Deadly Code (Rhona MacLeod #3)

by Lin Anderson

  Smoke drifted from a cluster of chimneys and Rhona could smell the sweet scent of peat. As she reached the foot of the hill, she spotted the police Land Rover outside a large metal shed, and decided she’d found the temporary mortuary.

  Constable Johnstone must have been listening for the car, because he emerged from the shed before Rhona could pull on the hand brake.

  Mrs MacMurdo was right, Johnstone was not a local. He looked like a man who had joined the Northern Constabulary for a quiet life and had been seriously disappointed by recent events on his patch. He also had the look of a man with someone on his back. Phillips, perhaps?

  ‘Dr MacLeod?’ The constable held out his hand as Rhona opened the boot and pulled out her forensic bag. ‘We wondered where you’d gone. Someone reported seeing your car parked at Brochel.’

  If Constable Johnstone expected her to enlighten him, he was wrong. Rhona simply smiled and waited to be shown inside.

  ‘They’re sending an RAF helicopter to take the sample south,’ he informed her as he opened the door. ‘It should be here in an hour, which doesn’t leave you much time.’

  ‘And who exactly are they?’ Rhona said, already seeing Phillips’ name on an MOD document.

  Johnstone didn’t answer.

  ‘Well whoever they are, they’ll just have to wait until I finish,’ Rhona told him.

  Somehow there was relief in being back in the world of the dead. Bodies, or bits of bodies, didn’t give you grief, at least not personal grief. They just lay there, waiting to be understood.

  Latex gloves on, Rhona lifted the right hand gently from the metal tray. The fingertips were gone, but the shape and size of the hand was consistent with her notes from the previous sample.

  The fish farm worker who found it reported seeing something waving at him from below the water, like a drowning man, he’d told her in Gaelic, with a nervous smile. When he’d knelt down, he could clearly see the arm, the fingers caught in the net. He was afraid, he told Rhona, that the salmon might have been feeding on it.

  Rhona thanked him and asked what the Sassenach restaurants that bought his salmon would think if they knew what the fish had been eating.

  Constable Johnstone was the only one who didn’t laugh.

  The forearm was badly decomposed. Rhona bent close, trying to ignore the smell. Fish odour and dead human were not a sweet combination.

  Above her, the metal roof had started to drum with the sound of pelting rain. The wind was scouring the building, looking for every opening in the structure. It was colder than Strathclyde mortuary.

  Constable Johnstone was right when he had warned her about the deteriorating weather. Rhona was suddenly sorry for the man. The Ministry of Defence on his back, bad weather, and a stubborn female in his face. So much for a quiet life.

  Rhona contemplated the piece of rotting flesh that might or might not have been MacAulay. Sampling a body was more than an incident, it was a story. A story of a life, or at least the end of a life. Calculated guesses about the end of that life were the best she or anyone else could do.

  She didn’t like to think about the implications if it was MacAulay. If Andre was right and his father was working on some biogenetic project here on Raasay…

  Whoever it was, Rhona decided, it was not her responsibility. She would send her report on the tattoo to Glasgow with the body part and let Sissons sort it out.

  Rhona concentrated on what sampling could be done, determined not to be put off by the constant reappearance of Constable Johnstone at the door, wanting her to hurry up.

  By the time she’d finished, the wind was trying to lift the roof off the metal shed. One look from the policeman as he re-entered told Rhona what she already suspected. The helicopter would be going nowhere until the wind dropped. It seemed Phillips and the MOD would have to wait for their body part.

  ‘All finished,’ Rhona said. ‘The samples are tagged and I’ve rewrapped the limb. I’m assuming it’s going to Glasgow?’

  The constable nodded.

  ‘I’ve enclosed some notes for my assistant there.’

  Constable Johnstone hesitated. ‘There was a message from a DI Wilson, telling us you would be going back with the sample,’ he shouted above the din on the roof.

  ‘Really?’

  Summoned here, summoned there, by some man or other. Rhona was beginning to feel like a beck-and-call girl.

  “The only place I’m going,’ she said firmly, ‘is Mrs MacMurdo’s, where I intend to have a hot bath and a large whisky. And, Constable Johnstone, if anyone else phones, you can tell them that.’

  The sky had closed like a dark lid over the island. Climbing from Arnish, Rhona almost wished she had taken up the offer of a spell in one of the cottages until the wind died down.

  On the brow of the hill the car threatened to take off like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, then she dipped towards Brochel and the tyres gripped the road again. Below her, the castle rose on its pinnacle of sheer rock above a frenzied sea.

  She was almost at Holoman Island on the west coast when she saw the yacht. It was battling its way northwards to Oskaig, dipping in and out of the waves like some mad fairground ride. Rhona watched, horrified and fascinated at the same time, until a squall of rain drove against her window, scattering the image in a thousand drops.

  By the time she reached Oskaig, Rhona couldn’t see a yard in front of her, never mind a hundred yards away. With any luck, she told herself, the yacht had tucked in south of Oskaig Point and was riding out the storm.

  The Post Office was in darkness when she pulled up outside, creating morbid thoughts of electricity pylons down and no hot water for baths. The big front door was shut firmly against the wind and after knocking a couple of times, Rhona headed round the back.

  The back door was open. A paraffin lamp sat on the kitchen table. The room was warm, soft waves of heat rippling from the solid fuel range despite the no electricity situation.

  Mrs MacMurdo’s note was brief.

  Gone next door with the baby. Mrs MacKenzie wanted some company. The water’s hot enough for a bath. Tea in the slow oven.

  Rhona checked the various doors in the big range and found the slow oven and the rich casserole of venison and potatoes. She would have sold her soul for a glass of Sean’s red wine to go with it, but wine did not feature in Mrs MacMurdo’s cookbook. Whisky, however, was a different matter. There was a glass and a bottle of malt on the table next to the note.

  Rhona half filled the glass with the smoky brown liquid, lifted the lamp and headed upstairs to run her bath. Her body ached from dropping down trapdoors and creeping along tunnels. She was annoyed and frustrated, and not just about her work.

  She turned on the taps and watched the hot brown water fill the tub, reminding herself of what her father had taught her. Always remember to take pleasure in the small things of life. Hot water, good food and good whisky.

  She would soak in the tub and drink her dram. Then she would sit in the warmth of the kitchen and eat. Then she would try and phone Sean. When the power came on again, she would email Chrissy and tell her she would be back to work tomorrow.

  But what about Spike and Esther and the baby?

  She would explain everything to Bill Wilson. He would help. If Esther was mentally ill, she needed help, and Bill could organise that for her. If Spike turned up, which he would, she would talk to him. Tell him about Andre. Spike could decide for himself.

  Rhona slipped into the peaty water, letting the softness climb her thighs and settle on her hips and breasts. Lamplight and warm whisky lulled her into relaxation. She leaned her head back, half-closing her eyes, listening to the wind skim the rooftop and prowl at the windows, knowing that this house had braved a thousand such storms.

  She must have dozed off, because it was the scratching that woke her up. Mrs MacMurdo had warned her about the mice. Ever since the cat died, they’ve been a problem. But the scratching seemed too far away for her to care. Rhona shut her eyes again, allowing
the lantern light to filter through her lashes. Somewhere deep in her brain she worried about Spike and Esther but she was too tired to do anything about it.

  The water was cooling, sending little shivers up her thighs and she knew she would have to get out soon. She had hung the towel and her bathrobe behind the door and the thought of climbing out and padding naked across the floor did not appeal.

  Rhona moved the water in small waves and in its wash she felt momentarily warm again.

  The squeaking had reached the bathroom door and Rhona heard the sound of tiny claws as they slithered across the wooden floorboards. It was time Mrs MacMurdo got another cat. She smiled, missing Chance, her own black panther. Suddenly, Rhona was homesick. Homesick for her city flat, for the hum of the traffic outside, for Chance meowing and threading between her legs. But most of all, Rhona was homesick and hungry for Sean.

  She stood up and the draught from the window wrapped her wet body in its chill embrace. Shivering, she reached for the towel and her bathrobe. Below, the back door snapped open and closed and Rhona heard the bolt slide shut against the storm.

  Mrs MacMurdo was home.

  Rhona lifted the lamp and opened the bathroom door, looking forward to sitting in the heat of the kitchen, eating her meal and talking to Mrs MacMurdo.

  With a bit of luck, Spike might have been in touch already.

  Rhona saw him from the top of the stairs. Maley looked up and gave her that smile, the one Rhona remembered from the dock as the judge passed sentence.

  ‘Dr MacLeod. Just the woman I’ve been looking for.’

  Chapter 26

  Spike bent his head, securing it between his knees. The boat was climbing again, riding the crest. Whoever was in charge below deck knew what they were doing, he had to give them that. It wasn’t bloody Maley, anyway. Spike had watched him spew his lot up over the side. But at least vomiting had taken Maley’s mind off the fun of torture.

  They had put Spike in a store room near the wheelhouse as the storm hit. Maley had taken great delight in leading him there by the chain, tugging it every five seconds and shouting ‘Fucking hurry up, mongrel.’ Then Maley had wrapped the chain round a metal pipe and relocked the padlock, as if there was anywhere Spike could go.

  Once Maley had disappeared, Spike slid the chain down the pipe and jammed himself between some containers and the wall. When the swell started, he concentrated, reminding his stomach that it had survived such storms before.

  When he was wee, his teacher had told him a Gaelic poem that described every possible wave. She’d read it out to the class and Spike had marvelled at the way the language had a word for the shape of every rise and every fall, every crest and trough, every curl and every colour.

  He watched through the porthole as the poem unfolded before his eyes and knew that, despite everything, he was actually praying.

  This time the boat hadn’t climbed so high, nor fallen so far. Spike lifted his head and looked out of the porthole. The yacht must be coming into the lee of Oskaig Point and the swell was lessening.

  Then he heard the grind of the wire through the winch and the scrape and judder of the anchor as it caught on the bottom.

  The bigger of the two guys arrived shortly afterwards, his face halfway between green and red, smelling of the booze he’d hit to line his stomach.

  Spike stood so that the bastard wouldn’t have the pleasure of jerking him up.

  ‘Right, mongrel. The boss wants a wee chat.’

  Esther was sitting on a long seat under the window, her eyes empty, her hands lifeless in her lap. A wash of emotion swept over Spike as they pushed him through the door. He wanted to go to her, put his arms around her like he’d done in the hospital, tell her it was going to be alright.

  ‘Esther!’ Her name forced its way past the swollen tongue and out of the shattered mouth.

  Esther looked blankly at him.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ Maley said. ‘See, I’ve brought you back your wee pet.’

  Maley was standing beside Esther and he began stroking her hair, running his hand down the side of her head and onto her shoulder, curving her chin, slipping underneath it and down inside the shirt.

  ‘Fuck you, you bastard!’

  Spike lurched forward, the words snarling from his throat. He was within a foot of Esther when the big guy jerked back the chain. The ring sliced at his tongue, and his mouth filled with the hot saltiness of blood. He dropped to his knees on the floor. Then he screwed himself round, trying to look at Esther, as if looking at her would protect her. But Esther was gazing at Maley, her lips parted, waiting for the kiss that was on its way.

  Spike stopped fighting and let the real pain seep in. Now he knew the truth. Esther wasn’t a prisoner. Esther knew Maley. Esther knew Maley very well indeed.

  Maley turned and sneered at Spike, then tipped up Esther’s chin and stuck his tongue in her mouth.

  Spike rolled over and placed his face against the cool metal wall. His mouth pounded where the ring had torn the flesh. What difference would it make if he pulled it right out? At least he’d lose the bastard chain. Spike tried not to think what Maley would do when he found the chain off, or where he would sink the ring in next.

  It didn’t fucking matter, anyway. Maley didn’t need him anymore. Lying on the floor of the cabin with a heel in his crotch, Spike had told Maley what he wanted to know, because it didn’t matter anymore. And all the time Esther had looked through him like he wasn’t there.

  Spike winced, remembering how he’d told Maley that Doctor MacLeod was the woman on the cliff top without realising that Maley knew her. He’d shut up as soon as he saw the hate in Maley’s eyes, but Maley had pulled down Spike’s pants and told the big guy to bring another ring and they would attach the teuchter’s fucking tongue to his balls if he didn’t tell him where the MacLeod woman was right now.

  So Spike told him, even though he realised Maley would go after her.

  The wind had dropped and the sharp splatter of the rain was less insistent against the porthole. Sometime in his misery, Spike had heard them lower the dinghy and realised someone had gone ashore. Then he heard the distant beat of helicopter blades and knew the coastguard was searching for battered boats in the wake of the storm. If the swell was down and Maley had gone ashore, he could slip overboard. He just needed rid of the bastard ring.

  Spike felt his way to the end of the chain. His mouth was wet, a constant dribble of blood and saliva dripping from his chin like a baby.

  Spike pried his right shoe off and stretched down to wrinkle his sock over his ankle. He stuffed the wet sock in his mouth, his eyes smarting as the salt water found his tongue, then he wound the chain tightly round his other foot and pulled.

  The normally clear water was clouded with shattered shells, shifting sand and seaweed being driven remorselessly towards shore. Spike could make out the shadow of the anchor chain, and for a moment he imagined twisting his leg in it until the water found his nose and lungs and filled them completely.

  Then his feet kicked upwards and his head broke the surface.

  It had been easy to get out of the store room. No one had thought for a moment that he would pull out the chain. He’d forced himself to stumble for the open door as soon as he got free. At first his feet refused to obey and he’d skittered about the deck like a drunk, grabbing at anything within reach just to stay upright, then the fresh air hit him and he filled his lungs.

  As he stumbled past the main cabin he heard the men swearing and laughing. He tried not to look in, knowing if they spotted him now, he wouldn’t have time to swim away before they dropped a dinghy and fetched him back. The two heavies were at the table drinking, but the seat beside the window was empty.

  Esther was gone.

  Spike tipped head-first over the railing and the waves closed above him. The wind was blowing from the Northeast and would carry him steadily south. If he could keep his head above water and swim with the current, he would be driven ashore before the Narrows of Raa
say.

  After he pulled the ring out, he’d lain, the sock still gripped between his teeth, his body rattling against the floor, trying to concentrate on what he would do next. He knew that going for Esther would be a waste of time. From the look on her face in the cabin, she had already made up her mind who she wanted to be with and it wasn’t him. Spike forced away the image of her blank face and thought about the baby and Mrs MacMurdo and Dr MacLeod.

  The expression on Maley’s face when Spike said the woman’s name kept coming back to him. The bastard had asked him to describe her, tell him where she was staying on the island, all the time grinding his boot into Spike’s crotch, and Spike had blabbed, opening his mouth and letting it all run out like bloody diarrhoea.

  ‘So that’s why the bitch wasn’t at the flat,’ Maley grinned down at him. ‘You’ve just made me a fucking happy man.’

  The sky and water were one, a restless grey. Spike concentrated on the shoreline; one arm movement, then another, ignoring the chill that had captured his body and was moving in on his soul.

  If he could get to shore, he could get to the Post Office. He could try and warn the doctor about Maley. He could tell Mrs MacMurdo everything, even about his father. He wanted to tell her about his father, before it was too late.

  It seemed to Spike that warm blood had found its way back through his arms and legs, then his chest. His head was buzzing with warmth and laughter, the bubbling laughter of Esther and the baby that day in the sunshine, before they sailed back to the island.

  Spike stopped fighting the waves and lay unmoving, letting the image and the scent and the warm memory wash over him.

  Chapter 27

  The mouse ran across Rhona’s foot, squeaking and scrabbling to get away, its fear matching her own. She forced herself to stay put and plan her next step, knowing Maley was in no hurry. The door was bolted. There was nowhere for her to go.