by Lin Anderson
‘No.’ Mike Jones flung his head from side to side to emphasize the fact.
‘According to police records, the last girl whose portrait you painted hung herself. Something you forgot to mention last night.’
Jones looked like a man who’d just taken a punch and was reeling from it. He reached for the table to steady himself, shaking his head as though he didn’t want to think about it.
‘And now you’re drawing Inga,’ McNab said in an accusing tone.
‘I didn’t draw Inga.’ Jones was desperate now, his face devoid of all colour except for under his eyes, which were a dark shadowed grey.
McNab wasn’t listening. He was already on his way to the bedroom with Mike Jones stumbling behind him, a look of horror on his face.
‘You can’t invade my home,’ he tried. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
McNab threw open the door, hoping what Rhona had professed to find was still there. He approached the easel and threw back the sheet.
He heard Jones gasp behind him. McNab almost gasped himself, because the likeness was so extraordinary.
‘How the fuck could you do that if you’d never seen Inga before?’
Jones was attempting to pull himself together. McNab could almost hear him saying the mantra, Stay calm. They can’t prove anything.
‘I drew the face I imagined when I looked at that magic flower.’ He indicated the small painting that stood alongside. ‘When I opened the back door and she was standing there, I was sick in the sink. I couldn’t believe she existed.’
‘Who are you trying to kid?’ McNab said in disbelief. ‘You persuaded a girl of twelve to have her portrait done. Is that all you persuaded her to do?’
Mike Jones was crying now, small, almost silent sobs. He sank down on the bed.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Are we talking about the fifteen-year-old or the twelve-year-old?’
‘Neither of them.’ Jones stood up, making an attempt to gather himself together. ‘I’d like you to leave now.’
‘After I check the house for Inga,’ McNab said.
‘She isn’t here.’
‘Then you won’t mind me looking.’
In truth, there weren’t many rooms to search. The renovated section was open plan apart from the bedroom. The area yet to be converted was empty of anything except a ladder and some tools.
McNab glanced upwards.
‘I’d like to take a look in the loft.’
Jones’s face, which had assumed some colour, lost it again.
‘I don’t think …’
McNab dragged the stepladder over, and climbing up, eased open the hatch. He spotted a bulb fitted to a beam and, feeling around for a light switch, flicked it on. The loft looked empty, but he wanted to be sure.
Pulling himself up and onto the narrow wooden walkway that ran between the beams, half stooping, he eased his way along, checking each gap in turn. There was nothing stored here, or if there had been, Jones had cleared it.
A layer of what looked like ash lay between the rafters, he assumed as an attempt at insulation. Spotting one of the infamous flowers he’d heard so much about, McNab crouched for a closer look. Lying partly buried in the ash and of a similar grey colour, it wasn’t obvious at first.
As McNab reached for it, Jones’s voice came to him from the open hatch.
‘Please don’t touch it,’ he pleaded to no avail.
McNab cupped it in his palm and examined the intricately woven shape. The material felt stiff to the touch, brittle almost, but despite its obvious age and condition, it did resemble the petals of a flower. He laid it back down, then went in search of the rest.
There were twelve of them as he’d been told, and a gap where one had been, signified by a small empty grave in the ash.
McNab moved back towards the hatch and dropped down onto the ladder. As he emerged, he found Jones’s troubled face staring up at him.
‘You didn’t remove any of them?’
McNab ignored the question and signalled that it was time to leave.
‘We’ll be organizing a search party for Inga. You could join in.’
Mike Jones looked terrified at the thought.
‘Then again, maybe it’s not a good idea now that your cover’s blown.’
Exiting by the back door, McNab noted that the tarp had gone and the grave now stood open to the elements. Rhona had obviously been here, but where the hell was she now?
The car came towards him as he made his way back along the tarred road. The face that looked out seemed to have aged ten years. PC Tulloch was no longer the cheery-faced bloke he’d met at the onset. McNab had grown pissed off at Tulloch’s eternal good humour. Now he wanted it back. Pronto.
He climbed into the passenger seat and awaited news of the child’s death.
‘I’ve rounded up about thirty folk,’ Tulloch said.
She’s alive.
‘Do you know how to organize a search?’
‘I’ve done it on the mainland before, but it wasn’t a child we were looking for.’
Relief sweeping over him, McNab was about to joke about a missing sheep, but managed to stop his tongue.
‘We need more officers.’
‘The police launch is on its way from Kirkwall,’ Tulloch said.
However many they managed to squeeze on the launch, it wouldn’t be enough. McNab said as much.
‘Locals know the terrain,’ Tulloch said. ‘Even in poor light.’
McNab suddenly realized the mist had gone and he could see the field on one side of the car, the beach on the other. He glanced upwards to discover a leaden sky.
‘It’s going to rain,’ Tulloch said.
‘Rain and gales. Gales and rain. Sanday weather.’
Even as McNab spoke the first heavy drops hit the windscreen, propelled by a northerly gust.
McNab had been involved in searches before. Folk strung out across the landscape in all weathers, men, women, old and young, determined to help. Nine times out of ten, by the time the search took place, the missing person was already dead. If it was a child, that was almost a certainty.
30
She was running as the deluge hit. The early mist had dissipated. Now the sky had become a cauldron of grey and black seething clouds fighting one another in their efforts to drop their load on Sanday. A wind from the north had come to their aid, biting through her jacket. She’d abandoned attempts at keeping her hood up, and her hair was soaked already.
Rhona stumbled as the ground rose swiftly through a tumble of loose slates. Screaming gulls, riding the wind, swooped down on her, as though forbidding her passage. Scrambling up the slope, she finally dropped into the hole that fronted the mound.
Pressing herself against the stones, she waited and watched as the thundering clouds fought their way across the causeway to the main island. A shaft of watery light broke through to illuminate the rain sheet where it now descended on the area surrounding the cottage and schoolhouse.
As the rain eased, Rhona emerged from under her rock for a better look.
On the outside, she estimated the mound to be around twenty-two metres wide and four metres high. Inside, according to her research, there was a circular chamber eight metres wide by one and a half metres high – the space lighthouse keepers had once used as a potato store. The entrance tunnel had collapsed in part, a jumble of smaller stones blocking it, although the larger slabs that framed it were still upright.
As Rhona crouched to peer between the rubble, she noted that someone else had been there not long ago. The grass was trampled and the clear marks of boots bigger than her own were visible. Directing her forensic torch through, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tunnel beyond, she saw to her surprise that there was an open area beyond the blockage. Excited by the thought that someone had broken through recently, Rhona began to work at the pile of rubble. Fifteen minutes later, she had a space big enough to peer in.
Her torch beam found its way t
hrough the passage to illuminate what looked like an entrance to the inner chamber. It too appeared partially blocked. Rhona checked her watch. She would have to go soon, and yet if she moved a few more stones, she might squeeze through and view the inner chamber.
Ten minutes later she was on her knees, between the upright slabs, approaching the tunnel’s end. In here there wasn’t a whisper of sound. It was as though the howling wind and the crashing waves no longer existed.
The silence of the grave.
She wondered how many people had been entombed here. The care that the Neolithic people had taken in the construction of this burial place indicated how important their ancestors had been to them. The huge stones had been so well put together that they still stood resolute against the wind and weather after thousands of years. A remarkable feat of engineering and determination for a people whose average lifespan had been only a quarter of a century, according to a study of their bones.
She’d reached the end of the tunnel. Here, a large flat flagstone had been manoeuvred into place, partially blocking the entrance to the main chamber. Positioning herself, she directed her torch through the gap. As the beam ran over the side wall, she could make out a series of rectangular chambers where the dead had been laid. Above was a beautifully constructed corbelled ceiling.
The nagging thought that she’d already spent too long here made her begin her retreat.
As she eased her way back, the torch slipped from her hand and rolled under the flagstone. Reaching for it, she realized the beam had caught something in its circle of light.
What she saw startled her, although in theory it shouldn’t have, because this was a grave.
But a grave long since cleared of bones.
Rhona hurriedly pulled off her boots, keeping on her socks in the hope that they would give her traction on the slippery rocks. The sandy crossing was no longer viable, the depth and speed of the water pouring in on that side the impediment. The rocky path was less submerged, but finding a firm footfall was going to be a problem.
She moved out into the water, which felt a great deal colder than on her way here.
How could she have got it so wrong?
According to the tidal clock in the cottage, she should still have half an hour to get across the causeway, but it certainly didn’t look that way. I shouldn’t have delayed at the mound.
As she waded deeper, the shock of the cold hit her thighs. Only a couple of yards in, it was obvious that by midway the water would likely be chest high.
If I can keep my feet, I might make it.
Rhona felt for another step, bracing herself as the power of the incoming tide threatened to take her with it. Her waterlogged clothing was making things more difficult. She eyed the distance yet to travel, knowing that she was barely halfway.
She could keep going and take her chances, retreat and wait for the tide to turn in eight hours’ time or abandon her outdoor clothing and attempt to swim. None of the proposed options were attractive. Marooned on the island for eight hours in wet clothing would be as life-threatening as trying to complete the crossing. As for wading back and undressing …
A white-topped wave swept towards her as the sea strove to take over the channel between Start Point and the bigger island. This time it met her chest. She gasped as its icy cold grip caused her heart to momentarily stop.
I must be more than halfway by now.
The wave passed but it had unbalanced her. She felt herself floundering and strove to locate something flat and solid on which to plant her feet, and all the time the current tugged at her legs, keen to show who was in charge. Her toe slammed against what she knew to be broken concrete, which meant she was in the region of the old causeway, built to transfer the shell sand by lorry.
Which means I’m on the right path.
She felt something sharp stab her sole and realized that concrete had torn her sock and, she suspected, cut her foot. Deciding she couldn’t get much wetter, she plunged forward, half walking, half swimming, her boots abandoned to float off with the tide, intent now only on getting to the opposite bank and crawling up onto dry land.
The final lap saw the heavens open once again. What little of the top of her clothing had been dry, was within minutes as wet as the rest of her. Rhona didn’t care. Her feet were on dry land at last, or at least on crusted seaweed. She didn’t stop to assess her injury. She just walked on as swiftly as possible, knowing if she stopped even to get her breath, the shivering would increase tenfold.
She was on the coastal track now, a field wall on her left, a plunge to the rocks below on her right. She walked for ten, then ran for ten, like a soldier in training, her eye on the distant prize – the smoke curling up from the cottage chimney.
By the time she reached the front door, the shudders had set in and she could barely retrieve the key from under the stone. Getting it into the lock was even more difficult, any instruction she gave to her hands being ignored.
Eventually the door opened and she fell inside. Once in the hall, she stripped, dropping the clothing in a wet bundle on the floor. Stumbling through to the bathroom, she put the plug in to capture the water, then turned on the shower as hot as was bearable and stepped into the bath.
The water swirled at her feet, reddened by her blood.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, steam filling the room, condensing on the mirror to run in streams down the glass. When the chittering cold had eased, she stepped out and dried herself, using the towel roughly, persuading blood to rise to the skin surface.
Dressed again, she set the kettle to boil, then fetched the Highland Park and poured herself a large measure. It went down like fire and she poured another, the craving for warmth as strong inside as out.
As she’d undressed at the front door, she’d extracted her mobile and placed it on a table. She fetched it, hoping against the odds that it had survived the crossing. Taking it to the seat near the stove, she now took time to view what she had discovered in the Neolithic mound on Start Island.
31
‘No CCTV, no police station, no Wi-Fi, no mobile signal most of the time. How the fuck do you catch criminals?’
‘We don’t have many to speak of,’ Tulloch had said.
The answer had only served to infuriate McNab further. ‘Give me the mean streets of Glasgow any day,’ he’d muttered under his breath.
He’d set up shop at the heritage centre, which had a reasonable Wi-Fi connection. Sam hadn’t accompanied him. The old man, shaken by events, had nevertheless insisted on joining the search party. For the moment, they were checking all farm outbuildings and derelict properties, of which there were many in the vicinity of the girl’s home. The various beaches and their neighbouring dunes were also on the list.
Sam Flett seemed particularly concerned about the water, as though he expected to find that Inga had drowned, but he could offer no rational explanation for that fear.
The last known sighting of the girl had been by her mother, as she’d left the house to go to Sam Flett’s. The walk there, along a single-track road, or a shorter way through the site of the former camp, should have taken less than ten minutes.
Apparently, no one had seen her after that, although the mist that morning had been blanket thick.
Had McNab been able to muster a helicopter, a sweep over the farmland would have been useful. With no trees to block the view and few buildings, it would have been easy to spot a body, alive or otherwise.
But they didn’t have a helicopter. And it would soon be dark.
Glancing out of the window, he was struck again by how quickly the night descended here. The girl had told him she, or her gang, were searching for the skull. According to the other members of the gang, Inga had taken over. She thought she knew where the skull was. Where, they had no idea. How she knew had brought an equally blank response.
The kids were as puzzled as everyone else.
Or someone is lying.
McNab took out a flask of co
ffee, laced with Highland Park. He’d made it in the cottage before he left, anticipating something – probably his inability to cope.
His mobile pinged, delivering a text message from an unknown number.
McNab opened and read it.
Magnus stood on the police launch watching the approaching island, remembering the last time he’d visited Sanday. Then, home from university for the holidays, he’d been recruited for the Stenness football team, who were short of a goalkeeper, and frankly would have accepted anyone who’d offered. It had been midsummer’s day. The team had met up in a Kirkwall pub and boarded a ferry, hired for the occasion. The trip had taken a couple of hours.
It had been a fine night to cruise up through the islands, though Magnus hadn’t seen much of them as he’d spent the journey, like the others, in the bar. Everyone had tumbled off the boat at Kettletoft and headed for the football field near the school. They’d played the game in broad daylight at midnight. Stenness had lost, down to Magnus’s inability to save goals. Then they’d adjourned to the Kettletoft Hotel to consume food and further alcohol, after which they’d boarded the ferry home and spent the return journey back in the bar. Someone had profited from the excursion, but it hadn’t been the players, who’d depleted their bank accounts and attacked their livers with the fury of a Scottish battle.
Yet I remember the excursion with great pleasure.
Just as he remembered Sam Flett.
Magnus had accompanied Erling as a young teenager on one of his summer outings to Sanday to stay with his ‘adopted’ uncle and aunt. Magnus’s memory of that time was as powerful in image as it was in smell. Sanday had made an impression on him. Sam Flett and his wife, Jean, even more so.
It was during those weeks together that he’d sensed an awakening in Erling. It had, in the end, come down to scent. Erling, he suspected, had a crush on him. But it was more than just an adolescent crush. Magnus could smell his desire, even if Erling couldn’t, or wouldn’t, acknowledge it.
That summer together on Sanday had been, for Magnus, magical. It had also been a break from the past. An acknowledgement that no matter how much he loved Orkney, every island in the archipelago, his future, at least in part, would lead him elsewhere.
