None but the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘There’s a lot of soil to sift,’ Chrissy said. She didn’t add, ‘On my own,’ but Rhona caught the silent words anyway.

  ‘And the pilot’s knife?’

  ‘The staining on the blade was blood, and I retrieved a DNA sample from the handle. I’m trying to trace the serial number via the MOD, in the remote chance it may provide us with the name of the person it was issued to.’ She paused. ‘I sent your photo of the skull to IT as requested. They managed to get a much better image, which I forwarded to the Human Identification Centre in Dundee.’

  A 2D-reconstruction was possible from a photograph, although a 3D-scan of the actual skull was by far the better option. Normally the facial reconstruction examiner would take the photograph or at least give instructions on how to. Rhona had been the recommended minimum of six feet away, which avoided any lens distortion, and the camera in the mobile was high quality, but the conditions hadn’t been ideal. She could only hope that it was enough.

  ‘Any luck tracing Beth Haddow?’

  ‘Nothing so far. How’s his nibs?’

  ‘He hates it here, but you know McNab – once he’s fastened on something, he won’t give up.’

  There was a snort of agreement.

  ‘I’ve sent you the evidence I collected from the jeep, including soil from Inga’s boots,’ Rhona went on. ‘I’m hoping we can use soil analysis to pinpoint where she was when she last wore the boots.’

  According to the soil map, the northeast corner of Sanday was predominantly calcareous sand, which was alkaline with low organics. Lopness, on the other hand, where the old radar station had been, was acidic with a high organic surface.

  ‘Okay. I’ll have that checked out. Any idea when you’ll be back?’

  ‘Give it another twenty-four hours. If we haven’t located the girl by then, I’ll come anyway.’

  Rhona rang off. Talking things through with Chrissy had helped, particularly when they’d agreed on the remote possibility of Sam hiding the girl. Now she had to run the idea past McNab, and she didn’t think it would go down quite so well with him.

  ‘She has a point,’ Magnus said. ‘Sam was frightened for Inga, but couldn’t explain why. That’s why he wanted me here.’

  McNab shook his head. ‘You’re asking me to believe that he hid Inga, then went to her mother and frightened her half to death by declaring her daughter missing, which set off a hunt for the girl?’

  ‘It didn’t necessarily happen like that,’ Rhona broke in.

  ‘Well, how did it happen, Dr MacLeod?’

  Rhona ignored the bullish look.

  ‘Sam Flett didn’t drive that jeep onto Cata Sand,’ she said. ‘He was likely dead when that happened.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘Someone who wanted to implicate Sam in Inga’s disappearance.’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  God, he could be annoying when challenged.

  ‘Let’s for the sake of argument assume that Inga might be in hiding, for whatever reason.’

  ‘I’d have to have evidence to believe that,’ McNab warned. ‘And don’t tell me stories about magic flowers.’

  Rhona then revealed the thought that had been simmering at the back of her mind. ‘You said her mother came here to escape from an abusive partner.’ She hesitated. ‘Is there the remotest chance he found out where Inga and her mother were?’

  40

  It was her. He was sure of it.

  But am I sure of anything?

  The rain had come on as he’d walked along the headland. He had his torch, but as usual wasn’t using it. He found over time his eyes had become accustomed to the shadowy darkness that descended by mid-afternoon this time of year. Above him, rainclouds scudded across the sky, with a faint moon making an occasional appearance. It had been in one of those moments that he’d seen her.

  She’d appeared, he thought, from behind the old mortuary building. At first he’d assumed the shadowy movements to be one of the herd of cattle, already knowing that it wasn’t true. The slight figure was accompanied by another taller one, a male.

  He lost them for a moment as they passed like shadows behind a concrete building, then he spotted the two figures yards now from the beach. Reaching the edge of the grass, the male jumped down, then turned to lift her after him. He thought he heard her laugh, then the sound of the sea swallowed everything.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, his heart crashing, unable to make his feet move, but eventually he’d walked towards the spot.

  The edge of the dunes hung above the sand here by three feet, the underside eaten away with the tide. He shone his torch down, looking for what, he had no idea. It seemed to his fevered imagination that he saw a bowl hollowed out in the sand as though someone had lain there. He ran his eyes seaward. The tide was out, the wet sand glistening under his beam.

  Were those footsteps?

  In that moment he thought he heard the faint throb of an engine and caught the distant shadow of a boat out in the bay.

  If he was certain of the sighting, then why not contact the police? Say he’d spotted someone who might be Inga Sinclair near the beach with a man, although it had been dark and when he checked again, she was no longer there.

  Because doing that would thrust me into the spotlight again.

  Firstly the discovery of the flowers in the loft, then the unearthing of the body in the playground, after which the girl in his portrait had turned up on his doorstep. He thought it couldn’t get any worse than that, and then it had. He’d taken a walk to clear his head, and found Sam Flett’s dead body.

  How can I go to that detective and tell him I think I’ve seen Inga?

  The small voice, the one he didn’t like listening to, was back. At times invidious and recriminatory, it could turn suddenly into wheedling and flattery. First he was bad, then good, when others were bad. It was all his fault, then everyone’s fault but his own.

  His own version of Jekyll and Hyde.

  During the enquiry into Alice’s death, he’d been accused of all manner of horrors. The distaste of his friends, colleagues and the general public had been so powerful it had removed all sense of himself. He could no longer think of a single moment he’d spent with Alice – as she’d sat for her portrait, as they’d talked and laughed together – without pain and self-loathing. As for the few times they’d been intimate. Those he’d refused to recall, only to find them being replayed in his dreams and to wake horrified at himself.

  But to deny Alice’s existence had seemed the biggest crime of all.

  That was when she’d not only come to him in dreams, but physically walked back into his life.

  I see the ghost of Alice everywhere.

  Was that what was happening now? Had the stress caused by the discovery of the remains in the playground, and the subsequent outing of his guilty past, given rise to him ‘seeing things’ again? But it wasn’t the ghost of Alice he was encountering, he reminded himself. It was the girl in the portrait. Inga Sinclair.

  He was back in the bedroom, flicking on the light switch. Drawn to the portrait, which by its very existence made him a possible suspect in Inga’s disappearance. Every time he gazed upon it, it appeared to have gained in both detail and power, as though it was coming alive before his eyes.

  It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

  As he studied it, he noted that the wind had returned, and felt safer because of it. The sound travelling the eaves and skirting under the grey slates of the roof could be blamed for the voices of the past.

  He didn’t hear the back door open, although the touch of cold air on the back of his neck should have warned him. There were no footsteps, or perhaps he was too engrossed by the portrait to notice. When he did register there might be someone in the house with him, his first thought was that the detective had returned to grill him again.

  He disengaged from the portrait and went to check.

  Derek Muir had never been a friend. The truth was Mike had no f
riends on the island. But the Ranger had always been civil to him, at least. The man’s blank stare, which he normally used when dealing with Mike, had disappeared, to be replaced by a look so hostile that Mike halted mid path.

  ‘Where is she? Where’s Inga?’ he demanded.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘They say you painted her. Is that true?’

  ‘I drew a picture of a girl that looked like Inga, but that was before I even met her …’ His voice petered out then, aware how improbable his story sounded.

  Derek Muir obviously didn’t believe it either.

  ‘How did you know Sam Flett was on the causeway?’

  ‘I didn’t. I found him by chance.’

  Muir’s eyes were dark and full of venom. Mike wondered if the man had always hated him, for coming to Sanday, for working on the schoolhouse, for being an outsider, or had the hatred arisen because he now knew of his past?

  ‘You’re not wanted here. Your kind are not wanted here,’ he emphasized.

  My kind?

  Mike found a small spark of courage and fanned it. ‘I’m not the only one with secrets. I’m not the only one with a past.’

  His words had a bigger impact than he’d intended, because Muir suddenly launched himself towards him. Mike stepped back, startled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Muir said, directly into his face.

  Mike didn’t know what he meant, other than everyone had secrets whether they lived in cities or on small remote islands.

  Having encountered the kitchen table, Mike could retreat no further. He thought Muir was about to hit him and flinched in preparation, but the blow never came.

  ‘Leave,’ Derek spat at him. ‘Leave Sanday as soon as possible.’

  The little flame of courage flickered again. ‘Or what?’ Mike said, astounded at the challenge in his voice.

  ‘Or we’ll make you.’

  It was what he’d feared as he’d looked back at the schoolhouse after he’d discovered Sam Flett’s body and imagined a mob at his door. Maybe he hadn’t been wrong about that after all.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Mike heard himself say.

  Muir looked deflated by the reply, as though the fight had suddenly gone out of him.

  ‘Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  When Muir left, Mike turned the key in the lock, then went to do the same with the front door.

  He’d never felt totally at home here, but he’d never felt frightened before. Not the way he had in his home town. Local newspapers there had carried his face on numerous occasions and brought the hounds to his door. Here, it had only been the prospect of a hard winter that had concerned him. But not any more.

  I was lying when I said I wouldn’t leave. I’ll leave tomorrow. Come back when things settle down. Kirkwall might be sufficiently far enough away, or maybe Thurso on the mainland. He could rent somewhere over the winter. Let the police know where he was, so that it didn’t look as though he was running away.

  Derek Muir was right. He couldn’t stay here. Not until they found the girl. And what if they didn’t find her? Or what if they found her body?

  Things would only get worse.

  At this thought, he started packing, throwing clothes into a rucksack. It was happening all over again. He was cursed for what he’d done to Alice.

  41

  The hotel looked deserted, but when McNab tried the front door he found it open. Inside, the lights were already on. God, Glasgow could be bleak in winter, but losing daylight this early he couldn’t live with.

  McNab made his way through to the kitchen in search of Torvaig. When he found no one there, he checked the bar to find it deserted too. He contemplated helping himself to a drink, but when he found himself looking at the whisky bottle rather than the beer, he went upstairs to his room instead.

  This time he did need a key, having locked the door when he left the day before.

  Stepping in, he had the immediate sense that someone had been in there. He wasn’t a bloodhound like Magnus Pirie, so it wasn’t smell that did it. He stood in the one spot and, taking his time, swept the room. Once, twice, three times.

  It hadn’t been tidied, nor had the bed been made. Torvaig had made it clear that his stay in the hotel wouldn’t involve the usual room service. He would be fed and watered only, and expected to come and go as he pleased.

  The room was untidy with scattered sand visible on the carpet, but was this particular untidiness his own?

  Beyond the window, the sea was a thick grey moving mass, meeting an equally slate-coloured horizon. McNab shuddered, remembering how the water had swallowed him up and the seaweed had clutched at him.

  Apparently, he hadn’t been in the water long, although it had seemed an age to him.

  Torvaig said he’d heard his cry as he went over the wall and had come looking for him. McNab suspected it hadn’t happened quite like that, although any attempt to extract a possible name or names of his attackers from Torvaig had proved useless.

  McNab had told DI Flett he suspected the assault had had something to do with the cold case. He’d done that in order to stay on the island. The truth was he suspected the attack had more to do with standing up for Mike Jones in the bar.

  Which brought a face to mind. One he hadn’t as yet interviewed. Nor did he even know his name. When he’d asked Torvaig, he’d said he thought the man was part of the crew on one of the boats that occasionally came into the nearby harbour. That was all he knew about him.

  It irritated McNab that he hadn’t followed up on the guy, but when he’d checked the harbour the following morning, the boat had gone.

  Then more pressing matters had taken his attention.

  They were no further forward in finding the girl. If she lay dead on this flat island, surely her body would have been found by now? No woodland or scrub to hide her in. No inaccessible areas. And most of the able-bodied population had joined in the search.

  Of course, if the sea had taken her, as predicted by Sam Flett, it might never give her up, or it might deposit her on some far-off shore, or at least what was left of her. Was that a worse outcome than finding her dead on Sanday?

  Forgetting his unease about a possible visitor when he’d entered the room, he crossed to the window. The signal here was reasonable, his room being directly above the bar on the seaward side. Immediately a series of recent emails and messages came dropping down. Among them, three missed calls from DI Wilson, all made that morning. The boss was keen to talk to him and unwilling it seemed to leave a message to say why.

  The CCTV footage was reasonably clear. The man it featured had been seen in the vicinity of Jock Drever’s flat around the dates in question. It seemed Chrissy had been the one to suggest who it might be.

  ‘Do we know if Muir was off the island at that time?’ DI Wilson asked.

  ‘We don’t,’ McNab said.

  ‘I suggest you don’t alert him, but that you speak to Dr MacLeod and organize a routine DNA swab of all those connected to Sam Flett and Inga Sinclair. We’ll check the airline services from here. I’ll get DI Flett to do the same for the ferry.’

  ‘Then he’ll find out,’ McNab said. ‘The only secrets here are the ones they want to keep.’

  ‘We’ll ask for a list of vehicles crossing around that time. We won’t say who we’re looking for.’

  The boss has no idea how it works up here.

  ‘Can I talk to you, sir?’

  A pause.

  ‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’

  McNab proceeded to run his mouth off, big time. Would he have been so honest if he’d been standing in front of the boss? He didn’t think so. His first admission was that Rhona had dealt much better with the isolation and the outsider feeling than he had. Maybe because she’d been brought up on an island like this. He felt like an alien, with bad breath and a rank smell. The ‘Glasgow Detective’ was a label used more as an accusation than a description. Okay, he was hated in Glasgow too, but it didn’t bother him the
re, because it didn’t usually arise from the people he was trying to help. Sanday inhabitants were for the most part law-abiding and had been policing their island themselves for a long time. Hence no police station. McNab had the distinct feeling that they thought he’d somehow brought trouble with him, or at least made it worse by his presence.

  ‘And they could be right, sir.’

  ‘You believe had you done things differently, Sam Flett might still be alive? And the child might not be missing?’

  That about summed it up.

  The boss took his studied silence as an admission.

  ‘I’ll be in touch with the postmortem findings on Sam Flett,’ he said. ‘You set up the DNA screening with Dr MacLeod. As for the search, go over old ground again, including outbuildings previously searched. If her abductor is local, they’ll know where you are all of the time. They could be playing cat and mouse with her body.’

  ‘Maybe she’s still alive, sir,’ he ventured.

  The silence this time was on the boss’s side.

  ‘Keep in touch, Sergeant.’

  McNab rang off then and went downstairs. The bar was still deserted, but this time he did pour himself a drink and chose a whisky.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Not certain,’ Chrissy hesitated. ‘It was out of context, and he was dressed differently.’

  Rhona was very aware that clothing and location could play a big part in witness identification. She also knew that eye-witness testimony was notoriously unreliable. In the past it had put numerous innocent people behind bars. Nowadays, the psychology behind how and why witnesses ‘recognized’ someone from a scene of crime was established, but not yet fully understood.

  ‘But you think there’s a possibility it was Derek Muir?’

  ‘I do.’ Chrissy paused. ‘Also, Bill’s been trying to speak to McNab about the DNA screening programme. Is he answering his mobile at all?’

  ‘Intermittently,’ Rhona said. ‘I’ll find him and sort out a schedule.’

  ‘Looks like your twenty-four-hour window might not be enough,’ Chrissy said.

  There was no answer to that, so Rhona didn’t offer one.