None but the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  But it wasn’t that which had fed the flames.

  It was when I mentioned the Glasgow detective’s name.

  Now in the kitchen, the coffee machine filled and switched on, Erling recalled the scene at the dinner table in detail. They’d finished the main course and were tucking into Orkney cheese and biscuits, and making a determined move to finish a second bottle of red wine. Rory had been telling stories of other places he’d worked as a diver. It had sounded like a round-the-world trip. Erling’s only sojourn away from Orkney to attend university had seemed embarrassingly timid. When he’d said so, Rory had rebuked him.

  ‘I didn’t always choose to go to those places. Often, I had to.’

  Erling had waited for him to explain his remark, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d changed the subject, asking how things were going on Sanday. Erling had duly answered, but not in any great detail. Just mentioned that they’d had a confession regarding the theft of the skull, and that they also knew what had happened to the elderly Orcadian they’d found in Glasgow. It was at that moment he’d mentioned DS McNab’s name.

  Rory, who Erling believed had been feigning interest until that point, now really did pay attention.

  His head shot up. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The detective they sent up from Glasgow. Why?’

  ‘I didn’t realize they’d bring in an outsider.’

  ‘Any murder investigation is allotted an MIT team, particularly if it occurs in a location not used to that level of investigation.’

  Rory nodded, but Erling could see that behind the false calm lay unease.

  ‘To be truthful, I didn’t take to the guy when I first met him,’ Erling admitted, hoping his honesty might prompt Rory to reveal what lay behind the studied neutrality.

  Rory helped himself to more wine and another slice of cheese, then said, ‘Really. Why?’

  ‘He was arrogant and basically insubordinate.’

  It seemed to Erling that a flash of recognition crossed Rory’s face before it went blank again.

  ‘But now…’ Erling continued, his own disquiet deepening.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I still think those things, but I also believe he’s good at his job, probably because he does get under the skin.’

  Rory was studying his wine intently.

  ‘How much longer is he here for?’

  ‘Until we find the girl, I suspect.’

  ‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

  ‘Statistically it’s unlikely, but if it was her estranged father who snatched her, then perhaps there’s a chance.’

  The awkwardness of the moment had passed. With a smile, Rory had refilled Erling’s glass and suggested they head for bed.

  Pouring himself a mug of coffee now, Erling carried it to the bedroom door. Rory was still asleep. The duvet had slipped down, exposing the muscled chest and tattooed arms. Erling felt a stir of desire and contemplated getting back into bed and wrapping himself round the warm body. If he did, Rory would waken, and they would replay the games of last night.

  But his mood of suspicion wouldn’t allow it.

  He closed the door and went to shower and get ready for the day.

  McNab had hung around the bar until just before ten, then gone upstairs. He hadn’t watched the TV since his arrival, but did so now, the flurry of channels it offered giving him a glimpse of a world he’d all but forgotten existed.

  The ten o’clock news was followed by a shipping forecast that warned of high winds and rain overnight, particularly over the northern isles.

  It seemed Sanday was about to get a battering.

  Again.

  McNab propped himself up on the bed with his final double of the night, relishing the warm fuzzy glow the whisky had bestowed on him, in tandem with fighting the negative feelings that had resulted from his fall from grace.

  It was because Freya dumped me.

  That would, of course, be the excuse he would feed Rhona should the need arise, despite the fact that it wasn’t true.

  When Torvaig shouted he was off home, McNab called back his farewells, then headed downstairs to unlock the door that Torvaig had just secured.

  He would give it half an hour then go to bed, he decided.

  Whatever Hege had planned to communicate couldn’t be that urgent or she would have shown up by now. McNab took his disappointment back upstairs with him.

  The screen had morphed from the news into some foreign detective story with a female lead that didn’t do smiling. McNab pondered why the national broadcaster was so keen on buying in police thrillers from Scandinavia rather than develop more based in this part of Scotland. After all, it’s foreign enough up here. He wondered if it was because of the weather, but the weather on the screen looked just as bad as Sanday had been promised for tonight.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the drill of his mobile, something he’d almost got used to not hearing. Glancing down, he saw Hege’s name and answered.

  ‘Has everyone gone?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. And the door’s open.’

  Minutes later, he heard her climb the stairs. McNab immediately stood up, then sat down again. There was only one chair in the room, which he would offer to her. He would therefore have to stand, or else sit on the bed.

  For fuck’s sake. Get a grip.

  He waited for her knock on the door before opening it.

  She looked rather startled at his appearance, as though she hadn’t expected to find him there.

  She’s as awkward and embarrassed as me, he thought. But why?

  As she accepted his invitation to enter, he caught the scent of whisky. Whether from her breath or his own, he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the only chair.

  ‘I’m sorry it took me so long,’ she apologized, not explaining the reason.

  ‘So,’ McNab said, deciding to get to the point. ‘Is this police business or is there another reason you wanted to visit me in my room?’

  When she blushed, he added, ‘Of course, had I a choice in the matter, I’d much prefer it to be the latter.’ McNab gave her what he hoped was his signature grin.

  His attempts to lighten the moment seemed to work, because she smiled in response and visibly relaxed.

  ‘No female has asked to visit your hotel room before?’ she played back at him.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’

  Silence fell as she contemplated her next response.

  Eventually she said, ‘I think I know who sent you that text about Sam Flett.’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘The man who picked a fight about Mike Jones being served.’

  ‘He had access to your mobile?’

  She flushed. ‘Yes.’

  McNab waited for her to go on, knowing what would come next before she said it.

  ‘He and I were …’ She halted there.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The boat came into the harbour for repairs two days before the incident at the pub.’ The eyes that met his were defiant, but troubled.

  McNab rose from his seat on the bed and went to the window. The wind was whipping at the surface of the water, turning it to froth. The mass of seaweed rose and fell among the foam.

  He turned. ‘And when did you discover that Joe Millar was in fact Inga’s father?’

  ‘You know?’ she said in surprise.

  ‘When did you find out?’ McNab repeated.

  ‘The night of the argument. After you left, someone mentioned the kids who lived near the schoolhouse. How they were easy game for …’ She hesitated.

  ‘The paedo,’ he finished for her, imagining what had been said, and how it might have sealed Mike Jones’s fate.

  She continued, ‘Joe was distraught when he heard Inga’s name.’

  ‘So Millar found out on Friday night that his wife and daughter were on Sanday?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And his reaction to that?’

  ‘He was angry and up
set. He told me later, when we were alone, that she’d left him for another man, and taken his daughter with her. He’d been searching for them ever since.’

  ‘Did he mention that he used to beat Inga’s mother and that she left him before he could do the same to Inga?’ McNab said coldly.

  Shock and horror filled her face. ‘I can’t believe Joe would do that …’

  ‘Maybe you need a bit more time in the sack with him to find out what Joe Millar is capable of.’

  As she withered under his words, McNab reminded himself that browbeating a woman was also a form of abuse.

  ‘Inga went missing on Saturday,’ he reminded her.

  ‘But everyone thought Joe had left with the boat first thing on Saturday morning,’ she countered.

  ‘Yet the text you say he sent me from your mobile arrived on Saturday.’

  McNab poured a whisky from the bottle he’d fetched from the bar. She was visibly in shock, her face transparent, her hand trembling as she accepted the glass. She took a mouthful and swallowed. He would have liked to fill his own glass and do the same, but found himself resisting the move. She glanced at him as though to check whether she might finish it.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  When she did, he poured her another measure.

  She shivered as a gust of wind and rain hit the window. They were in for a wild night, as promised. McNab pulled the duvet from the bed and offered it to her. She took it gratefully, wrapping it round her shoulders.

  After a few moments, twin red spots appeared on her cheeks.

  When she looked ready, he tried again.

  ‘So, about this text?’

  ‘Just because it arrived on Saturday, doesn’t mean it was sent then.’ She was fighting back. ‘On Sanday, texts get delivered when your mobile locates a signal.’

  Which was true.

  ‘You saw Joe on Friday?’

  ‘He stayed over Friday night and got up early to join the boat. My place has no signal. I get my messages when I’m at the centre, or here at the pub.’

  ‘Where’s Joe now?’ McNab said quietly.

  She met his eye. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘He hasn’t been in touch?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘And if he finds out you’ve come to me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, worry creeping into her voice.

  McNab thought for a moment. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Just along the shoreline from the hotel.’

  ‘Are there any boats beached nearby?’

  She looked puzzled by the question. ‘A few, and a couple of boathouses.’

  ‘Could a boat go missing without anyone noticing?’

  Catching his mood, she thought hard about that.

  ‘One of the boathouses belongs to a holiday cottage. So I suppose …’

  ‘Take me there,’ McNab said, reaching for his jacket.

  ‘What? Now?’ she said.

  But McNab was already at the door.

  ‘It’s within walking distance,’ she assured him as they bent their heads against the wind.

  McNab swore under his breath. Anything further than a couple of yards in this weather, to his mind, did not constitute a walking distance.

  Street lights on the left-hand side of the road attempted to illuminate the scene, with little success. He hadn’t paid much heed to the route into Kettletoft before now, having always arrived by car, with his sights strictly on the approaching hotel. Now he registered that the long string of houses, bar a few, were on the seaward side of the road, most of them single storey, a few derelict, with some in the process of being renovated. Cars were parked alongside and some open areas between held boats on trailers, or lying on the grass.

  Eventually Hege stopped and entered a gate in a wall. Tucked behind was a tiny house with a flagstone patio.

  ‘This is my place,’ she said.

  ‘It has a boathouse?’ McNab asked.

  ‘Yes, but no boat. It’s the holiday house next door I was talking about.’

  She took him round the back. Once out of the lee of the building, the wind whipped at them again. On either side of an old stone jetty that jutted out into the surging water stood two boathouses. The one he took to belong to Hege’s cottage was dilapidated. The boathouse and house on the other side had obviously both been renovated, and fairly recently.

  ‘A consultant from somewhere in the south of England owns it. He comes up in the summer with his family.’

  ‘He definitely has a boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hege walked down the stone jetty. McNab delayed as a wave hit, spilling its wash of water across the green surface.

  Noting his trepidation, Hege urged him to follow. ‘It’s safe,’ she called back.

  McNab, his memory of his recent ducking still fresh, didn’t agree, but he followed her nevertheless.

  She jumped down onto the gravelly shore, and having now entered the grounds of the next-door property, climbed back up the rocky shoreline and headed for the boathouse door, where she waited for him.

  ‘I’m used to the terrain,’ she said, when he finally joined her. ‘I come from a fishing village like this one in Norway.’

  McNab ignored her attempts to put him at ease. ‘Did Millar know about this boat?’

  ‘He asked about the house next door. Who owned it. Whether he had a boat. I told him.’ She looked pained by that.

  A sensor on the rear of the house picked up their presence and a light came on, illuminating the boathouse door.

  ‘It’s been forced,’ McNab said, noting the chipped wood alongside the lock.

  He hesitated, albeit briefly, before grabbing the handle and pulling it open.

  Inside, all was darkness and shadow, with the sound of the sea surging over the jetty as a backdrop. McNab felt along the inside wall for a switch and eventually found one.

  He blinked as a powerful overhead light came on.

  The space was large and tidily kept. All the paraphernalia for boat owners stood along the walls. Shelves were laden with tools. There were containers for fuel and water.

  A trailer stood centre stage.

  The one item that was missing was a boat.

  51

  Rhona had slept fitfully. The wind, hitting the small seaward window of the bedroom, had crept in around the frame, the spluttering draught chilling the air and fluttering the curtains. She’d given up sometime during the early hours of the morning, and rising, had gone through to the kitchen, to discover the howl of the wind was even stronger here.

  She doubted whether the large thick slabs of slate that covered the roof would be shaken by such a wind, but they couldn’t prevent the sound of it trying, which reminded her of the high-pitched screech of a banshee. From the sitting-room window, she had a fine view of a tumultuous sea, whipped-up sand and madly dancing grass. The only object that appeared permanent was the striped lighthouse with its steady revolving beam.

  By dawn, a level of calm had descended. Now on her third cup of coffee, Rhona ventured outside to take a look. A film of white sand glistened on the flagstones that fronted the door, but otherwise nothing had changed.

  She went round to the back of the building and took up her place beside the stone lookout post to await her morning delivery of mail. Having downloaded last night, she found only two new messages. One from Magnus, confirming he would arrive shortly. The other from McNab, sent in the early hours of the morning.

  Rhona opened it.

  Several attempts later, she still hadn’t made contact with him, which suggested McNab was either asleep or no longer at the hotel and in range of its signal.

  Hearing a car on the track approaching the cottage, she abandoned her attempts and went to greet Magnus.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  Rhona quickly told him of McNab’s message.

  ‘So you were right. He does have a boat.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

/>   ‘Do you want to find McNab or check for the bomb shelter?’

  ‘Let’s head for the camp, as planned.’

  They collected a spade and trowel from the shed, scattering the half-dozen cats that had been sheltering there, then set off over the fields. The sea was still high, although the wind had dropped.

  As they walked, Magnus told Rhona some of the words in Orkney dialect for the winds that swept the islands. ‘You can have a tirl, a gurl, a gussel, a hushle, a skolder, a skuther and a guster,’ he finished.

  ‘And the difference between them?’ she said.

  ‘The degree of strength. My ancestors regarded the weather as a personal foe with whom they had to cope,’ Magnus said. ‘My grandfather, and my father, always used the personal term “he” rather than “it” when referring to the weather. You still hear Orkney folk saying, “He’s blowan hard,” and “He’s cleran up.”’

  Rhona regarded the sky. ‘He’s cleran up,’ she tried.

  ‘Not bad,’ Magnus acknowledged, ‘for a ferry louper.’

  On their left flank, they spotted the large blocks of concrete that had secured the feet of the giant radar masts. Beyond them the rooftop of the Muir house.

  ‘Should we call in on our way back?’ Magnus said.

  Rhona nodded. Derek Muir hadn’t been transferred to Kirkwall, on Erling’s orders, but his normal activities had been curtailed. Not so much house arrest as island arrest.

  ‘He would be the one to ask about the boat and its owner,’ Rhona said.

  They took the route along the shoreline. The overnight buffeting had deposited large clumps of tangle on the sand. Behind these rose mounds of broken slate, difficult to clamber over to reach first the machair then the fenced farmland.

  On spotting the brick mortuary, Rhona stopped and, using her map, indicated to Magnus the area she judged to be halfway between the Muir farmhouse and Sam Flett’s place.

  ‘So how will we recognize it?’

  ‘The photograph suggests a long low hillock. Imagine something like the Maesry Mound, its surface just above ground, built not of stone, but concrete. The entrance would be a tunnel. I think it was the tunnel entrance that was shown in the picture.’

  Producing her binoculars, Rhona slowly swept the flat landscape.