Sins of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Having only this morning received notification that Jackson had died from taxine poisoning and that Claire’s death hadn’t been suicidal, he’d listed the small group of three who’d focused their attention in the area of drugs and poisons. According to the data file, one of them, Nick Gallagher, had only recently taken up a post as APT with the forensic pathologist Dr Sissons.

  As Magnus had reminded McNab the previous evening, organized killers were known to engage in some way with the investigation if possible. That might mean they simply read and watched everything they could about it or they went as far as involving themselves directly with the police by offering insight or information.

  In the case of missing persons, abductors had been known to join the search teams. Ted Bundy, the notorious American serial rapist and killer, had even served as a volunteer on a help line, offering advice to young women on how to stay safe from the predator stalking the college campuses – himself.

  That’s what he’d wanted to discuss with McNab. Everyone on that list had been engaged with the police throughout the course, and some, like the APT, worked closely enough to perhaps gain access to Rhona’s DNA, but who among them had taken things just that bit further?

  Like DC Fleming.

  66

  He was no lover of open country but McNab had to admit that it had its advantages, especially on the back of a bike. The A9 wasn’t yet all dual carriageway, but even on the single stretches it was easy enough to by-pass the holiday traffic and lorries without exceeding the speed limit.

  By the time he’d reached Drumochter Pass, he was at ease with the aptly named Street Glide and could understand why the other HD riders sharing the road with him liked having their annual rally in the Highlands. Miles of open road to explore as soon as you left the only major highway, with little traffic to worry about, offered a biker’s dream.

  McNab had made contact with the Aviemore police before his departure, only to have PC Ruaridh Mitchell greet him like a long-lost friend. The explanation for that seemed to be Rhona and her trip north during the recent joint investigation with Norway.

  ‘I was with the CMR team that took Dr MacLeod up Cairngorm,’ Mitchell had told him. ‘And I worked with Police Inspector Olsen and Rhona at the airstrip. She mentioned you, Detective Sergeant.’

  McNab had accepted Mitchell’s friendly overtures, while wondering exactly what Rhona had said about him.

  When McNab had gone on to explain the reason for his visit and to stress that the Aviemore constabulary were not to alert the young woman in the photo he’d sent, should they spot her, but await his arrival, PC Mitchell had been quick to reassure McNab they understood.

  ‘We’re expecting up to four thousand riders over the weekend and the truth is they all dress alike. Finding one rider, without word circulating, won’t be easy.’

  McNab was well aware of all that, but he also knew if Ellie got a whiff of his presence she would likely bolt. Her mobile was still being monitored, but Ollie suspected it had been turned off again, because Aviemore, unlike the West Highlands, did have coverage. He’d also pointed out that she might have moved to pay-as-you-go to avoid detection, especially knowing that McNab could have her traced.

  It was a possibility, of course, but McNab was pretty sure Izzy would have let him know if Ellie had been in contact.

  ‘Is she a member of the Dunedin Chapter who organize the rally?’ Mitchell had asked at this point.

  McNab realized that he had no idea.

  Sensing this by McNab’s silence, Mitchell had added, ‘She would have the patch on her jacket?’

  He described it as circular with a saltire background, a set of bagpipes on the right, lion rampant on the left, which didn’t help McNab one iota. He realized that any remembered image he had of Ellie dressed in her leathers didn’t focus on jacket designs.

  ‘Okay, we could find out another way. When you arrive I suggest I introduce you to two locals who are in the chapter. They’ll give you all the help and information you need and they can be trusted to keep quiet.’

  The fewer people who knew about this the better. However, McNab knew he couldn’t find Ellie on his own, so he agreed.

  ‘Are you coming up by car or train?’

  ‘By motorbike.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were a biker,’ Mitchell had said, sounding impressed.

  McNab had ended that aspect of the conversation by admitting to having only recently reacquired a Harley after many years’ abstinence.

  ‘Well, it’ll help,’ Mitchell had said.

  The long patch of new dual carriageway now allowed him to speed up and McNab swiftly passed the trundling lorries and even the faster-moving cars. The weather had stayed dry, for which he was grateful, although dark clouds were amassing over what he assumed was Cairngorm. God knows what it must have been like up there at Hogmanay in a blizzard, he thought.

  Exiting Drumochter Pass, or Bealach Druim Uachdair as the sign named it, the blush of purple heather on the neighbouring hillsides became even more luscious. Checking out his route via Wikipedia before he’d set out, McNab now knew that Drumochter was the highest road and railway pass in the UK, and he’d also discovered that heather only came into bloom in August.

  God help all those tourists who’d arrived in the Highlands of Scotland expecting ‘the purple of the heather’ at any other time of the year.

  An RAF Tornado jet, set on using the pass for low-level practice, suddenly appeared to thunder above him, so close it seemed his head buzzed inside his helmet.

  McNab saluted them with a press on his own accelerator and a whoop of encouragement. He was, he realized, actively enjoying this. Riding out here was way better than in Glasgow. Taking the turn-off for Aviemore, he met a mini roundabout, on the north side of which sat an Italian eatery called La Taverna. McNab made a mental note of that, his stomach already growling its hunger.

  But first he needed to get the lie of the land and locate the police station.

  Having shared the road with numerous bikers, it was now obvious where they had all been headed. The main street was literally humming with engine sound, the pavements thronged with bikers on foot, obvious by the outfits.

  PC Mitchell had pointed out that his biggest problem would be in finding anywhere to sleep. McNab could see now what he meant, although he’d made small of it at the time.

  ‘You could bed down at the station, unless you’ve brought a tent with you?’ Mitchell had offered.

  McNab had almost choked at the question. Why the hell would he possess a tent, a man who never left Glasgow unless forced to?

  He could tell now why Mitchell had made that point as he took a left turn at the small roundabout to check out the camping area from outside the security cordon. It appeared pretty full already. McNab noted some of the number plates which confirmed what Mitchell had told him about the European spread of the visitors.

  Having completed a full circuit of the village, McNab made for the police station and managed to find a space in the nearby car park, just big enough for the bike.

  The long single-level concrete-block building that fronted the main street sported an ‘opening hours’ notice on the front door. From PC Mitchell he’d already learned that the opening times had been reduced to daytime only, with usually just a receptionist on hand. The station did possess a cell, although custodies weren’t kept there any more but sent to Inverness instead.

  ‘We can supply you with bedding,’ he’d added as if McNab sleeping there had become a foregone conclusion.

  And he was right, McNab thought, looking back at the sea of folk that had flooded the small Highland village.

  Entering, McNab approached the glass-panelled reception desk. From there he could hear a muted interchange but couldn’t see the participants. When the male and female voices erupted in laughter, McNab had the sudden paranoid feeling that it might be about his imminent arrival.

  Clearing his throat loudly resulted in the immediate appearance of t
he male in question, whose resultant expression indicated that he knew exactly who McNab was.

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab.’ He opened the intervening door and held out his hand. ‘PC Mitchell. You made good time.’

  McNab nodded, having no wish to indulge in small talk.

  PC Mitchell called the woman over and introduced her as Irene Watson, the receptionist. ‘Irene’ll supply you with a set of keys and you can come and go as you please. We had hoped to give you a bed in the flat we keep for new recruits, but it’s fully occupied, I’m afraid. If you want to follow me, I’ll show you the cell.’

  An effort had been made, McNab gave them that. He had a bed, the bedding he suspected having been brought in from elsewhere by the patterned quilt and pillowcase.

  ‘Not much, but there’s a toilet and shower as well. I’ve spent an odd night here myself when a blizzard’s hit and I can’t get home. Unlikely in August, although Dr MacLeod will vouch for how bad it can get at times.’ Mitchell, noting McNab’s expression, hurried on. ‘The couple I was talking about will be in the Winking Owl for the next hour. It’s over the road and to the right.’

  ‘I saw it when I rode through the village,’ McNab said.

  PC Mitchell nodded. ‘Jim and Fran Anderson. They’ll be in the upstairs bar. I’ll text them and say you’re on your way. Not much point trying to describe what they’re wearing, since …’ He tailed off with a smile. ‘You have my number. Just let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘I take it you’ve had no luck with the photo I sent up?’ McNab said.

  ‘I thought it better not to circulate it until you decided how you wanted to play this. If I showed any of the barmen, word would be out big time.’ He said that as though McNab had set them an impossible task.

  McNab indicated he knew it was a catch-22 situation. ‘Thanks for your help, so far,’ he said and meant it.

  ‘You’re welcome. And good luck. I hope you find her.’

  67

  McNab crossed the road and, threading his way through the milling crowds, entered the car-park area of the Winking Owl, where he spotted that one of the tented shops was wearing the West Coast Harley sign.

  He had a moment’s elation at the prospect of walking in and finding Ellie, then realized there was no way he could go in there without raising the alarm, especially if Roddie was about.

  Walking swiftly past, and forcing himself not to scan what area was visible through the wide opening, he made his way towards the rear of the car park. The crowds gathered reminded McNab of the speedway audience with mixed ages, plenty of women and loads of kids. It looked like the folk of Aviemore were mixing happily with their annual visitors.

  The two open-air bars set up next to the main building were doing a roaring trade, as was the stall serving Orkney beef burgers and chips. McNab promised his complaining stomach he would be back, after he’d spoken with the Andersons.

  Climbing the wooden staircase that led to the main bar, McNab entered the open double doors and was surprised to discover it wasn’t busy inside, the punters obviously preferring to gather below, the weather being fine.

  Glancing around, he spotted at least two tables that might be sporting the couple he sought, but before he could decide which to approach, a hand touched his arm from behind. McNab turned to find a woman who immediately introduced herself as Fran and ushered him towards a table tucked partially out of sight.

  The man already sitting there rose and offered his hand in welcome. McNab thanked both for meeting him and they all took a seat. Even though used to awkward moments, McNab wasn’t quite sure how to play this, but it seemed PC Mitchell had got there before him and it was Jim that led the way.

  ‘Ruaridh said this girl you’re looking for isn’t in trouble …’ The man paused, obviously not sure how to address a visiting detective sergeant from Glasgow.

  ‘Michael will do,’ McNab offered. ‘And that’s correct,’ he said. ‘Although,’ he found himself saying, ‘she just might be in danger.’

  Jim’s face hardened at that. ‘Then we want to help.’

  McNab wasn’t even sure if what he’d said was true, but every time he recalled Ellie’s voice the last time he’d spoken to her, he saw Claire Masters sitting slumped against that tree trunk.

  He produced the photograph. ‘This is Ellie.’

  Fran studied it with interest. ‘I don’t recognize her. Is she a member of the Dunedin Chapter?’

  McNab shook his head, indicating he didn’t know the answer to that.

  ‘Well, we can find out,’ Fran said. ‘I can also check if she’s registered for the rally. If she is, she’ll have been given a tag for herself and a matching one for her bike, for security purposes.’ She went on, ‘The tags get her free camping and entry to the three inside venues. We could ask security to look out for her tag?’

  That was a definite possibility, but only if Ellie had registered. ‘It’s worth a try,’ McNab said. ‘She works part-time at the Glasgow Harley shop,’ he added with a nod in the direction of the tent outside.

  ‘So she might turn up at this one?’ Jim said.

  McNab explained the situation with Roddie Symes.

  Fran nodded. ‘Okay, so you can’t hang about there.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I can ask some of the Harley Ladies? We could arrange shifts. That way you’re free to look elsewhere.’

  When McNab flinched a little at the thought of involving others, Jim came back in. ‘We’re all part of the Harley family,’ he said. ‘We look after our own. No one needs to know why we’re doing it.’

  McNab’s eye was caught by the TV screen playing silently on the opposite wall. It was a report on Claire’s death and its link with the Jackson murder. He imagined Ellie watching this and discovering, maybe for the first time, that the guy in the tunnel had been murdered and the killer had struck again.

  McNab turned to find Jim’s eyes on him, his face filling with anger.

  ‘Is that what the lassie’s running from?’

  68

  Leaving the bar, McNab went to check on the bike, realizing that Fran had been right. He should register, if only to have the Street Glide tagged for security purposes. Unused to owning anything that someone might like to steal, he was suddenly aware how worrisome that could be.

  Blocked by a van that had arrived since he’d parked, McNab endured a moment’s panic when he couldn’t see the Street Glide, and was already imagining some bastard heading south with his new prize possession.

  When its tail-end became visible, his sigh of relief was audible to more than just him. The guy sitting in the van with the window open gave him the thumbs-up when he realized McNab was the owner of the magnificent bike he’d just been admiring.

  ‘A beauty,’ he began, but was cut short in the inevitable string of questions by McNab’s mobile ringing out.

  Ollie, obviously hearing the background noise from the street, asked if he could talk, while McNab headed for the police station and stepped inside the outer door, shutting it behind him.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said once silence fell.

  ‘I’m picking up Ellie’s mobile again. She’s definitely in the vicinity and she’s had a couple of calls within the last hour.’

  ‘Do you know who from?’

  ‘One from a mobile registered to Roddie Symes, her supervisor at the shop. The other I haven’t traced yet.’ Ollie’s voice rose a little in excitement. ‘There’s something else. I’ve been doing a background check on course participants like you asked. Turns out there’s an R. Symes on the MOOCs course.’

  Now that was a surprise. ‘Is it the same guy?’ McNab said.

  ‘Unconfirmed as yet. Anybody can sign up for the free course and since it doesn’t earn you university credits your details aren’t checked.’

  ‘So you can call yourself anything you like?’

  ‘Basically, yes. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find out if it’s true.’

  McNab thought back to the altercation in the shop. Syme
s was a pain in the arse and thought he owned Ellie, and there was every chance he’d known about the tunnel races. Maybe even been down there watching. But might he be more involved than that?

  ‘Anything else?’ McNab demanded.

  ‘Symes is in the Spey Valley now. Looking at my screen, I’d say he’s bouncing off the same mast as you.’

  As McNab rang off, an incoming text from Chrissy appeared at the top of his screen.

  Can’t locate Rhona. Call me, now.

  69

  As she struggled back to consciousness, it was the smell that hit her first.

  A cloying scent such as she’d experienced in the London Street tunnel, dampness and earth, decomposition and hydrocarbons. Blinded by the dark, she might have imagined herself dead, had it not been for the beat of her heart in her ear and the sound of trickling water.

  Her hands were tied, the tags cutting deeply into her wrists. Rhona shifted her body weight a little to one side in an attempt to reposition her arms behind her back and ease the cramp that had seized them.

  She’d avoided doing this until now, afraid that the nausea she had under rigid control might gain strength by any movement.

  She mustn’t be sick. Not with the gag.

  Rhona had seen enough overdoses to know that choking on vomit was the cause of death more often than the drugs the victim had ingested. Waiting for the moment to pass, she concentrated on analysing the effects of the drug she’d obviously been given before she’d lost consciousness and been brought here.

  Her last semi-clear memory had been of the sound of breaking glass. But where had she been when that had happened? An image suddenly presented itself. A kitchen, her kitchen, with the window seat and the cat …

  Tom … Tom had been there, mewing at her. Licking her mouth because she’d eaten something he savoured. Rhona shifted a little, feeling again the sharpness of broken glass beneath her, catching the metallic scent of blood. Her blood.

  Was she injured? Was the blood still flowing, seeping into the soil she lay on, unhindered, edging her closer to death?