Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  In his head.

  They’d all had to undergo counselling after the event. The event. What a fucking way to describe it. The others had never openly discussed their supposed rehabilitation. At least not with her. She wondered, now, if they’d discussed it with each other.

  If they’d talked about her.

  Is that why we’re here, she thought? To check her out? Find out how much she’d revealed of what had happened?

  She lifted her drink, more to stop herself catching anyone’s eye.

  And she didn’t know the whole story, she reminded herself. Isolated as she’d been in her blue prison, she had no idea how bad it had been for the others after they’d been captured. One thing she did know. There had been seven alive before the attack. The magnificent seven. And now there were only five.

  In her mind she made the group whole again, adding in Mitch with his crooked smile and deftly moving hands. The Stitcher, they’d called him, because of the speed he dealt with wounds. And big Gordo, who’d professed to having only one testicle, having lost the other one, or so he claimed, to a sniper’s bullet.

  More likely gnawed off by a dissatisfied fuck, according to Mitch.

  Strained by trying not to study them, she closed her eyes, listening as they talked and laughed over their pints, easily pinpointing each of their voices. In that moment she felt a wash of something resembling love, in a way that can only happen when you’ve faced death together.

  The sound was innocuous at first. Tucked in the corner seat between the window and the wood stove, she registered it only subconsciously. Then Sugarboy jumped up and shouted in a raucous voice.

  ‘Fucking chopper, boys. Get ready. It’s the fucking chopper.’

  And . . . she was back in the hospital tent with the cloying smell of disinfectant and blood, the relentless beat of an approaching helicopter sending them, like the swirling sand, into a paroxysm of activity and excitement, mixed with the accompanying guilt at their pleasure at that sound.

  They had a job to do, but in order to do it, someone had to have been hurt. Shootings, maimings, explosions, roadside devices that shattered bodies. They treated everyone that came their way. The children had affected her most. Blinded, wounded, terrified. Nothing, she knew, had prepared her for the real casualties of war.

  All four of them were standing, cheering on the chopper as it flew over the pub, bound no doubt for the hills and some missing climber.

  She stayed seated, conscious of all the eyes upon them, especially those of the tall blond man at the bar. Seeing she hadn’t risen, he’d been the one to grab her arm and drag her to her feet. She smelt him then, the beer, the sweat, the heat, his agitation.

  As the sound diminished, so too did the mood of excitement.

  ‘Fuck that,’ Sugarboy said, heading for the bar.

  Minutes later he was back with a bottle and five shot glasses.

  ‘A few of these. And some snow.’ He tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Straight, I should say, from Sand Land. Then we rumble for real,’ he said, throwing her a secret smile.

  12

  Emerging from the trees, Rhona noted a single-track road below her, which according to the map should be the route that ran past A.C.E Target Sports, albeit a mile at least further west. So, whoever had been in the woods must have left their vehicle somewhere around here. On her nearside was a deep ditch, designed to take the run-off from the hill she’d just descended. On the other side was flat ground.

  Crossing the single-track road, she looked both ways. Before she could decide which direction to check first, the dog did it for her, leading her back towards the sports site. Rhona wondered briefly if Blaze was just heading for home, but no, he was definitely following a scent, the source of which she eventually saw for herself.

  It would have been difficult for her to spot blood on the muddy grass, but not on a patch of snow.

  Hunkering down beside the tell-tale red, she did her best to take a sample, then straightening up, she studied the churned ground immediately ahead.

  So, whoever was injured had been heading here.

  It wasn’t clear by the tread marks from which direction the vehicle had come, nor which direction it had headed when it left. Portree was minutes away, but had it gone the other way, it would eventually have reached Bracadale, where it could have headed north towards Dunvegan, or south to Broadford.

  The dog, having led her there, was now looking quizzically at her. If Rhona could have interpreted what Blaze was saying, it would have been, ‘So what now, partner?’

  ‘We head for home,’ Rhona told him. ‘Or your home at least.’

  Rhona looked back to the hillside track that had led her here. She’d done her best to mark it on the map as she’d walked, all the while taking photos and soil samples. Not for the first time did she wish she had a soil scientist with her, like her friend and colleague Dr Jen Mackie, who’d been instrumental in the sin-eater case.

  Checking her phone, she realized firstly that she had no signal, and secondly that she’d been absent long enough for concern. The likelihood was that either Donald or Matt would already be out looking for her.

  Rhona set off at a brisk pace, accompanied by her new forensic assistant. She smiled, thinking of Chrissy’s expression when Rhona told her she’d been replaced by a Border collie.

  The rain came on minutes later, light at first then falling in sheets. The midwinter light had turned everything grey, and the surrounding hills were wrapped in mist. Rhona imagined the downpour washing away all remnants of the possible crime scene not protected by the tarpaulin.

  To the north, intermittent headlamps signalled cars on the A87, the road Donald had described as leading to the Fairy Glen. In this light, in this place, Rhona could almost believe in fairies.

  Head down against the onslaught, she didn’t register the approaching vehicle until Blaze gave a warning bark. Drawing up alongside her, Donald rolled down the window.

  ‘Come on, hop in,’ he said.

  Blaze waited patiently as Donald saw Rhona inside, before having the back door opened for him.

  ‘Thanks for coming to look for me,’ Rhona said as Donald sought a place to turn the big 4x4.

  ‘I suspected if you hadn’t come back via the woods that Blaze would have taken you to the road. Did you find what you were looking for?’ He eyed her obviously laden backpack.

  ‘I did,’ Rhona said.

  ‘I could take you straight to Sergeant MacDonald?’ Donald offered. ‘The sergeant and Blaze go way back,’ he smiled. ‘In fact Blaze has been behind bars for toast stealing. Isn’t that right, Blaze? And we have photos to prove it.’ He tossed a tennis ball into the back, which the collie deftly caught.

  Rhona knew Donald was trying to lighten the tension, which didn’t make it any easier to turn him down.

  ‘Thanks. But I’d rather pick up the jeep first and head down there myself.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Donald nodded, having suspected, Rhona thought, that that would be her answer.

  The site eventually appeared in the headlights. As soon as Donald eased the vehicle into the car park, Matt appeared at the door of the container and waved at them to come inside.

  ‘Can you explain to Matt?’ Rhona said to Donald, heading instead to the jeep. ‘I should get this stuff to the police station.’

  Rhona felt bad about abandoning Matt and Donald without further explanation, but the same would have happened at the discovery of any potential crime scene. Her responsibility was to report her findings to the police and let them decide how it should be handled.

  13

  Portree was huddled under a laden sky. As she approached, a shaft of lightning split the dense rain clouds, followed swiftly by a thunderclap. Around her, house lights went off, suggesting the power surge had flipped a few trip switches.

  The rain turned to hailstones cracking against the bonnet and roof of the jeep as she drew into Somerled Square. The Isles Inn too had had a power outage, although the image of
flickering lights suggested candles were being lit.

  As she parked, she noted the presence of Alvis’s vehicle, covered now in ice pellets. Wherever he’d walked today, she was relieved to see he was safely back. Emerging from the vehicle, Rhona made a dash for the police station even as its own lights flashed back on.

  Entering the station, it was obvious by the moans around laptops that in the few seconds between the power going off and the backup generator kicking in, a few folk had lost whatever they’d been typing.

  The desk duty officer tried to speak to her but was suddenly drowned out by a bellow of thunder directly overhead.

  ‘Sergeant MacDonald in?’ Rhona shouted back.

  He nodded and waved her through.

  Lee looked up from his laptop as she entered. ‘Rhona, you’re brave venturing out in this.’ He glanced at the full backpack. ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘Alvis told you what I was planning?’ Rhona said.

  ‘He came by last night.’

  From Alvis’s expression as he’d left, Rhona had suspected that was exactly what he would do. She didn’t blame him for that. Had their positions been reversed, she might well have done the same.

  ‘I bet McNab called?’ she said.

  When Lee gave an apologetic nod, Rhona laughed.

  ‘And I thought I could get away from it all if I came to Skye.’

  ‘You should have known better,’ Lee offered.

  ‘Well,’ Rhona said. ‘Someone was definitely injured.’

  She brought out the evidence bag with the sterile container. ‘In here is scalp residue which I retrieved from a tree trunk. It needs to be kept cool and sent as quickly as possible to my forensic assistant. She’ll organize a DNA profile. The soil samples too. I’ll email Chrissy and tell her they’re on their way.’

  ‘I checked Portree and Broadford hospitals, then Inverness,’ Lee said. ‘No emergency admissions from Skye, except for a climber with a broken leg picked up last night.’

  ‘What about Glasgow or Edinburgh?’ Rhona offered. ‘It’s further than Inverness, but if it was a holidaymaker, perhaps they headed home.’

  ‘I’ll contact them too. What do you want to do about the site?’

  ‘I sectioned it off with tape and the tarpaulin’s back in place. I’ve taken photos and soil samples from the exit route path. I also located and photographed tyre tracks where we met the B885 and some blood traces.’ Rhona showed Lee where on the map. ‘The ground’s churned up, I couldn’t be sure of the direction taken when they left.’

  She glanced at the window, still rattling under an onslaught of hailstones. ‘Any evidence not covered by the tarpaulin will likely be washed away by tomorrow.’

  ‘Any idea if a weapon was used?’

  ‘The head hit the tree with substantial force, that’s all I can say at the moment. And there was no sign of a weapon in the immediate vicinity. A proper search would be needed for that.’

  ‘Are we looking for a body?’ Lee said, his face serious.

  ‘I wouldn’t rule it out.’

  14

  As she crossed the car park, Rhona realized her mood had lifted.

  If it felt that good to work a possible crime scene again, did that mean she was ready to return home to Glasgow?

  Her mind immediately revisited her flat, walking her through it, replaying terrifying images she’d thought she’d managed to subdue. Yet here they were again, in all their original intensity.

  Even the sight and sound of the gushing water in the nearby gutter recalled the stream she’d encountered during the sin-eater case. A stream, she tried to remind herself, that had helped save her life.

  She halted by the jeep, registering the light from the windows of the Isles bar. It looked and sounded as though they were back in business. She thought of going inside, having something to eat, maybe talking to Alvis. Running it over in her mind, it didn’t seem too bad a proposition. Alvis and she had been through a lot together. He deserved more than her evasive brush-off of yesterday.

  Decided now, Rhona walked quickly across to the entrance.

  On opening the door, music and warmth quickly enveloped her. Rhona had been here before with Jamie, who’d introduced her to the bar staff. She now knew that Donald worked here part-time too behind the scenes.

  The L-shaped bar with its roaring fire held many faces, but no Jamie in his usual spot, nor any sign of Alvis. Despite having come in with the intention of engaging with Alvis, Rhona found herself a little relieved about that. She turned towards the restaurant area and the scent of food made her realize just how hungry she was. She quickly decided that eating here was preferable to heading home in the storm to prepare a meal.

  ‘Has Jamie been in?’ Rhona ventured as she was shown to a table.

  ‘Not yet,’ the waitress told her with a smile of recognition. ‘He’ll likely be in later, though.’

  With a quick glance at the menu, Rhona gave her order of fish and chips.

  Seated now, she was conscious of the various foreign voices surrounding her in the small restaurant. Americans to her right, probably Californian, she thought. Ahead of her was a party of four French people. On her left, Italians.

  It seemed tourists came to Skye whatever the time of year. And whatever the weather.

  ‘Rhona?’ Suddenly Alvis’s tall, smiling figure came striding towards her. ‘Are you about to eat? If so, may I join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rhona said. ‘I was going to text you to let you know I was here.’

  Not strictly true, but yet . . .

  Alvis smiled as though he might believe her.

  ‘How did it go today?’ he asked as soon as he’d ordered his own meal.

  ‘I processed the locus and handed the evidence to Sergeant MacDonald for transfer.’

  ‘So, do we have a crime on our hands?’

  Rhona repeated her explanation of what she’d found, before pointing out that she hadn’t given that amount of detail to Donald or Matt.

  Alvis nodded. ‘So someone did get hurt, but you have no idea who?’

  ‘Matt said the only folk they’d had in the last few days were army personnel and they left unscathed.’

  Alvis looked interested by that. ‘Was there a female among them, do you know?’

  Rhona had no idea. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘There was a group in here the night I arrived. Four blokes and a girl. Medics who’d served in Afghanistan together.’

  ‘That could be them. Are they still around?’

  ‘They were heading for the hills, survival training, or so they told the barman.’ Alvis glanced at the window. ‘It’s definitely not camping weather. Still, if they’re service personnel they’ll be used to rough conditions.’

  15

  Afghanistan

  I have lost all sense of time. I sometimes try to piece the broken past together. To view the jigsaw between then and now. At first I attempted to count the days by the sun’s movement across the dirt floor. And focusing on the light means I can see the other non-human occupants of my cell.

  My greatest fear has been of the scorpions who love to shelter in stone walls like the ones that surround me.

  I perpetually scan for the most dangerous ones, those with thin pincers and thick tails. I’ve treated soldiers who’d encountered them when they’d used walls for cover, or when they’d hollowed out dugouts. I’ve watched them writhe and scream from the neurotoxic sting. Dressed an arm as raw as a third-degree burn from the cytotoxic poison of the Hemiscorpius lepturus, for which there is no antivenom.

  The spiders frighten me less. Out to forage in the dark, the danger is that they will crawl into my blue prison while I sleep and I will inadvertently crush them, forcing them to retaliate.

  How many hours did I spend spraying the sandbags encircling the medical tent and our sleeping quarters to prevent scorpions entering? How often did I move beds as far away from the inside walls as space would allow, imagining that despite our care, a life might be tak
en inadvertently in the night?

  As for our own sleeping quarters, the others would make fun of my efforts. They weren’t scared of a wee spider, they told me.

  While all the time, a scorpion was already among us.

  16

  ‘Who?’

  McNulty’s expression was a mixture of feigned surprise, guile and, without a doubt, self-satisfaction.

  McNab wondered if Janice had registered the fact that McNulty much preferred to be questioned about his possible connection to a drug cartel, rather than for beating up his partner.

  ‘Jess questioned you about the Sandman. That’s why you hit her,’ Janice said.

  ‘You’ve got no chance on the domestic so you’re switching to some geezer called the Sandman?’ he laughed, his big belly shaking against the table.

  ‘Once the word gets out . . .’ Janice said in a voice that suggested he should be worried about his welfare.

  A flicker of animal cunning sprang to life in McNulty’s eyes.

  ‘The tits tells jokes. Ha fucking ha.’

  McNab realized he was grinding his teeth. He forced his mouth open a little and sat back in his seat, curbing his desire to cut in on Janice’s questioning.

  ‘You’re supplying. Jess was making things difficult. So you shut her up. Knocked two teeth out in the process and broke her arm, which unfortunately meant an A&E visit.’

  McNulty was the one now gritting his teeth.

  ‘A bit embarrassing to be put away for hitting a wee lassie when you’re such –’ she moved her eyes to the bulging belly – ‘a big man.’

  McNab watched as the curtains came down on McNulty’s eyes. It was all over, for the moment at least.

  ‘Why the fuck does she stay with that bastard?’ McNab said as they emerged from the interview room to breathe in air that wasn’t filled with the stink of McNulty.

  ‘Because he’ll kill her if she leaves,’ Janice told him.

  ‘We could definitely get him on that,’ McNab said, only half in jest.