Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

‘I’m not sure if there’s a nightgown or pyjamas,’ Jamie apologized.

  ‘A warm bed’s all I need.’

  ‘Great, well, goodnight, Rhona. I’ll give you a shout in the morning for the search party.’

  She thought for a moment he might kiss her on the cheek, but if that had been his intention, Jamie stopped himself and, turning, headed back downstairs.

  Entering her room, Rhona closed the door with a definite feeling of relief.

  She was, she decided, okay about telling Jamie about Liam. He knew now that her parents had never learned about their grandchild. That she had kept his existence from them. Something that could no longer be fixed, however much she wanted to.

  If her revelation had changed Jamie’s opinion of her, he hadn’t shown it. Maybe some day she would bring Liam to Skye and introduce him to Jamie. The idea of doing that lifted her spirits.

  She took off her shoes and, stripping down to T-shirt and pants, retrieved her notebook and map from her backpack and spread it out beside her on the bed. Had she managed to reach the cottage, her plan had been to write up her notes from this morning’s examination. Now she was alone, she could do just that.

  Studying the map, she could see no reason for the mystery vehicle to continue on the B885. Lee had suggested the same, especially if whoever was driving was looking for medical help. According to the Ordnance Survey map, the single-track road wound westwards to Loch Bracadale, from where you could head north to Dunvegan or return east to join the Uig road, leading back to Portree.

  But if they were seeking medical help, Portree’s minor injury unit was only minutes away in the opposite direction. If the injury had been too severe for them to treat, the patient would have been sent on to Broadford hospital or taken by road or even air ambulance to Raigmore.

  So why head in the opposite direction, unless you had a reason not to report the incident? That seemed to Rhona the most likely scenario.

  Completing her notes, she laid aside her notebook and, snuggling down, tried to go to sleep. The lightning storm had passed, as had the rain, and moonlight now shone down on her through the attic window.

  Hearing Jamie come upstairs to bed, she realized she was glad of his benign presence across the landing, which then reminded her of the nights Sean had stayed over at her flat after coming back late from playing at the jazz club.

  How often she’d woken to find Sean’s arms about her, his warm breath brushing her neck.

  I miss him, she thought. More than I’m willing to admit, even to myself.

  20

  Ashton Lane was deserted in the rain; anyone with any sense was staying in the various drinking establishments that lined the cobbled alley. McNab stood for a moment in the doorway, wondering where he should go next.

  The meeting with Maguire had been necessary, but not altogether satisfactory. McNab had been keen to know if Rhona had been in touch with Maguire, and how the Irishman had felt about her state of mind.

  God knows why I thought he would reveal such a thing to me.

  One thing he had learned was that Maguire wasn’t in a good place right now. And that had a lot to do with Rhona.

  Their interchange had also planted a seed of doubt in McNab’s mind. Maguire thought Rhona had kept something from him, something McNab knew about. Now McNab fretted as to what that could possibly be.

  Had something even worse happened to Rhona that he wasn’t aware of? That no one knew about, even Chrissy?

  Across the road, a door, caught by a sudden gust of wind, abruptly slammed shut. The bang burst in his brain like a gunshot and McNab instinctively turned as he had that night outside the casino in order to shield a terrified Chrissy, only to find a puzzled girl trying to leave the jazz club.

  Muttering an apology, he stepped aside to let her pass.

  Scent, the PTSD counsellor had told him, would stay the longest. After that, specific sounds. For soldiers who’d been on the front line, anything resembling gunfire or even the innocent beat of an approaching chopper might send them back to their darkest place.

  If his recall could still be triggered by a door slamming shut, what the hell was it like for Rhona?

  Exiting the lane, McNab made for Hillhead underground station, his thoughts moving from Rhona to Ellie. He’d told the Irishman that Ellie was fine and it was true enough, although it was difficult to judge, considering how little time they’d spent together recently.

  Along with her work at the Ink Parlour and her part-time position at the Harley-Davidson shop, Ellie had taken on a bar job at the Rock Cafe three nights a week, she’d said to help her save for a new bike.

  If McNab wanted to see her tonight, that was where he had to go.

  The platform was quiet, and when the train arrived it was almost empty. Despite the vacant seats, McNab chose as usual to remain standing next to the door, a habit of his, acquired when he’d joined the force. That and the inevitable scan of the passengers, always on the lookout for recognizable faces.

  Emerging at St Enoch’s, he walked west, the dreary and incessant drizzle speeding him along Argyle Street, keen now to get inside the Rock Cafe. Passing Pizza Hut, he was almost drawn in by the smell, his stomach groaning with hunger.

  Crossing the road at the Celtic shop, he noted a guy in a sleeping bag propped at the foot of the steps that led into House of Fraser. A quick scan of the face told McNab he too was an unknown. Not that he could know every face that haunted the streets of inner Glasgow, looking for a sub for life’s necessities or a bed for the night.

  By the time he’d entered the tunnel that ran under the glassed edifice of Glasgow Central station, he’d passed two more guys with the same hopes and the same cry of ‘Any small change, pal?’

  McNab, like most Glaswegians, hadn’t grown immune to the ravages of fate on his fellow men and women, but still he had no desire to provide the Sandman and his associates with a steady income stream.

  Pushing open the bar door, he stepped inside, meeting a wall of music and warmth. Easing his way through the chattering clientele, he headed downstairs, where a surprising rush of emotion hit him as he caught sight of Ellie behind the bar, laughing at some comment a punter had just made to her.

  The top she wore showed off a lot of her artwork, and McNab marvelled again at the inked glory of intricacy and colour. Noting the punter who’d shared a joke didn’t look intent on leaving his spot at the bar, McNab decided it was time to encourage him to do so.

  Ellie turned as he approached and gave him what he interpreted as a what the hell are you doing here? look.

  ‘When’s your break?’ McNab said, elbowing his way past her latest admirer.

  ‘I could take five minutes now,’ Ellie offered, obviously perturbed by McNab’s intense expression.

  McNab motioned her out from behind the bar and, taking her hand, led her away.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she said with a laugh, sensing now he was up to something.

  ‘I’m rescuing you from the arse at the bar.’

  ‘I don’t need to be rescued,’ Ellie protested.

  They’d reached the corridor that led to the fire escape. Coming to an abrupt halt, McNab gathered Ellie in his arms and kissed her.

  Eventually he let her come up for air.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she said, a smile playing on her lips.

  ‘When do you finish?’ McNab said.

  ‘Eleven.’

  Her voice, he thought, sounded a little husky.

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘And take you home, and we’ll get to know one another a little better.’ He bent towards her again, catching her bottom lip lightly. ‘You can even ink me in a place of your choosing,’ he offered.

  She smiled. ‘You’re talking about the snake? The long curling one that winds itself round your—’

  McNab put his hand over her mouth. ‘If that’s what it takes, then yes.’

  Ellie laughed and he knew that he’d won her ba
ck, for the moment at least.

  Ten minutes later, sitting at a table with a very good view of Ellie, awaiting his burger and curly fries, McNab had decided his evening was turning out better than expected. That was until he spied a face he recognized near the pool table.

  One of the problems in his line of work was how many scumbags you encountered and, even worse, how many you remembered. McNab wasn’t a super recognizer like his mate Ollie in IT. He couldn’t pick out folk he’d arrested from CCTV recordings, especially when they were hooded, with only a partial view of their face on offer. But McNab didn’t need Ollie tonight to tell him that the guy waiting his turn at pool was none other than one Malcolm Stevenson, a suspected major player in the Sandman case, whose mugshot had taken pride of place in the incident room earlier.

  The clientele at the Rock Cafe were a mixed bunch, the common factor being atmosphere, a love of rock music, decent food and drink. It was popular, especially with folk heading for the nearby music venues, but McNab wouldn’t have placed it on Wee Malky’s radar.

  Yet here he was.

  As McNab contemplated this, a guy deposited a plate of burger and curly fries in front of him.

  ‘That bloke with the forehead tattoo at the pool table and the flashy ring,’ McNab asked him. ‘Is he a regular in here?’

  The guy glanced surreptitiously at the said Malky. ‘Why? D’you know him?’

  ‘Do I want to?’ McNab countered.

  The young man was studying McNab more closely now. ‘You’re Ellie’s . . .’ He hesitated, wondering what to call him.

  ‘Bodyguard?’ McNab offered.

  A swift glance from both of them found Ellie more than holding her own at the bar.

  ‘I don’t think she needs one,’ he told McNab with an attempt at a joke.

  ‘But might she need one to protect her from him?’ McNab waved his fork in the direction of Stevenson.

  ‘He comes in sometimes to play pool,’ he offered grudgingly.

  ‘And that’s all he’s here for?’

  The guy, having given a non-committal shrug, made off, which caused McNab to suspect that Stevenson was there to deal, or more likely pick up his local dealer’s takings. This was the problem with being a policeman and trying to have a night out in Glasgow. The underworld couldn’t just pass him by.

  McNab toyed with his food, knowing that he was eventually heading over there, whether he thought it wise or not.

  What was he planning to do? Request a game of pool?

  He checked on Ellie again, as though she was the anchor, holding him in his seat. In half an hour they would go home together and play whatever game she chose. The thought stirred him, and he could smell again the scent of her when they’d embraced earlier.

  But still the gremlin on his shoulder urged him on.

  McNab pushed aside the partially eaten meal.

  Fuck it.

  As he rose, he realized Stevenson’s eyes were upon him and had probably been so for a while. A smile was playing at the corner of his mouth as he waited to see what McNab would do next.

  McNab had nothing to accuse him of. Nothing at all. So why approach?

  ‘You leaving, pal?’ a voice said at his ear.

  A couple who’d obviously hankered after his table had now presented themselves right in front of McNab.

  ‘Sure thing,’ McNab said and sidestepped them, only to spot Stevenson making for the corridor he and Ellie had visited earlier.

  So he’s heading out. I wonder why?

  If the bastard was running, then he was in possession of something he thought McNab might be interested in.

  The crowd round the bar had suddenly multiplied with the arrival of half a dozen biker-clad males, hampering McNab’s ability to thread his way through. His bludgeoning attempts pissed a few folk off and the last thing he saw was Ellie’s exasperated look.

  By the time he reached the corridor it was empty, the fire door swinging open. Swearing his annoyance, he went for a look outside, knowing he was likely too late.

  The rain was still falling, pinging off the empty metal beer barrels against the back wall. A yellow street light found the alley deserted except for himself and . . .

  McNab stepped out onto the cobbled back lane. Ahead of him, a hot-air vent under an overhang was providing a warm, dry place of refuge for a rough sleeper. Approaching, McNab noted that the slumped figure looked like the guy from the steps at House of Fraser.

  McNab prodded him with his foot. ‘Did you see a blond guy pass this way? He had a tattoo on his forehead?’

  With cocaine, amphetamines or marijuana, the eyes usually got very large. McNab had seen mydriasis last for days. Heroin, an opiate, was different. That caused miosis – pinprick pupils.

  In this light diagnosis was impossible, but when McNab had seen him earlier, the guy had been alert and requesting money. Not any more. So maybe this was a distribution point. Maybe that was why Malky had been there.

  McNab, noting the tail of the sleeping bag was getting soaked by the rain, stooped to move it back under the overhang. As he did so, a metal tag on a chain jingled onto the cobbles.

  He picked it up and read it.

  Now he knew the blood group, service number, surname, initials and even the religion of the poor bastard who lay comatose at his feet. The tag felt wet. In the darkness he assumed it was the rain, then his fingers told him a different story.

  McNab hunkered down for a closer look, the soles of his shoes now turning the same red colour.

  Fuck!

  The guy wasn’t in la-la land after all, he was checking out of this life as quickly as the blood that flowed from his body.

  One-handed, his other pressing on the knife wound, McNab was calling 999 as Ellie’s face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Get me towels, cloths, anything to stem the bleeding,’ he told her. ‘And make it quick.’

  Saying nothing, but her own face drained of colour, she disappeared without a word, to reappear with a bundle of cloths.

  ‘They’re clean,’ she told him.

  ‘Get down here,’ he ordered. ‘Be ready when I lift my hand.’

  She did as told. As he eased his hold, McNab felt the gush of escaping blood before he clamped his hand back down again, this time with the benefit of the wad of material.

  A couple of faces appeared at the doorway, one of them the young guy that had served McNab earlier.

  ‘Shut the fucking door,’ McNab said. ‘And keep your mouth shut or we’ll have the hordes out here to gawk at the poor bastard.’

  They took him at his word and closed the fire door.

  ‘What if the ambulance doesn’t get here in time?’ Ellie said, her face creased in concern.

  ‘Then he dies,’ McNab said bluntly.

  Kneeling down beside him, Ellie asked what had happened.

  ‘I followed the tattooed guy from the pool table out here, and found this one lying comatose. I thought he was high until I spotted the blood.’

  Ellie was examining their patient’s face more closely.

  ‘D’you know him?’ McNab said.

  ‘He has a spot at House of Fraser’s steps. I chat to him sometimes.’

  ‘And give him money?’ McNab demanded. ‘To buy his next fix?’

  Ellie drew away a little, annoyed by his tone. ‘He was a soldier. Fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. It fucked him up. Being on the front line does that to people,’ she said, her eyes staring pointedly at McNab.

  Catching the approaching blare of a siren and the accompanying flashing blue light, he prayed it was heading their way. In response, his cramped hand sought to release the pressure a little, despite his best efforts, until Ellie laid her hand firmly on top of his own.

  21

  Afghanistan

  I catch the sharp metallic scent of blood. How badly have they hurt him?

  He has kept his distance all through the night, despite the urgings and beatings of the guards.

  As the first tentacle of light fi
nds the opening high in the wall that serves as our window on the outside world, I sense him gather himself, making sounds as though he is just emerging from sleep. He pulls himself upright against the opposite wall, just as the first flurry of sand enters, swallowing the sunlight.

  It’s not the first time I’ve experienced a sandstorm, but it’s the first in my blue prison.

  I hear him splutter and cough as the sand birls about us. Watch as he tucks his head between his drawn-up knees for protection.

  The sand is coarse, and will pistol-whip his nakedness as well as force entry to every crevice and opening in his body.

  I call out to him, urging him to come to me.

  My pleading is swept away by the swirling sand, now dense as soup, but he must have heard, because he’s crawling across the stony ground towards me.

  I pull him close and, lifting the tent of the blue prison, welcome him under its protection.

  22

  She’d been woken at dawn by Jamie’s urgent knock at the bedroom door.

  ‘Lee’s been on the phone. They need you out at Kilt Rock.’

  Rhona’s heart skipped a beat. ‘They’ve found Jake?’

  ‘They’ve spotted something at the base of the cliff,’ Jamie told her. ‘The MRT’s there already.’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’ Rhona flicked on the light and, rising, quickly pulled on her jeans and jumper.

  Downstairs, Jamie handed her a thermos of coffee and a bacon roll. ‘Not sure when we’ll next be fed,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll eat it on the way,’ Rhona told him, grabbing her jacket from the hall. ‘And I’ll need to pick up my forensic bag from the jeep en route. And Alvis from the Isles.’

  ‘He knows we’re on our way.’

  Jamie was driving the MRT vehicle with caution, his fog lights barely puncturing the thick, swirling mist. Skye, this morning, was living up to its Gaelic nickname of Eilean a’ Cheò, the Misty Isle.

  As far as Rhona could make out, having left Portree they were now heading north, although in truth they could have been anywhere on the island or even driving towards a cliff edge for all that she could see.

  Sitting in the back, she’d listened as Jamie had given Alvis an update on the situation.