Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Perhaps because the beating of the blades conjured up memories she would rather forget?

  Several of Alvis’s own colleagues in Police National had spent time in Afghanistan. Norway still maintained a presence there, attached to the larger International Security Assistance Force (ISAF). Ten Norwegian soldiers had already died in the forgotten war, seven of them blown up by IEDs and twenty-six injured in combat action, some badly.

  Alvis had seen the fallout from this, both as a police officer and as a civilian, with friends and colleagues caught up in the aftermath. It wasn’t only physical injuries that left their mark, but the forever-lurking PTSD, haunting those involved for years afterwards, just as it did among fellow officers who’d served on the front line at home.

  Because not all atrocities happened in war zones.

  His mind moved back to 22 July 2011 and the terrible work of right-wing extremist Anders Behring Breivik, the numbers of young people killed or seriously injured by a lone gunman still too awful to contemplate, although he, like most Norwegians, knew the totals by heart – 69 dead, 110 injured, 55 seriously, when the white extremist, dressed in police uniform, went on a shooting spree on the island of Utøya in Tyrifjorden.

  He thought of the young woman in the plantation and wondered about her state of mind. Trying to preserve life, especially on the front line, could prove as traumatizing as being a combat soldier. The group was a team, that much had been obvious by the camaraderie, but the girl seemed to be, at times, a reluctant member.

  The ringing of his mobile brought him out of his reverie. Glancing at the screen, he was pleased to find Rhona’s name.

  ‘You’re back safely?’

  ‘I am,’ she assured him. ‘I called to say I’m planning a walk tomorrow instead of coming into Portree.’

  ‘D’you want some company?’

  She hesitated a little, then said, ‘No, but thanks anyway. How much longer are you here for?’

  ‘I leave in a couple of days.’

  Alvis had the strongest feeling in that moment that Rhona had called to say goodbye.

  ‘Chrissy will be heading back to Glasgow shortly too,’ she said.

  ‘And you?’ Alvis asked.

  ‘Probably stay until Christmas. After that . . .’

  ‘So your work here is over?’

  ‘The PM found no evidence of foul play, according to McNab, no birch residue, no evidence of a knife or tomahawk wound. It looks like the injured party in the birch woods is unconnected to the body on the beach.’ She paused, then almost as an afterthought, said, ‘Do you remember roughly the heights of the medic group?’

  Alvis, slightly taken aback by the question, thought for a moment. ‘Average for the men, five nine or ten, except for the blond one who was closer to my height, and to the body on the beach. Why?’

  ‘Just curious. We’ll find out anyway when they eventually report to the station.’

  She sounded about ready to ring off, so he intervened.

  ‘What about the DNA evidence you collected from the woods?’

  ‘Nothing back on that, yet.’

  Her tone suggested she didn’t expect there to be a match to the victim either. It sounded as though Dr MacLeod no longer had faith in her earlier connections.

  ‘Well, enjoy your walk,’ Alvis said.

  ‘Thanks, I intend to.’

  Alvis slipped the mobile back in his pocket. Across the way, it appeared the police station had shut its doors for the night. Maybe that’s why Rhona had called him and not Sergeant MacDonald.

  She was right. Her job here was done, as was Chrissy’s, although Chrissy would be reluctant to go if that meant leaving Rhona behind.

  He thought again of the recent incident in the plantation. As far as he knew, Rhona was unaware that he had seen it, hence the lie about how her hands were bloodied. Whatever she’d relived in that moment amongst the tightly packed trees had, he assumed, come from her time in captivity.

  As his mood settled into one of gloom, Alvis rose and, leaving the square, made for the harbour, intent on using the scenery and the sea smells to remind him of home. Whatever he’d hoped to achieve here on Skye was over. As much as he wished good health on Dr MacLeod, he wasn’t in a position to personally deliver it.

  Only time might do that.

  39

  On opening the door, McNab was besieged by a smell he didn’t encounter often in his flat: cleanliness – which, he decided, reminded him of his home as a boy. No dirty dishes stacked in and around the sink, no remains of half-eaten ready meals.

  Breathing it all in, he wandered between the main room, bedroom and bathroom. The scummy sink and shower had been rendered a glistening white. Damp smelly towels removed and replaced with fresh. The bedding had been changed too. Where had all the dirty stuff gone?

  McNab eventually found it in the dryer and, captivated by his new-look home, proceeded to fold everything and put it in the airing cupboard, which had also been tidied.

  So this was what a deep clean looked like. It was worth it, McNab decided, whatever the price. Good old DS Clark, who’d furnished him with the number for Clean It! Enterprises and would have to be congratulated and rewarded for her efforts.

  McNab grinned when he opened the fridge door to discover the basics had also been supplied. Stocking your fridge. An added extra.

  Sitting on the table was a note from the guardian angel who had transformed his home, to say if he required a weekly tidy-up he should give Darren at Clean It! a call, as it would be his pleasure to pop in once a week for a refresh.

  McNab now took advantage of the clean shower and the fresh towels. After which he studied the Indian carry-out menu and ordered in tonight’s meal for two, making sure he chose mostly Ellie’s favourites.

  His conversation with Prince Harry had resulted in an agreement of sorts which would happen tomorrow when he was discharged. Ellie, somewhat mollified by McNab’s attempts to get things right, had agreed to come round after tonight’s shift at the Rock Cafe.

  All in all, the day had improved, almost as much as his flat. McNab decided that he might celebrate a little with two fingers of whisky before the food and Ellie’s arrival. Retrieving the bottle, he studied its slowly diminishing contents.

  ‘Everything in moderation’ had been his mother’s watchword. If only he’d adopted it as his own earlier.

  ‘I’m trying, Mum,’ he muttered to the ceiling before measuring out his allotted amount and putting the bottle back in the cupboard.

  Taking his time, he savoured the scent of the malt, which he’d bought in place of the usual easily quaffable blended version. Treat it like the French treat wine, with respect, he reminded himself. And the less you drink over time, the more powerful the result when you do.

  That much he had found to be true.

  McNab added a little water, then sniffed again. Anticipation was the name of the game, as important in drinking whisky as in having sex.

  He married the idea of whisky and sex in his head, then tasted the malt, allowing a ripple of delight to combine with sexual desire. Hey, maybe the French were right after all.

  The roar of the approaching Harley was timed to perfection. The question was what would come first. The food or the sex?

  He watched as Ellie parked her bike below. She wouldn’t have brought it if she didn’t intend staying over, or that’s what McNab told himself. He waited for the buzzer, forgetting momentarily that Ellie hadn’t given back her key.

  Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, he realized that she must have let herself in at the main door, but there was no sound of her key in the inner lock. After a slight wait, he heard her knock on the door and immediately went to open it.

  She had her helmet in her hands and her backpack over her arm. When he smiled at her, she wrinkled her nose and said, ‘What smells so nice?’

  ‘Something Darren from Clean It! put in with the washing, I think,’ McNab ventured.

  ‘Darren?’ Ellie said with a sugges
tive smile.

  ‘No sexism here. Men can be cleaners too.’ McNab pulled her inside and shut the door.

  ‘Lemon Lenor,’ she offered. ‘And plenty of it.’

  McNab took her helmet and bag and dropped them on the hall chair, then did what he’d planned as he’d listened to her climbing the stairs.

  She eventually emerged with a gasp. ‘Can I at least see the sitting room first?’

  McNab let her go, albeit reluctantly, having already conjured up an image of them moving swiftly into the bedroom with just enough time before the curry would arrive.

  But, it seemed, Ellie was more captivated by cleanliness than by him.

  ‘My God. The place is unrecognizable, by sight or smell,’ she said as she surveyed the main room. ‘And you’ve even set the table.’

  ‘Curry won’t arrive for thirty minutes or so.’ McNab raised a hopeful eyebrow.

  ‘So let’s have a drink while we wait.’ Ellie eyed his whisky glass. ‘I take it you have wine?’

  Fuck. That’s what he didn’t have. Maybe Darren could replenish that too in future, if asked.

  Ellie smiled at his discomfort. ‘Just as well I brought a bottle, courtesy of the Rock Cafe.’

  She left him to go through to the hall for her backpack. Flourishing the bottle of red wine on re-entry, she said with a pitying smile, ‘We could take our drinks into that rather nice bedroom.’

  ‘Thank you, Darren,’ McNab whispered under his breath.

  Later, it was McNab who rose and, donning his boxers, went to the door to take possession of the curry. Behind him, Ellie scurried through to the sitting room in what looked like his T-shirt.

  The sex had obviously given her an appetite, because she moved to swiftly open the various cartons and murmur delight at their contents.

  ‘You’ve chosen the stuff I like,’ she said in surprise. ‘Normally I have to beg for the mild curries and a Peshwari naan.’

  Usually McNab preferred a hot curry, but his taste buds had reappeared since he’d cut back on the whisky, so he’d been okay about going for the milder choices. Something he didn’t mention, of course, since he was rather enjoying the thoughtful boyfriend role he was playing.

  Ellie topped up her wine. McNab, who hadn’t yet finished his two fingers of whisky, decided to save it until the end.

  ‘You have cut back,’ Ellie said. ‘Less booze, and a clean flat. You must have really wanted me back here.’ She threw him a suspicious look. ‘Or is this really about Harry?’

  ‘He’s getting out tomorrow,’ McNab said. ‘And he’s agreed to stay at your place, if you’ll have him.’

  Ellie pondered that as she broke off a piece of naan.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  McNab chose his words carefully. ‘He wants to get clean. He agreed to see a counsellor. I’ll put him in touch with the right folk. He’s a former soldier, injured in the line of duty. He should be getting help.’

  She was regarding him now in much the way that Rhona did when she was trying to work out exactly what game he was playing. McNab felt a stab of regret because he was playing her and Harry, and he wanted to win as always.

  ‘What’s he got to do in return?’

  ‘Stay fucking alive,’ McNab said. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Will he testify as to who stabbed him?’

  McNab shook his head. ‘We aren’t there yet. One step at a time.’

  She didn’t like his tone. He could see that by the raising of an eyebrow.

  ‘If you’re fucking with him . . .’ She tailed off accusingly.

  ‘I’m not fucking with him.’ McNab hoped his tone now suggested honesty. ‘If you’re okay with him staying, I’ll deliver him myself tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s not a prisoner, you know.’

  ‘No, but he might be a victim if I don’t keep an eye on him.’

  Her look suggested she was remembering the blood-soaked body in the alley and their attempts together to stem the flow.

  ‘You have to let me do my job,’ McNab said. ‘Semper vigilo: Keeping people safe.’

  She gave him a thoughtful look then, and McNab hoped she was remembering that he had done that on a previous occasion for her.

  ‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘You’ve got a key. It’s clean. Maybe not as clean as here, though.’

  When she smiled at him, McNab knew he had won, for the moment.

  40

  Rhona spread the map out on the kitchen table.

  Initially she’d thought to tell Alvis that she wanted to have a quiet couple of days at the cottage, but then it had struck her that he might turn up unexpectedly to find that wasn’t the case, so had decided instead to mention the walk.

  And he’d bought it, she thought. Jamie and Lee would too, because she’d spent so much time doing exactly that since coming to Skye.

  She hadn’t called Chrissy, just sent a text saying she was safely back and to enjoy her night with Donald. Any mention of not turning up in Portree she would keep until tomorrow.

  Having made up her mind, she’d then eaten her baked potato and beans and helped herself to a second whisky before setting about packing for her trip.

  The girl they called Seven had intimated that she planned to camp in the plantation until it was time to meet up with the others. Rhona wasn’t sure she believed her, but there was one way to find out.

  When Rhona had first viewed the clearing, the girl had been patting the dog, her head bare. It was only when Rhona had come into view that she’d raised the hood on her cagoule. Nothing particularly odd about that and yet . . .

  Rhona now brought up the images she’d taken when examining the locus in the woods. Her notes indicated that someone had impacted on the birch tree at around five feet from the ground. Of course, that didn’t say anything definitive about the height of the person involved. The impact would depend on how far someone had been from the tree prior to connecting with it. A tall person might have fallen from a distance or perhaps been only partly upright when they’d hit the trunk.

  Alternatively, the damage might have happened to someone shorter, like a blonde girl of around five feet three inches tall.

  Hardly scientific, but intriguing nonetheless. If the result came back that the DNA evidence she’d extracted from the bark wasn’t a match for the beach victim, might it still have come from one of the other members of the group, possibly the girl?

  Had the group been visiting the assault course out of hours, having taken drugs and alcohol, the MOD would definitely not be impressed. An injury sustained in such a ‘game’, if treated in a hospital, would have to be reported to the police, and the police were legally obliged to inform the MOD if any serving personnel were involved.

  As medics, one assumed they would treat an injury themselves, provided it wasn’t life-threatening.

  So wasn’t it perfectly possible they’d done so?

  And it might go some way to explaining her own reading of Seven’s state of mind.

  It was still dark when she loaded the jeep. She’d refilled the petrol tank before setting off home yesterday, keen not to have to worry about fuel for the next few days at least.

  She’d only used the tent once during her sojourn on the island, always preferring to wend her way home after a long walk. This time she packed it, and sufficient supplies to keep her fed and watered for a couple of days.

  After that, Seven and her fellow medics would be reporting to the police station prior to leaving the island. Perhaps too the police would have established the identity of the beach victim, maybe even the reason he’d fallen from Kilt Rock. Although deciding whether a fall was induced or accidental was a difficult thing, as Dr Sissons had indicated via his detailed email to McNab.

  Her discussion with McNab had convinced Rhona that she should set aside the beach death for the moment and aim to discover what had happened in the woods. Her plan therefore was to try and meet up with Seven and challenge her on what they’d got up to after leaving
the Isles bar that night. Perhaps, by doing that, one mystery at least would be solved.

  However, to do so would involve another visit to the plantation, and Rhona had no desire to use the overgrown forest path again. Approaching the camp the way she’d exited with Alvis was, she decided, the safer alternative.

  The heavy rain of the previous evening had settled into a light drizzle which involved using the wipers to periodically scrape at the windscreen. Irritating as this was, Rhona consoled herself with the thought that walking in drizzle would be better than in torrential rain.

  It took the statutory hour to reach Portree. Approaching the scattering of wooden buildings on the outskirts that constituted A.C.E Target Sports, Rhona noted all were in darkness, including Donald’s place, which gave her an excuse not to text Chrissy, just yet.

  Rhona had considered asking if she might borrow Blaze for her walk, although that may have involved questions she wasn’t ready to answer, but, as chance would have it, as she passed the parking place she noticed the black-and-white shaggy shape of the dog down by the stream. Blaze, she knew, wasn’t averse to going off on his own exploring the surrounding countryside when the notion took him.

  Rhona drew up and, opening the window, gave the ‘here to me’ call. The big collie, his ears obviously like radar, picked up her voice immediately and, emerging from the gate, headed up the road towards her.

  She’d already heard the tale where Blaze had joined a jogger for a six-mile early run, so, promising herself she would text Blaze’s whereabouts, she decided to take the dog with her. Chrissy might be suspicious of her motives for doing that, but then again, Chrissy was always suspicious.

  The dog happily jumped up to join her in the jeep, seemingly unperturbed by any lies Rhona would have to tell.

  ‘I like an assistant who says very little,’ she told the dog, who gave her a winning grin in return.

  By the time she’d driven up the steep forest track to the turning circle, the sun had risen and the drizzle had been replaced by a cold wind. Zipping up her cagoule, Rhona ordered the dog out and locked the jeep. The heavy rain the previous evening had reduced the turning circle to mud, and it wasn’t possible to say whether a vehicle had been here since her last visit.