Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘But be careful which picture you take her to see,’ McNab said, suddenly envisaging a horror or, even worse, a Japanese cartoon. ‘Probably better to check what she likes first.’

  Listen to me, giving out the dating advice.

  ‘So,’ McNab said. ‘Any luck, apart from a date with the delicious Maria?’

  ‘The number you gave me is, or could be, a service number. It fits the pattern.’ At this point Ollie went off into a ramble about service numbers before, during and after both world wars, and how they weren’t consistent.

  ‘This is post those wars, I take it?’ McNab interrupted him.

  Ollie nodded. ‘Yes, when the numbering became more consistent.’

  ‘The boss says he’ll make sure you have permission to access the records of serving personnel,’ McNab promptly told him.

  ‘Well, I haven’t as yet,’ Ollie said, apologetically.

  ‘Bugger it,’ McNab muttered under his breath. ‘What about the CCTV footage?’

  ‘That, I do have,’ Ollie said. ‘Want to see it?’

  McNab cast him a look that suggested that was exactly the reason he was here.

  A few minutes later he was viewing the exit next to the discharge lounge where three taxis stood in a row. Checking the time clock above, he noted that it was this morning, just before nine o’clock.

  With his eyes fixed on the screen, McNab watched as the seconds ticked by and, one after another, patients exited the lounge. None of them was Harry.

  Time moved on, and more patients came out and got into a selection of cars or black cabs. One emerged to climb on the back of a motorbike.

  No sign of Harry. Although there were males whose faces were obscured.

  The clock now said 9.40.

  McNab glanced at Ollie. ‘You’re the super recognizer. Is there a chance Harry is one of those guys whose faces we can’t see properly?’

  Ollie shook his head.

  ‘He signed out at 9.30,’ McNab muttered. ‘At least that’s the time he wrote in the book.’

  ‘Are you certain he was picked up?’ Ollie said.

  ‘The nurse said Harry told her his ride was there. Thanked her, signed the book and left,’ McNab said irritably.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t leave from that particular exit?’ Ollie suggested.

  McNab imagined Harry sitting there waiting for him to turn up. Taking fright and making a run for it. If that had been the case, where would he go?

  He’d had no mobile on him when McNab had taken him to hospital the night he was stabbed. McNab would have been overjoyed if that had not been the case. A mobile would at least have given them some clues as to Harry’s contacts.

  Ollie eventually took pity on him. ‘I’ll get all the exit footage around that time and go through it.’

  ‘He must be pretty sore still,’ McNab said, remembering his own exit from hospital after the shooting. ‘Even if they gave him a supply of strong painkillers, it won’t be enough.’ McNab halted there, before he could say, for a junkie like Harry.

  ‘Then you’ll find him in his old haunts,’ Ollie said.

  Or dead.

  He rose. ‘You’ll contact me as soon as you find out who owns that service number?’ McNab tried to lighten his voice. ‘But first, I suggest you head for the cafe and ask the lovely Maria out.’

  By the dreamy look on Ollie’s face, it appeared he might just do that.

  After leaving Ollie, and despite the hour, McNab decided he wasn’t ready to go home just yet.

  He didn’t want to open the door on an empty flat. Neither did he want to open it to find Ellie there waiting for him, eager for news. Plus what Ollie had said had rung true. If Harry was desperate for a fix, he would have headed for his old haunts. McNab wasn’t sure where exactly these were, except for the places he’d seen Harry himself.

  Old habits were hard to break. Old paths rarely abandoned. If Harry was sore and had nowhere to go, wouldn’t he go back to his usual spot?

  It was worth a try. It was also an ugly night to be sleeping rough. The predicted snow sweeping in from the west had now reached Glasgow. Never going to lie for long, it had nevertheless formed a thin surface of slush underfoot.

  The flakes melting on his face, McNab walked on, each step making him wish even harder that he’d turned up on time this morning at the hospital and Harry was now safely ensconced in the comfort of Ellie’s flat.

  He fleetingly wondered if Harry might have made it out of Glasgow. Maybe gone home to wherever he’d come from originally. His accent didn’t belong to the city, although he’d adopted a Weegie way of asking for money.

  Where had Harry come from?

  Fife, Dundee maybe? Plenty of soldier boys were recruited in the Kingdom of Fife. In fact anywhere where poverty or lack of work made joining up a likely proposition.

  He caught the underground at Govan and got off at St Enoch’s, retracing his steps of the other night. Approaching House of Fraser’s, his heart leapt a little at the sight of a human bundle on the steps, but it wasn’t Harry, and the girl huddled under a plastic sheet didn’t even try to answer McNab’s questions.

  Breaking the habit of a lifetime, McNab dropped some money into her cup.

  Walking on, he reached the alleyway at the back of the Rock Cafe, knowing Harry wouldn’t be there, but compelled to look anyway. The scene of the stabbing was just the same, apart from the unbloodied slush melting into the gutter.

  He was wasting his time and knew it.

  Heading for the front door, McNab went inside. The place was as busy as normal and the bustle of noise and music enveloped him. He knew Ellie wasn’t working tonight, but he went downstairs anyway.

  Their plan had been to eat together at his place later, but McNab couldn’t contemplate going back there yet, despite a little voice urging him to do so. Approaching the bar, he ordered a double whisky and a packet of crisps, kidding himself the combination would stave off the hunger.

  He didn’t bother to savour the whisky, drinking it down in two swallows. The sudden shock of it on his system was dramatic, aided by an empty stomach.

  He ordered another and went to sit near the fire exit.

  This time he sat the whisky in front of him. No point in drinking it until the warm glow had dissipated.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice said, ‘you looking for Ellie? She’s not in tonight.’

  McNab, recognizing the waiter from his earlier visit, said, ‘I know, thanks.’

  Sitting there, he replayed his previous visit, watching it rerun before him. Taking Ellie into the corridor. Kissing her to make up for whatever mistake he’d made or was yet to make. Then following Stevenson outside.

  He stopped there, not keen to rerun the next scene in Harry’s story, or review the image of Ellie’s small hand on his own as they’d desperately tried to keep Harry alive.

  Why?

  Because McNab’s gut told him that something similar had probably played out today, but this time with a very different ending.

  49

  Lee had listened carefully to Rhona’s description of her walk with the dog. His discomfort during the first few minutes of this had been obvious, and Rhona knew he’d been recalling the conversation he’d had with Alvis concerning her current state of mind, which she’d overheard.

  Alvis, she was almost relieved to note, wasn’t at the station. According to Lee, he had gone to Raasay for his final walk before heading back to Norway. So it was just the three of them, and Chrissy’s determined input during the interview with Lee had definitely swung the balance in Rhona’s favour.

  ‘We’ll see if we can locate the girl in the morning,’ Lee had promised. ‘Hopefully weather conditions will have improved by then and we’ll have the MIT here as well.’

  Rhona had left Archie’s part in the story until last, concerned about telling Lee exactly what Archie had said regarding the Snowman.

  ‘People were pretty riled up back then,’ Lee said. ‘Trouble was, those buying were too scared to come fo
rward and their friends and relatives, if they knew about it, didn’t want to get them into trouble. It was a mess,’ he admitted. ‘Did Archie tell you what happened to Ali?’

  Rhona nodded.

  ‘If folk believed Watson was here to set the ball rolling again . . .’ Lee sighed. ‘We’ll have to speak to everyone he was involved with last time, although not all of them are still on the island.’

  Sergeant MacDonald looks weary, Rhona thought, as am I.

  ‘Are you planning to stay in town tonight? It won’t be a pleasant drive back.’

  Up to that moment she hadn’t considered what she would do next.

  ‘She’ll stay at Jamie’s,’ Chrissy answered for her.

  Rhona didn’t argue until they were outside.

  ‘Jamie’s on a call-out, but he said you can stay any time, remember?’ Chrissy told her. ‘He left a key behind the bar in case you might need it.’ She raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘Stop it,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Stop what?’ Chrissy’s face was all innocence. ‘So food first at the Isles?’

  ‘I’m a bit muddy,’ Rhona said.

  ‘They’re used to walkers, and we can eat in the bar.’

  All eyes turned towards them as they entered, covered as they were in snow from the short walk across the square. Blaze, spotting Rhona, came to greet her. Settled by the fire, Rhona ruffled the dog’s ears.

  ‘Thanks, boy, for your help today.’

  The dog looked up at her, a little whine signifying his answer.

  ‘Food order’s in,’ Chrissy said on her return from the bar. She set down two large glasses of white wine and handed Rhona a key. ‘Jamie is still out with the MRT. It sounds like he’ll be late back.’

  Rhona relaxed at the news, realizing she could eat, then head back to Jamie’s for a hot bath, and if Jamie was out with the rescuers, she wouldn’t have to discuss where she’d been again tonight.

  Jamie’s, unlike the cottage, had central heating as well as an open fire, and Rhona was met with warmth at the front door. Taking off her muddy boots, she immediately headed upstairs to run a longed-for bath. The shower would have been quicker, but her aching muscles demanded immersion.

  Before stepping into the water, Rhona selected one of the array of bath oils on display, deciding they definitely hadn’t all been brought here by Jamie’s sister.

  Soaking in the scented water, with flurries of snow melting against the dormer window above, Rhona thought of Seven somewhere on the soggy bog marsh that constituted most of the area around the flat-topped Healabhal Bheag. Being out in the open tonight would certainly be a test of endurance.

  But that’s not why she went there.

  If it had been, she would have gone prepared for the conditions.

  The girl’s manner, her nervousness, didn’t speak to Rhona of soldiering bravado. It reminded her too much of herself for that.

  Sliding down to lay her head against the rim, she raised her hands above the water and examined her knuckles. Bruising always got worse before it got better, she reminded herself, recalling the state of her body when she’d come here to Skye.

  The bruising had gone from her torso, yet to her eye it still lingered below the surface of the skin. Just the way it loitered in her mind, bubbling up at times, to explode in a fierce anger, which even she couldn’t pacify.

  Those mementos in the bag weren’t there to remind Seven of something good that had happened. They were harsh, stinging memories. Perhaps imprisoning them in the drawstring bag rather than in her mind was Seven’s answer to the problem.

  Her mobile rang as she climbed out of the bath. It was McNab’s name on the screen. When she didn’t answer, the call ended and a message pinged in seconds later.

  I have news. Call me.

  Dressed now, the fire lit, and having helped herself to a measure from Jamie’s whisky bottle, Rhona did as asked.

  ‘Why’d you take so long?’ McNab said on picking up.

  The tone of his voice warned Rhona that he had probably been drinking. It was an edge she hadn’t heard in a while, and it unnerved her.

  ‘What is it?’ she said tersely.

  McNab took off like a rocket. ‘Harry McArthur disappeared from the hospital because I arrived late to collect him. Ellie had offered him a place to stay until he recovered. I don’t know where he is, and I’ll have to tell Ellie I lost him. She wanted to help him, because of her brother.’

  ‘McNab. Slow down,’ Rhona ordered when she got a moment to interrupt his litany of despair. ‘I don’t know who Harry McArthur is.’

  He halted, as though considering this. ‘Harry’s an Afghanistan veteran. On the streets now. Buying from Malcolm Stevenson.’

  ‘Okay. Now go on,’ Rhona said, hoping her calm manner might dictate his own.

  ‘He left me a service number in the sign-out book. It’s a live one. We had to get clearance to access the details.’

  ‘And?’ Rhona said as he fell silent.

  ‘It belongs to a guy from the medical corps, name of Peter Galbraith, currently on leave from Afghanistan.’

  50

  Afghanistan

  The girl is too young to bear a child, thin and underdeveloped, her breasts only just visible. I place her at twelve or thirteen, although it’s difficult to determine out here. Men become boys as soon as a gun or a grenade is thrust into their hands.

  The girl-children are permitted to play bareheaded in the dirt until when? Probably when they bleed for the first time, then freedom is over and they are covered from head to toe in blue, brown or green burkas. Even the shuttlecocks, as they’re also called, have a lineage. In the Kabul area they are definitely blue, although there are different shades.

  Blue fireworks, I think suddenly, are the most chemically difficult to make. I have always found that odd. The colour of the sky, the colour of the sea. As natural a colour as that, yet to make things explode with a blue light is difficult and expensive.

  As my mind races, seeking any thought but the one I know I must have, a hand slips into mine. Warm and comforting, it brings tears to my eyes. No one has held my hand like this since the medical tent. Then I was the one to reach for an injured man’s hand and whisper, ‘It’s okay, soldier. I’m here.’

  I realize then that the hand is accompanied by a soft voice that keeps repeating those Pashto words: Please help. Nurse. Please help.

  I am a nurse, I remind myself, although that world seems so very far away and belonging to someone else.

  I am led closer to the raised platform where she lies, then the hand releases mine.

  I look down and see hips so narrow, the bones so prominent, that it makes my heart pound to imagine what could possibly pass between them.

  If she dies in childbirth, am I to suffer the same fate?

  All these thoughts go through my head as I kneel beside her, the other women crouching round us, their eyes wide with fear. Maybe they think that I might bring evil to her. And yet.

  Her eyes, wide, liquid brown and heavily lashed, stare up at me, pleading and helpless. I think of the boy, not much younger than her, who had hidden the means of death from me. Who’d smiled shyly as I’d washed the blood from his face. Who’d planned the murder of my comrades and wished for me the horror I live in now.

  But how many children and women have we killed with our drone hits?

  I have no conception of what they truly think of us, the invading army, until, despite all our attempts at saving their injured as well as our own, they turn against us.

  So why trust me to help now?

  Even as I feel the baby move beneath my fingers, I know the reason why it cannot escape. Instinctively, I begin to massage the bulging stomach, urging the small body inside to turn. If it does, could it even then pass through the gates of its prison?

  The alternative is to spare her the agony of breeching such a narrow canal. I could cut her and lift the infant out. That might be the only way to save the baby, who is alive and growing mo
re desperate by the minute, and the child that is its mother.

  I look up at the circle of desperate female faces and frantically search for a way to make them understand what has to be done here.

  51

  McNab had hoped she would be asleep, so he wouldn’t have to explain. Tonight at least. He made a big effort with the lock and slipped his shoes off once inside. It reminded him of creeping in late at night as a teenager, smelling of drink and worse, keen not to be confronted by his mother.

  A side light was still on in the sitting room and he hesitated for a moment, imagining a shadow might be Ellie, sitting in a dark corner, nursing her wrath to keep it warm. Then he spotted the laid table, the open wine, one glass used, and the partially eaten meal.

  McNab hated himself in that moment.

  He had messaged her, told her he had to work late, promised he would be home as soon as he could. As soon as he could face her.

  He’d never considered himself a coward, not when he was confronted with evil, but when he was confronted by good, and had to somehow live up to it, that was the problem.

  The bedroom was in darkness. He contemplated lying down on the couch. He wasn’t drunk exactly, but doing that would look as though he was. He would, he decided, get undressed and climb in beside her. If she wakened, he would tell her he’d explain in the morning. They would talk about it then.

  McNab went into the bathroom to undress. Stepping briefly under the shower, he rubbed himself dry then cleaned his teeth. Finally he braced himself and walked silently through.

  A street light seeped round the blind, giving the room a strip of light that led towards the bed. The soft mound that was Ellie lay perfectly still as he slid in beside her. Normally he would wrap himself around her, but fearing the cool of his body would wake her, McNab stayed six inches away.

  But still he wanted to touch her to feel her breathing.

  He reached out, only to discover the soft shape beside him to be nothing more than the heaped shape of the duvet.

  ‘Ellie?’ he said stupidly. ‘Ellie?’

  Her name echoed round the room, drifting out of the door to meet the other empty rooms.