Time for the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  There was a minute’s tense silence until Sergeant MacDonald broke it with a question directed at McNab. ‘I understand you’re here primarily to locate one of the male medics currently somewhere on the island, Detective Sergeant? To do with the Sandman case?’

  ‘A case we suspect may also involve Watson,’ McNab said.

  ‘Well, Dr MacLeod has been leading the interest in the soldier group since she first found evidence of a possible crime scene in the woods behind A.C.E Target Sports. So she’s the authority on that.’

  The car drew into a small square and parked alongside the police station.

  ‘The district court’s next door, so that’s handy, although there are plenty visits north to Inverness court, which is a fair drive away. Distance is everything here on Skye. Folk think because it’s an island, it must be small. It isn’t, so a lot of time is spent in getting to wherever we’re required. Rhona’s discovered that. It’s an hour between her cottage and Portree, which is why she’s been staying in town recently.’

  McNab found he didn’t want to be told about Rhona’s sleeping arrangements, so interrupted. ‘What about Inspector Olsen?’

  ‘Alvis is on Raasay at present, our neighbouring island, although I believe he intends coming back here before heading home to Norway.’

  Olsen had kept McNab posted on Rhona, including reporting the scene of her meltdown in the plantation, which he knew the sergeant was also aware of. McNab realized things would have to change now that he was here himself, having no wish to discuss Rhona’s state of mind with either of them now that he could speak to her in person.

  At the thought of seeing Rhona again, his heart lifted, but, he reminded himself, he would have to watch his step when he met her. Both for her sake and his own. The last time they’d seen one another in person had been an emotional one, although travelling here on the Harley had been infinitely preferable to coming by car.

  In a car there would have been an empty silence between them for hours, full of all the things neither of them wanted to say, or even remember.

  As it was, on the bike, they could concentrate on the road and the surroundings. McNab had never been so enamoured by scenery before. He’d even stopped to take photographs, for God’s sake.

  And that had made her laugh.

  Sergeant MacDonald was ushering them through the building and up the stairs, introducing them to colleagues en route. McNab made no attempt to register the names or even the faces, intent on seeing only one.

  She was standing at the window looking out over the rooftops, with the sea beyond. She turned on their entry, hesitated for only a moment before coming forward. McNab hung back, letting Janice greet her first with an affectionate hug.

  She looked better, he thought, better than the last time he’d seen her in the flesh, but still fragile. A word he never thought he’d use to describe Rhona MacLeod. When he’d carried her here, her hands round his waist as they rode together, he had thought her too thin, the delicate bones in her face too prominent. The hug she’d given him just before he’d ridden off leaving her here had betrayed how thin she was beneath the clothes.

  She looks less thin now, he thought as she moved from Janice to him.

  ‘McNab,’ she said. ‘Back on Skye. I never thought I’d see the day.’ She neither hugged him, like she had Janice, nor shook his hand.

  A look was all they exchanged, but it was a look McNab knew well.

  Someone brought in coffee at that point, something McNab had craved as much as seeing Rhona again.

  ‘If you’d like to take a seat,’ Sergeant MacDonald said, ‘we’ll invite the rest of the team in and bring everyone up to date.’

  54

  Afghanistan

  The girl believes she is going to die. I can see that in her eyes and the way she holds my hand. If they hadn’t brought me here she most likely would have. The baby too.

  I suspect some of the women understand what is wrong but are too frightened to do what has to be done. If I do it and it doesn’t work, then her death will be appeased by my own.

  I can, I decide, leave the girl to suffer the agonies of trying to bear a child that will not, cannot emerge. Or I can help her.

  I have been expecting death from the moment I was thrust into my cell. At times I would have welcomed it, which is why I don’t fear the presence of the black scorpion in the walls of my prison. He is my insurance for when I no longer want to survive.

  But here is an opportunity to be a medic, a nurse again.

  I begin making slicing movements against the girl’s stomach, indicating that I want the child to emerge that way. And for that I need a knife. A sharp knife. I murmur phrases I know, praising Allah and anything I can remember about children and love.

  My attempts at explaining bring a babble of excited chatter. Only one woman, her face lined with age, stays silent, observing me.

  Then the knife appears and is presented to me.

  I want to sterilize it first, but how to make them understand?

  A fire burns in a stone chimney, cooking utensils close by. I take the knife there and hold it to the flames until it glows red. I point at the water jug and then the cooking pot and indicate I want them to boil water.

  If I cut the girl open, I will have to close her, but with what? I motion as though I am sewing something. The faces, so intent, watch my movements and in at least a couple of them a light dawns.

  There are patterned cushions in the room, and intricate embroidered garments, including the detailed work round the eye mesh of the blue burkas. It isn’t possible to do that without needle and thread.

  Having amassed everything beside me on a white cloth, they now wait for me to do whatever I have decided.

  In that moment I am back in the medical tent, helping the boy up onto the bed, examining his wounds, his eyes observing me just as the girl on the bed is doing now.

  What if it isn’t just me who will die if I fail? What if the others will face death too?

  She will have to bite down on something hard. The same old woman who has been watching me hands me an intricately carved piece of wood to place in the girl’s mouth.

  We are ready. I say that because I am not alone in my endeavour. If I fail, the women will not be able to prevent my death; but if I succeed, they will, I think, looking round the faces, try to set me free.

  55

  During the briefing, McNab had announced to the assembled company that he was here specifically to establish the whereabouts of Peter Galbraith with respect to the ongoing Sandman case in Glasgow.

  ‘I will therefore be accompanying Dr MacLeod to view the body in the mortuary in Broadford before it is sent on to Glasgow.’

  This had been news to Rhona, at least the part about McNab accompanying her. As they hadn’t been alone together since he’d deposited her at the cottage in what seemed a lifetime ago, she feared a probing conversation, or a definite attempt to get her to return to Glasgow, during the trip. Neither of which she wanted to deal with at the moment.

  Emerging from the station, Rhona headed for Jamie’s jeep.

  ‘Why aren’t we using a police vehicle?’ McNab immediately said.

  ‘They’re all needed, especially with DS Clark and the others here. The jeep’s Jamie’s. I’ve been using it since I got here.’

  The last item of information was, she knew, a jibe, but McNab didn’t rise to it, merely installing himself in the passenger seat without comment. The sky was clear of cloud, but after the snow there had been a sharp drop in the overnight temperature and in places frost glistened. McNab had been silent since their departure from Portree, and remained so, staring out of the window at what Rhona regarded as the magnificence of the Black Cuillin against a blue sky, but which she knew he definitely wasn’t admiring.

  Rhona had seen him like this before. He was either deep in thought or nursing a grievance.

  His silence, she now decided, was more unnerving than the expected interrogation.

  Event
ually he did speak, only to ask, ‘Who is this guy Chrissy’s hanging about with, anyway?’

  Chrissy had been late arriving at the conference room and the strategy meeting had been in full swing. She’d managed a few words with McNab when they’d stopped for coffee, but her cheerful countenance had obviously perturbed or annoyed him.

  ‘Donald McKay,’ Rhona told him. ‘Owner of Blaze, my—’

  He cut her off. ‘Okay, I know. Your new forensic assistant. Chrissy’s not thinking of staying on out here, is she?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ Rhona said to irritate him further, ‘I’ll have to suggest it.’

  After the prolonged silence which followed her response, Rhona asked if McNab had a photograph of the medic Peter Galbraith.

  ‘I do. Plus the info that the MOD released, which isn’t much and probably not enough to make a formal identification.’ He looked at her. ‘That’s what you think, isn’t it? That the body is one of the medics and not some lone climber?’

  ‘I have no idea how many lone climbers are on the hills at present. I do know, however, that there are four male medics out there, according to Seven.’

  ‘Seven?’ McNab said.

  ‘She said the guys call her that. Maybe she’s their lucky mascot.’

  McNab snorted. ‘Aye, right. More like her fuckable score when in the deserts of Afghanistan.’

  ‘They looked like a close-knit bunch,’ Rhona said, ignoring his remark. ‘According to reports from the Isles bar.’

  ‘When you’ve faced a whole pile of shit together . . .’ McNab threw Rhona a look she didn’t need to interpret.

  They had reached the steep brae that curved down into Sligachan, the campsite at the head of the neighbouring loch still sporting a few big camper vans.

  ‘Jesus, some folk need their heads looked at, camping in Scotland in the winter.’

  ‘The vans are well equipped,’ Rhona countered. ‘Also the Sligachan Hotel’s a real draw. Donald says the beer’s good.’ She pointed at the road leading west. ‘That takes you to Glenbrittle and the Fairy Pools. A big attraction whatever the time of year. If you decide you want a look at the area they found him in, that’s the way we would go.’

  ‘Fairy Pools, Fairy Glen, what is it with all the fey stuff?’

  Rhona knew McNab didn’t want an answer so didn’t give him one. Instead she asked, ‘Why did you choose to come with me? You could have spoken to Jamie and talked to him about the circumstances he found the body in. Plus you could have watched zone footage being taken of possible places the medics may have gone.’

  This time it was McNab who didn’t answer her question. Instead, pointing ahead, he asked if the island now visible at the end of the loch was Raasay where Alvis was.

  Surprised by this, Rhona said yes.

  ‘You were involved with something out there, before I came on the scene?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Why would Alvis go there?’

  ‘Dun Caan, probably,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Duncan who?’

  ‘The flat-topped mountain. He’ll be climbing it.’

  McNab made a face that suggested, Why the fuck would he want to do that?

  ‘For the same reason you ride a Harley,’ Rhona answered the unasked question.

  ‘To get his rocks off, you mean?’ McNab said with a grin. ‘Come on, you have to admit it, Dr MacLeod, riding pillion with me on a Harley through the Highlands is way better than climbing a fucking mountain in the freezing cold.’

  His declaration followed by Rhona’s laugh seemed to clear the air.

  McNab relaxed now into his seat and, reviewing the interchange, Rhona decided he’d been gauging her state of mind, rather than choosing to ask her outright.

  And it seemed he was now reasonably reassured by her response.

  She drew into the car park, carefully avoiding a wayward sheep standing just outside the pillared entrance to the hospital grounds, gazing at what looked like better grass available on the other side of the wall.

  ‘They know we’re coming. Lee called ahead,’ she said as McNab gave the sheep a wide berth in order to follow her.

  ‘What’s with all the first-name stuff?’ McNab said. ‘You always refer to me as McNab.’

  ‘I use your first name, Michael, when you’ve pissed me off,’ Rhona reminded him as they entered and made for the reception desk.

  Rhona introduced herself, adding, ‘And this is Detective Sergeant McNab. Sergeant MacDonald said we would be coming to view the body the MRT brought down from the hill last night?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the woman said in the musical lilt of a native. She gave them directions to the mortuary. ‘Are you okay to find your own way there? Or will I get Kirsty to take you?’ She indicated a dark-haired girl seated in front of a computer.

  ‘We can manage,’ Rhona assured her.

  ‘Duncan’s on duty down there. He’ll give you every assistance we can, although we’re not equipped for a police-led post-mortem.’

  ‘I understand, thank you.’

  As they went through the swing doors, McNab said, ‘I thought you told me Duncan was a mountain?’

  Rhona ignored McNab’s attempt at a joke. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this? I know how you don’t like mortuaries.’

  ‘As long as there are no electric saws and disembowelling, I’m fine.’

  The mortuary was for storage only, with a small viewing room. Duncan, who proved to be a mountain of a man, much to McNab’s amusement, brought out the body and the bagged clothes, then departed.

  Exposed, it showed all the signs of a fall onto rocks, much like the one on the shore. The face too had taken a beating, making it difficult to discern the features beneath. One thing was still obvious. The climber had, by his torso, been a fit guy.

  ‘Well?’ she said as McNab brought up the photo of a handsome army medic in full uniform and attempted to compare it to the body before them. ‘Could that be him?’

  ‘Height- and weight-wise, hair and eye colour, yes. We have his blood type too, which we can compare,’ McNab said.

  Rhona gave him the good news.

  ‘All British military personnel deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan were given the chance to store their DNA in a secure armed forces repository,’ she said. ‘If Peter Galbraith took up that option, then we can establish for sure if this is him.’

  McNab nodded, obviously encouraged by that.

  ‘So, how long would you say he’s been dead?’

  When Rhona shot him a look, McNab qualified his question. ‘An estimate only, of course.’

  ‘Well, it’s been consistently cold on the Cuillin over the last few days which hinders decomposition. Rigor mortis has come and gone. He was, according to Jamie, semi-buried by a rockfall, so there’s not the usual infestation of someone above or below ground.’

  Rhona continued, ‘Insects prefer injuries inflicted prior to death, because they bleed profusely, which suggests the face wound happened before he died. All of which puts the death in the time frame of the previous few days.’

  ‘When the medics were out on the hills.’

  Rhona raised the body a little to examine the underside. ‘One oddity, though . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See here, post-mortem lividity suggests he probably died on his back, but was later turned on his front.’

  McNab waited, obviously expecting an explanation for this.

  Rhona attempted to give him one. ‘He fell, landing on his back initially, then later rolled further down the scree and ended up on his front.’

  ‘How did the earlier wound to his face come about, d’you think?’

  Rhona shook her head. ‘Something that happened during the climb, I presume. He wasn’t wearing a climbing helmet, or there wasn’t one found nearby. That’s why you need to talk to Jamie. Even better, attend the post-mortem in Glasgow. Electric saws notwithstanding.’

  McNab, she noted, didn’t look enthusiastic about either suggestion. Although why talkin
g to Jamie featured equally with the smell and noise of a PM, she had no idea.

  ‘So what do you plan to do now?’ he said.

  ‘Take some photographs and samples. Examine his clothing,’ Rhona told him. ‘And write up my findings in my notebook, as usual.’

  ‘In here?’ he said, aghast.

  Rhona pointed at a nearby chair. ‘Over there.’

  ‘I forgot about your creepy side, Dr MacLeod.’

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a coffee and check back with Portree?’ Rhona suggested. ‘I’ll text you Jamie’s number and you can ask him what you want to know.’

  Now alone, Rhona set about her task. Assuming Peter Galbraith had agreed to the voluntary collection of his DNA, there shouldn’t be much difficulty in getting the MOD to allow them to check it against the climber, since the whole idea for storing the DNA of personnel was to allow the identification of remains.

  What they couldn’t do was use the MOD database for interrogation purposes with respect to a crime.

  Alvis had viewed the group in the pub, but for the most part from a distance. Donald had briefly encountered one of them in the toilet. Bringing Alvis with them this morning would have been useful, but any attempts she’d made to contact him on Raasay had been unsuccessful so far. As for Donald, she could at least show him the image of Private Peter Galbraith and establish that he had been one of the medics that had stayed in the hotel.

  If they could only locate all the members of the team, she thought, then the mystery could be solved. From the silence since they’d departed Portree, that obviously hadn’t happened yet.

  Seven might be somewhere on the Duirinish Peninsula, because of Archie’s sighting of her getting on the bus for Glendale. Although she may have switched buses at Dunvegan and headed east instead. As for the others . . .

  Rhona finished what she was doing and, leaving the mortuary, went to look for McNab. Reporting that she’d finished and that the body could now be sent to Glasgow, Rhona asked if the dark-haired girl had any idea where Detective Sergeant McNab was.