by Lin Anderson
‘When did you hear that?’ Janice said, surprised but obviously delighted.
‘Just a few minutes ago. It seems Ellie persuaded him.’
‘Well, well,’ Janice said, wide-eyed. ‘So we’ll find out why he pointed us in the medic’s direction. That’s good news.’
‘We need to make the MOD give out further information on Private Galbraith and the team he was with in Afghanistan,’ Rhona said, ‘in case the repercussions of it may be playing out here on Skye. The girl told us they had another seventy-two hours on the island before they headed for Glasgow. Of course, she may have been lying. We need to find out from the MOD when Private Galbraith was due to report for duty.’
‘I’ve already spoken to DI Wilson about that.’ Janice suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, and Alvis is back from Raasay. He heard the news on the death of the climber and wanted to know if it was linked to the case. He’s asked for a few days’ extra leave to see if he can help.’
Rhona found herself more than a little pleased to hear this. ‘Has he viewed the photo of Private Galbraith?’
‘He has and confirmed the same physical features, but he didn’t get a close-up like Donald. And the face is unrecognizable.’
‘So he didn’t spot the neck tattoo?’ McNab said.
‘No.’
‘Then we’ll have to rely on the MOD for a DNA response?’
‘The boss is on it,’ Janice assured him.
‘Where’s Alvis staying?’ Rhona asked.
‘At MacNab’s,’ Janice told her. ‘The Isles is full with our lot.’
‘MacNab’s?’ McNab’s own face was a picture at this.
‘The Royal Hotel near the harbour. Their pub’s called MacNab’s.’
‘You have your own pub on Skye,’ Chrissy said, impressed. ‘You should be staying there.’
‘I’ll stick where I am,’ McNab said suspiciously.
Rhona wondered if his response could have anything to do with Alvis being there and smiled at Chrissy, who couldn’t resist it. ‘I hear there’s an excellent whisky bar at MacNab’s. You could share one with Alvis.’
McNab chose not to respond. Probably a wise move.
Emerging from the station, Rhona sought a moment alone with Chrissy.
‘Are you headed back with Donald tonight?’
‘I am,’ Chrissy said.
‘Can you get him to call me? I want to ask his advice.’
‘About what?’ Chrissy said, her curiosity awakened.
Rhona shook her head. ‘If it’s worth anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
She smiled as she watched the ever-gallous Chrissy pointedly overtake the more cautious McNab en route to the Isles. Seeing them both safely inside, Rhona set off in the opposite direction.
McNab might not want to encounter Alvis again, but Rhona was keen to see the Norwegian inspector.
61
The last time she’d seen Alvis, he’d had difficulty disguising his concern for her. Who could blame him after seeing her meltdown in the plantation?
Rhona wanted him to see that things were different now. That working this case had restored some of her faith in her own abilities. Not that she imagined for a moment that meant the flashbacks would suddenly stop. She was well aware that it didn’t work that way.
But I won’t let them define me. Not any more.
The devastating thing about the sin-eater case was that she’d missed the signs, which, looking back, seemed so obvious now. The question of how she could have been so blind was what had made her question if she could rely on her own judgement ever again.
But that too had changed.
Sitting high above the harbour, the Royal held an enviable spot in Portree. Despite it being a quiet time of year for holidaymakers, it still looked busy, as did MacNab’s bar. Rhona had messaged Alvis on her way over, suggesting they take a walk to the harbour and the Pier Hotel pub, which she’d visited with Jamie.
Blaze, she knew, was often a visitor there with Donald, although not tonight, and with luck she and Alvis might find a seat in the tiny bar.
‘Rhona.’ Alvis emerged from the main door. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting in the cold.’
Rhona gave him a quick hug. ‘I’m glad you came back before heading home.’
‘Things have developed, I understand?’
The sky was clear and covered in stars, and reaching the quayside, they could just make out the distant outline of the northern part of Raasay. The sight of the island brought a surge of memory for Rhona. During her sojourn there, she had travelled to the wild and most northern tip of Raasay and looked across the water to the twinkling lights of Portree Harbour and what appeared to her to be its safety. Something she’d craved at the time.
‘You’ve been on Raasay before, I hear?’ Alvis said.
When Rhona looked surprised that he might be aware of that, Alvis explained that Lee had told him the tale of her last brush with the MOD over human remains retrieved from Raasay Sound.
‘It’s a local legend,’ he said.
Without responding to that, Rhona said, ‘How was the island?’
‘Like Skye, a special place for me, having been there with Marita. I think she would like to know I returned and walked out to the memorial to Sorley MacLean, a favourite poet of hers.’ Alvis changed the subject. ‘I hear Detective Sergeant McNab is on the Skye team now?’
‘Only briefly.’ Rhona explained about the possible identification of Private Galbraith, and McNab’s return to Glasgow with the body. ‘I think he’ll be glad to get back to the city.’
‘He’s not fond of wild open spaces, as I recall,’ Alvis said with a smile.
Rhona laughed. ‘That’s the understatement of the year.’
They’d reached the Pier Hotel which sat on the south side of the harbour. Alvis held open the door to the little room, where luckily one of the few tables was free. After the frosty air, the place was snug and warm, which made Rhona suddenly think of Seven somewhere out there on a frozen hillside.
‘What’ll it be?’ Alvis said. ‘I’m having a dram,’ he added by way of encouragement.
‘That’s fine for me.’
Settled with their drinks, Alvis broke the silence. ‘How are your knuckles?’
‘You saw me,’ Rhona said, ‘punching the tree?’
He nodded. ‘I thought you might have been aware of that.’
Rhona contemplated deflection but only briefly. If she was to succeed in convincing Alvis that things had changed, she would have to be honest, so she was.
‘I get flashbacks from the sin-eater case. An exacerbated claustrophobia. The plantation, the closeness of the trees . . .’ She ground to a halt.
‘Were like your prison,’ Alvis nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘It passed. They all pass, but working within a confined space, which I have to do at times, might prove difficult or maybe even impossible,’ Rhona voiced her fears.
There was a moment’s silence before Alvis responded. ‘After the boat with the children, I experienced a similar response. Almost every time I heard a child cry,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘I found myself avoiding places where children might be. Even Marita’s grave, because it lies next to a child’s with an image of the boy on the gravestone.’
‘I didn’t realize,’ Rhona said.
‘No one likes to admit to their failings.’
‘I distrusted my own judgement. I missed so much that I should have spotted.’
‘Blaming yourself for what you didn’t see. What you didn’t do. A feeling we have in common. McNab suffers from it too, I believe. Who doesn’t who works on the front line? The line between life and death. The what might have been.’ Alvis took a sip of his whisky. ‘So, you trust your judgement a little better now?’
‘The girl in the plantation—’ Rhona began.
‘May prove to be the key to all of this,’ Alvis finished for her.
‘You think that too?’
‘When I was out
on Raasay, I found myself replaying that scene in the clearing many times, and every time I did, I was even more convinced that she was afraid. That’s why the dog reacted the way that he did.’
Rhona passed Alvis her mobile with the image of the mementos.
‘She had these hanging from the tent roof almost like a talisman.’
Alvis studied them, his face serious. ‘Then I was right to do what I did.’
‘Which was what?’
‘I have some contacts in the Norwegian military. DI Wilson spoke to me after your MOD’s limited help on information regarding Private Galbraith and the missing month.’
‘And?’ Rhona said.
‘What I have is not much, and unconfirmed, but it appears that a British helicopter delivering an injured soldier and his sniffer dog to a medical camp in Helmand province was blown up by a grenade and two medics on the ground were killed. This happened around the time we’re interested in.’
‘Rex?’ Rhona said. ‘Was that the dog’s name?’
‘Now that I have a name,’ Alvis said, ‘I might be able to find that out.’
‘So they may all have been present at the incident? Not just Private Galbraith?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘And when Private Galbraith was off-duty for a month, but not sent home?’
‘According to my sources, he may have gone missing at that time,’ Alvis said.
‘Gone AWOL, you mean?’
‘Or he was captured by the Taliban.’
‘And Seven and the others?’
Alvis shook his head. ‘That I don’t know.’
‘Is your source still available?’
‘It’s delicate,’ Alvis said. ‘Norway was one of the first countries to join the USA and the so-called war on terror and we played an active part in the war in Afghanistan, but not everyone was happy about that. The Brits were – are – our allies. If the British Army buried this story, then they had a reason. A reason my contacts may feel they should not make public.’ Seeing Rhona’s disappointment, he added, ‘That doesn’t mean I will stop trying to find out.’
‘They were a close team. You said that when you watched them in the pub.’
Alvis nodded. ‘Although the girl did appear to be on the fringes of the group. Despite that, she had, I think, a special bond with Private Galbraith. That I did notice. And she and Private Galbraith together made a big fuss of the dog.’
‘And now Private Galbraith may be dead.’ Rhona wondered if there was any way Seven might know this, and that had prompted her lonely odyssey.
‘Assuming the body is that of the soldier, does the probable time of death match when she said they all left to pursue their own survival activities?’ Alvis said.
‘It’s a possibility,’ Rhona said. ‘I’m hoping we’ll learn more from the post-mortem.’
Alvis was studying her closely. ‘You’re worried about the girl?’ he said.
Rhona was worried about Seven. Something about the girl seemed to echo her own state of mind. Rhona had had the feeling that the girl, much like herself, had been dwelling on death. She recalled her conversation with Archie about his nephew and how Ali had returned from the front line a changed person. Just as she had, and perhaps Seven too?
‘I am,’ Rhona confirmed with a wan smile, ‘and I can’t explain why.’ Taking refuge in the practical, she told Alvis about tracking Seven with Blaze and where she might have headed. ‘Archie, the drone operator, spoke to someone who was also looking for her. It might have been one of her comrades-in-arms.’
Alvis contemplated this. ‘She told us they were all planning to meet up and yet she went off without breaking camp, and almost immediately after we visited her?’
‘Leaving her mementos behind,’ Rhona added.
‘You think she went onto the Duirinish peninsula?’
‘It’s an assumption only. I’ve been trying to make contact with the driver of the bus she boarded, to see if they recalled when she got off, but I’ve had no luck as yet. She may have switched buses at Dunvegan and headed east instead. Maybe she was on her way to meet the others.’
‘Then why not take her belongings with her?’ Alvis said.
‘She wanted to travel light?’ Rhona voiced her current and most disturbing thought: ‘Or she didn’t need them any more?’
62
Afghanistan
A birth in blood. So much blood.
I quickly hand the baby boy to the old woman, while I try to stem the stream from its semi-conscious mother. Once the women had accepted a normal birth wasn’t possible, they’d produced the poppy juice to mask the pain.
Now they bring me cloth after cloth to stem the flow of blood. I fear they’re not sterile or even clean, but I have no choice but to use them.
I forget the child until I hear its cry and the associated exclamation from the women. I’m relieved that the child is alive, but now I must save the mother.
At last the flow eases and I can begin to close her up. I thank God she is still asleep, and any movement that suggests otherwise sees someone drip a little more of the milky opium liquid between her lips.
The stitching isn’t pretty, but the wound is closed now. Looking at my hands, I suddenly register their trembling and wonder how I managed to thread the needle through the skin at all.
I step back, fear at what I’ve done threatening to overwhelm me. Someone leads me by the arm to the fire and other hands gently wash my own in the warm water ready and waiting.
The baby gives a louder cry and a young woman lifts the swaddled bundle from its cushion and brings it to the semi-conscious mother, holding it to her exposed breast, encouraging it to find the nipple. For a moment there is a concentrated silence in the room, then as it begins to suck, the women’s voices resound in joy.
I want to say that it isn’t over yet, that they must keep the wound clean. She has lost a lot of blood. But my Pashto is scarce, unlike that of Sugarboy . . . and him, both of whom have made a big effort to learn. They said they did it to help them acquire a supply of opium to treat the wounded. Not our injured, but the locals, the men he wanted to leave to die.
A male voice shouts from the outer room and the women fall silent.
The older woman lifts the child and, holding back the curtain, steps through. In that brief moment I see the father’s face, the young man who had led me here from my cell. His delight explodes in a torrent of words as he takes his baby son in his arms and walks from the shadowed outer room into the glaring sunlight, his boy held high.
The curtain falls back, leaving us with only the jubilant sounds from outside as the new father shows off his son. A volley of shots peppers the air, and I find myself covering my head with my hands. The women, unafraid, merely add their voices to the explosion of gunfire.
When the noise eventually dies and the baby is returned to its young mother, the women busily prepare the traditional tea (chai). My language may be limited but this is not the first time I have been involved in a tea ceremony with the women of a village.
The first cup of hospitality will be served sweet (chai shireen). The one they hand me in the small handleless porcelain cup is heavily sugared, which I know is a great compliment, their way of saying thank you for delivering the child.
I drink it quickly, my body craving the sweetness. The cup is swiftly refilled and the second unsweetened cup (chai talkh) is flavoured with crushed cardamom seeds.
After four refills, I turn my cup over to show that I have had enough.
The mother’s eyes are open, the drug wearing off. She sees me and reaches out, encouraging me to come to her. I touch her brow, looking for signs of fever, but although her colour is high, her skin is cool. It is happiness, I realize, that flushes her face.
The baby stirs and pulls at the nipple, and the girl-child is swiftly turned into a mother. She touches the mop of glossy black hair and smiles up at me.
I wonder how much longer I have with these women and whether, by my actions,
I have brought death closer or sent it further away.
63
McNab shut his eyes as the helicopter took off, opening them again when they were magically in the air. Morning sunlight caught the neighbouring large island that Rhona had called Raasay and the flat-topped mountain named Dun Caan.
McNab wondered idly why both names required a double ‘a’ and decided it must be something to do with the Gaelic.
He also considered how apt it seemed to be sharing the helicopter with a body. He had always thought he might meet death in a plane crash. That’s why he didn’t get into a plane or chopper unless he was forced to.
But, he mused, maybe simply sharing one with someone already dead might be enough to satisfy that premonition.
He knew Rhona wasn’t keen on flying either, but she had somehow convinced herself of its viability via science.
Science didn’t work for McNab.
Skye dropped beneath him and, the day being clear, he had a full dose of what he was leaving behind. Having seen the Cuillin ridge outlined on an Ordnance Survey map, courtesy of Jamie McColl, McNab now saw it in all its stark reality.
Why the fuck would anyone want to climb that?
The peninsula where Rhona thought the girl, Seven, had headed, with its twin flat tables, looked to McNab like a lunar landscape, while round its edges the sea beat its power against huge cliffs and shattered coves.
As the co-pilot pointed out all the relevant locations, McNab said nothing, seeking only the bridge that led to the mainland, while reminding himself of the motorbike trip with Rhona he’d taken to get there.
Gradually all talk ceased and, ignoring the windows, McNab contemplated instead the body bag he was bringing home. Rhona had called him after her chat with the Norwegian and he had learned another piece of the mystery that seemed to surround Private Peter Galbraith, if it was indeed him zipped up inside the body bag.
The post-mortem had been arranged to swiftly follow their arrival. McNab preferred the idea of interviewing Harry first, but apparently that had been organized for the afternoon, Harry’s presence at 2 p.m. being guaranteed by Ellie.