by Lin Anderson
What had been obvious was the power Corporal Dempsey had had, and still had, over Lexi. The hole in the cave had been dug by her to trap him. She’d admitted that she’d planned to kill him.
‘I couldn’t do it. Not directly. Even though I knew his intention was to kill me. So I left it to fate and the tide.’ She’d seemed bemused by that decision. Rhona, on the other hand, wasn’t.
She knew what it felt like to have a life there for the taking. And by taking it, save your own. She believed it was a decision no one should have to take, because she’d experienced it herself.
But Lexi’s biggest regret had been Sugarboy’s death.
‘I didn’t know it was Sugarboy. I thought it was him coming to get me.’
Her strange use of him rather than Dempsey’s name made the soldier sound like a character out of a horror story. A horror story that Lexi, Rhona suspected, had had a starring role in.
‘And with Sugarboy gone, who will believe me anyway?’
‘I believe you,’ Rhona had assured her. ‘You must tell the MOD everything that happened here on Skye and out in Afghanistan.’
‘They’d already discharged Sugarboy. They suspected him of smuggling heroin, but they didn’t have the proof. Plus they don’t want any of what’s happening out there becoming public knowledge. Besides, I knew about the smuggling. I was as complicit as the others. Sugarboy wanted out. So did I. He died trying to make that happen.’
‘What about telling the police?’ Rhona suggested.
She’d laughed then, a hollow and disbelieving sound. ‘I’ve told you. That’s enough.’
It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d last driven the road to the cottage. Despite the frenetic nature of the last few days, Rhona found herself more at ease than the previous time she’d passed this way.
Then she was questioning every thought, with no faith in her own instincts.
Trauma did that, even to her . . . something she’d denied ever since she’d left Glasgow and come to Skye. You can’t escape trauma by running away from it. Seeing what it had done to Lexi had made her face up to that.
So what should she do?
Talk to someone, the way that Lexi talked to you.
It was such a simple thought, but it had taken a long time for her to allow herself to even consider it. She hadn’t taken Lexi’s trauma away, but she had freed her voice for a little while at least.
She would do as DI Wilson wanted, she decided. She would go to Castlebrae and tell someone her story. Everything she’d done and not done as a captive. Maybe then she would be able to go back to her old life.
Turning into the drive to the cottage, she halted for a moment, as the setting sun found the blue door and brought it alive with light. The cottage had been her refuge; it would always be her refuge, when she needed it. But she couldn’t stay here any longer.
It was time to go back.
McNab Skyped her at the usual time, just as she’d anticipated.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded, then spotted the familiar layout of the cottage kitchen behind her. He looked pleased, but she knew that was only because it wasn’t Jamie’s place.
‘How are things your end?’ Rhona asked.
‘The MOD removed Private Forbes from the Death Star before I got to talk to her, so good job you got her statement in Portree. Janice and I managed a quick interview with Corporal Dempsey and he was very co-operative on the subject of the Sandman. We’re following up on that now. Both men in the burnt-out car have been identified. I was right about Stevenson. The other one was McNulty, who we pulled in recently for a domestic. That’s one less woman walking into doors.’
‘You’re pleased,’ Rhona said.
‘I’ll be more pleased if or when we get the Sandman, seeing as we won’t have the opportunity to prosecute Dempsey.’
‘So what happens to him?’
‘Like Lexi, he disappeared into the arms of the MOD. Who knows where they’ll end up.’
Rhona broke the silence that followed. ‘How’s Ellie?’ she said.
‘I didn’t get home last night, but I’m hoping what I planned for then will happen tonight instead.’ He paused and she could tell by his expression that he wasn’t sure if he should say what was now on his mind.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘I think you should give Maguire a call. I had to tell him when you went missing.’
There was no point in berating McNab for something he’d had to do.
‘Okay,’ she said.
He broke into a grin. ‘Right, Dr MacLeod. I’m signing off now. Got things to do and people to see.’
Rhona watched as he disengaged and the screen went blank, then she took herself outside and walked down to the shore to a place she knew she would have an uninterrupted mobile signal to make the necessary call.
83
‘This is the new arrival?’
Rhona couldn’t believe the face that peeped out at her from the back seat of Donald’s 4x4. It was a collie puppy, mostly white with a touch of black. But it was the eyes that were extraordinary. One blue and one brown.
‘It’s a rescue dog. No one wanted it, and the rescue centre got in touch with me and asked if I’d take it,’ Donald explained.
‘And what does Blaze make of the new arrival?’
‘You know Blaze. He has the patience of a saint, and I suspect he’ll need it,’ Donald said.
‘What his name?’ Rhona said.
‘Laoch. It means hero in Gaelic.’
‘I thought there was only one hero around here,’ Rhona said, ruffling Blaze’s thick shaggy coat. ‘It’s a big name to live up to, but I guess Blaze will make a fine teacher.’
They were outside the Gathering Place which was bright with music and the sounds of a party. Rhona had come as promised, but as much to keep Alvis company as to be part of the wedding.
He, like Chrissy and Rhona, was heading out tomorrow morning. He was pleased to hear that she was going home.
‘I’m looking forward to getting back to work myself,’ he said. ‘You’ll keep in touch?’
‘Of course. And let me know the next time you have a forensic science conference in Stavanger.’
‘Better still, you come for a holiday. Climb some Norwegian hills with me. I’ve covered a few with you now in Scotland.’
Chrissy shouted a goodnight as she headed off with Donald. ‘See you for the helicopter ride back tomorrow.’
When Alvis went back inside, Rhona stayed looking down at the little harbour and then over to the darkly edged shore of Raasay. She’d intended, she remembered, to take a trip out to the island, but had never managed to.
Still, there would be a next time, she was sure of that.
‘Dr MacLeod. I thought you’d gone home,’ Jamie said as he appeared, carrying two glasses. ‘But just in case you were still here, I brought a couple of drams out with me.’
He handed her a glass.
‘A dram is the measure of whisky acceptable to both the pourer and the drinker. As you can see, the groom is a generous pourer. It’s Talisker, by the way.’
Rhona accepted the glass and, chinking it against Jamie’s, gave the appropriate toast.
Slange Var.
After a few moments’ silence, Jamie said, ‘I won’t say I’m sorry to see you leave, but I’m glad that you came back and stayed for as long as you did.’
‘So am I,’ Rhona said.
‘And you’ll return, do you think?’
‘That I can promise.’
84
So it was that a day later Rhona stood at the door to her flat, listening, catching the sound of music being played inside. It was a female voice, and after a few moments she realized it was Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘Summertime’.
The song was a favourite of Sean’s. In fact everything Ella sang was a favourite with Sean.
She hesitated, not knowing if, despite getting this far, she was capable of going inside. In that moment, she wished she was back on
Skye about to open the blue door to the cottage, even relishing the knowledge that it would be cold on entry and that she would have to light the stove.
On the other hand, if she opened this door, she would be met with warmth and the bounding figure of Tom coming to greet her. If the cat remembered her at all, considering the amount of time she’d been absent.
Rhona counted to three, then slipped the key in the lock and, turning it, pushed the door open before she could change her mind.
She had been right about the warmth. It immediately enveloped her, as did the glorious smell of cooking. She could hear Sean moving about the kitchen, humming along with the music. It was this above everything that almost overwhelmed her.
The warmth, the promise of food, even the cat that had not yet discovered her presence – none of these demanded anything of her.
Seeing Sean again did.
Her stomach turned over and she was briefly in that place of darkness once more, the walls closing in on her so swiftly that she turned towards the door again, prepared for flight. Then Tom appeared, like a guardian angel, racing towards her, wrapping himself around and between her legs, mewing loudly.
Whether it was that sound that brought Sean into the hall, she didn’t know, but his face when he looked at her changed everything. She thought she was dreading seeing him again, yet his appearance had the opposite effect.
‘Rhona, you’re home. Good.’
He came towards her and in a moment she was wrapped in his welcoming arms.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ he said as he led her into the kitchen.
Rhona halted briefly at the door, waiting on recall to change her favourite room in the flat into her worst memory. Then she realized it had been transformed.
‘You’ve painted it,’ she said in amazement.
‘You were talking about it, remember? Even chose a few possible colours. I just had to make a decision as to which one. Is it okay?’ he said, his voice a little anxious.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said honestly. ‘And the fridge. That’s new and very stylish.’
‘The other one conked out. This one sort of matches the new look,’ he said, a question in his voice.
My fridge didn’t die, she thought. Sean knew what I would think about every time I opened its door.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He ushered her to the table. ‘It’s boeuf bourguignon. Red or white wine?’
‘I think it’s time I tried to acquire a taste for red,’ Rhona said with a smile.
Eventually they talked properly, after the food, the wine and the coffee. During the meal, Sean had posed no questions about Skye or how she was. It was one of the things she liked about him, she remembered. He didn’t try to be a part of her life, until asked.
Rhona did question him briefly about the jazz club, and told him some funny stories about Chrissy, and of course her romance with Blaze’s owner.
‘Do you think it’ll last?’ Sean had said.
‘Who knows with Chrissy? And Skye’s not exactly nearby. But she seems keen. She’s been talking about taking wee Michael out for a holiday. And the dogs are a big draw.’
‘Dogs? I thought there was just one. The famous Blaze, dog detective.’
‘He has a younger brother now. Laoch, a rescue puppy. One blue eye and one brown.’ Rhona showed Sean a photo on her mobile. ‘From first impressions, Donald thinks he might be a little harder to train than Blaze.’
Eventually, the time came for Rhona to tell Sean what he deserved to know. As she began in a halting fashion, Sean intervened.
‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’
‘But I do.’ Rhona stopped there, unsure exactly how to do that. ‘When I was in the tunnel, I made a promise . . .’ She hesitated. ‘To myself. No, to our unborn child.’
Sean waited, his face growing pale.
‘I promised that she, or he, would live. That we would escape together.’ She stumbled then as that moment in the tunnel came sweeping back to drown her again.
Her face must have shown her anguish, because Sean reached out and took her hand.
‘I’m truly sorry I failed.’
The enormity of her decision to keep the child, and its tragic outcome, hung in the air between them. Rhona wondered if it would ever go away.
‘Bad things happen sometimes,’ Sean said, cradling her hand in both of his.
And nothing more needed to be said.
Rhona rose and went to the window. Below, the garden of the convent was bathed in light and the Virgin Mary gazed out over the glistening, frosted grass.
She was home.
Epilogue
There is a photograph of fully kitted-out soldiers, on patrol, wearing sunglasses, guns at the ready. They are walking through a field of flowering poppies.
This photograph, with its juxtaposition of flowers and guns, symbolizes more than anything else the failure of the war in Afghanistan.
The illicit harvest of the pretty Afghan poppy produces over 90 per cent of the world’s heroin. Heroin that is responsible for multiple deaths around the world.
And into this theatre of war, soldiers are sent. What do we expect them to achieve? This is not a war between ideologies. It is not about women and children being allowed an education. It was only ever about resources, and about the global wealth of heroin. Something the West craves in all its forms.
Wars require money, a great deal of money, and the Taliban always knew where it could make the money it sought for the struggle. In the West, which craved its most prodigious product.
Such a war can have no end.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to all the kind people who made this book possible.
Firstly, Blaze’s Dad, Steve Millar, who introduced me to Blaze and Laoch and A.C.E Target Sports, and who allowed me to make Blaze my forensic assistant for a time. When asked if I might borrow Blaze for a weekend, Steve said, ‘Only if I can borrow Chrissy.’ I’ve tried my best to make his wish come true. Without Steve’s knowledge of walking and climbing on Skye, this story couldn’t have happened: www.blaze-walks.com
Matt Harrison at A.C.E Target Sports for my visit in February 2018, when this story was conceived. (I threw an axe as successfully as Rhona due to his excellent instructions!) I’d greatly recommend a visit: www.ace-skye.com
Sergeant Andrew Shaw of Lochaber and Skye Police, Portree, who kindly answered all my questions regarding policing on Skye. Any errors are of course my own.
Professor Lorna Dawson of the James Hutton Institute for inspiring the creation of soil scientist Dr Jen Mackie and advising me on the soils of Skye.
Dr James H. K. Grieve, Emeritus Professor of Forensic Pathology at Aberdeen University, who is more than generous in answering my queries about modes of death.
Gerry Ackroyd who helped me with information regarding Skye and Lochaber Mountain Rescue.
And last but certainly not least, my excellent editor Alex Saunders, and all at Pan Macmillan.
About the Author
LIN ANDERSON is a Scottish author and screenwriter known for her bestselling crime series featuring forensic scientist Dr Rhona MacLeod. Four of her novels have been longlisted for the Scottish Crime Book of the Year, with Follow the Dead being a 2018 finalist. Her short film River Child won both a Scottish BAFTA for Best Fiction and the Celtic Film Festival’s Best Drama Award and has now been viewed more than one million times on YouTube. Lin is also the co-founder of the international crime writing festival Bloody Scotland, which takes place annually in Stirling.
www.lin-anderson.com
@Lin_Anderson
By Lin Anderson
Driftnet
Torch
Deadly Code
Dark Flight
Easy Kill
Final Cut
The Reborn
Picture Her Dead
Paths of the Dead
The Special Dead
None but the Dead
Follow the Dead
Sins of the Dead
Time for the Dead
NOVELLA
Blood Red Roses
First published 2019 by Macmillan
This electronic edition first published 2019 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-6625-0
Copyright © Lin Anderson 2019
Cover image © mrojek/Alamy
The right of Lin Anderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Map artwork by Hemesh Alles 2019
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