Mrs McFadden, still expressing satisfaction, was shown out by his nurse. Dunlop fmished washing his hands and tossed the towel down.
“Right, Doris, I’ll be back on time this week. That’s a promise.”
Doris McVee, his nurse, gave him a sceptical look. “I’ll believe you—at two o’clock.”
As he put his coat on he gave her a pained look back. Once a week he attended the Medical Luncheon Club at the cottage hospital. The doctors, dentists, vets and sometimes Fiona, got together over a meal, discussed their work, and occasionally had a film sent by one of the medical companies or the Department of Health and Social Security. In the summer their ranks were often swelled by visiting practitioners on holiday, and the occasional lecturer from a teaching hospital doing the rounds with a video-tape.
The luncheon club was supposed to last two hours. The previous week it had gone on for an extra half-an-hour, due to an unintentional, but uproariously funny film which had kept on breaking down. It had upset the appointment schedule for the rest of the afternoon.
As he walked the two hundred-odd yards to the hospital, he pondered upon the murder, and whether the others would know about it from Mackay.
He was the last to arrive. In the small bar attached to the lecture room the rest were already gathered. One look at their faces was enough to make him realize they knew nothing as yet.
“Ah, Ian, we’ve been waiting for you.”
Mackay came over to him and took him by the elbow. “What’ll ye be having?”
Dunlop settled for a gin and tonic.
“Ye heathen,” growled Mackay.
When he came back and handed it to Dunlop he wasted no time, drawing him aside immediately.
“I’d like your help in the murder case.”
Dunlop halted the glass on its way to his lips in surprise. “Me? What can I do?”
Mackay’s eyes twinkled.
“You can be in the forefront of your profession. What I gather is the very latest branch of dental surgery.”
Dunlop’s reply was guarded, seeing as he wasn’t sure what Mackay might mean by the latest branch of his profession. “Yes?”
Mackay chuckled, enjoying Dunlop’s discomfort to the full and added: “Forensic odontology—is that right?”
Somewhere in his memory there came to mind a recent article in the British Dental Journal about the role of dentistry in identifying certain criminals, mostly rapists, by the teeth marks left in their victims.
Apparently the tooth alignments were proving more unique than even fingerprints.
Dunlop took a sip of his drink to steady his nerves at what he was going to say next.
“You’ve got some bite marks you want me to take impressions of?”
Mackay lost his smile.
“Yes. I’ve told Inskip and he agrees.”
Further discussion was interrupted as they were called to the luncheon table. Dunlop had little appetite. It was as though there was going to be no escape from that terrible, mutilated woman—ever.
They took their leave as early as they could without causing comment. Dunlop went back to his surgery and collected the impression material and mixing bowls.
He used the back lane to return to the hospital, the mortuary being housed in a separate building at the rear.
Dunlop descended the short flight of steps that led to the entrance, and opened the door into the small anteroom.
He passed through it to the changing rooms. Mackay was just about to enter the post-mortem room, dressed in surgical green and white boots.
“That was quick.”
Dunlop set his stuff down.
“Have they any idea who she is?”
Mackay shook his head.
“If Duncan Inskip has found out, he’s not said anything.”
He pointed at the wall cupboards.
“Get a smock and boots and join me in there.”
He adjusted his face mask and opened the door into the post-mortem room.
“I’ll get started.”
Dunlop proceeded to kit up, finally pulling on the surgical gloves Mackay had thrown on to the table.
Dunlop picked up his equipment and backed through the double doors. The room was surprisingly bright, the strip lighting blazing down from the old vaulted roof and reflecting off the white-tiled walls. In the middle, on a trolley, lay the body, half covered by a white sheet that was dazzlingly bright under the low slung operating light.
He walked over to Mackay who was sitting hunched up on a mobile stool, back to him.
As Dunlop joined him, the awful reds, blues and greens of the insides of the corpse came into view, contrasting sicken- ingly with the whiteness all around.
Mackay shifted his weight on to his elbows and leaned over the chest.
“This is what I want you to get a model of.”
Dunlop followed the pointing pencil as it indicated some torn areas on the torso and arm. He looked more closely at the bruised, blackened flesh, and saw for the first time the indentations that the keen-eyed old doctor with his trained forensic eye had seen straight away under the bright lights.
“I’ll be damned. It’s huge bite marks all right.” He took a closer look. “They’re distorted with the tissue bruising, but the pressure of the impression might help to form the original marks.”
Mackay nodded and sat back on to his stool. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He carried on with what he was doing in silence, as Dunlop busied himself mixing the impression material in special trays and applying it to the areas. Three minutes elapsed, both men absorbed in their work.
Suddenly the doctor’s shocked voice rang out, exploding the silence.
“Man alive, I don’t believe it!”
Dunlop looked up, the unease hitting him like a kick in the stomach.
“What’s up?”
Mackay’s face was white, his shaking hand holding a long handled spoon-shaped spatula.
His voice sank almost to a whisper.
“Something I would’na believe under the circumstances, but this woman has been sexually assaulted.”
7
Dunlop was late getting back to the surgery. Doris was waiting with evident impatience and a dark “I told you so” look on her face. But Dunlop was too upset to play along.
“Sorry, but I had to help Doctor Mackay.”
She detected in his brusqueness that he was not his usual self. As she went to get the first patient he looked up from washing his hands.
“And Doris, as soon as I’ve caught up and you’ve got a moment, will you cast those impressions. I want them by the end of the afternoon.”
Duncan Inskip hadn’t taken lunch. All morning, after leaving the murder area, his men, the entire strength of the Inverdee force, had been visiting the guest houses, the two small hotels, the caravan site and the Ardrossan Arms.
Nobody reported any visitors missing, in fact there were less than six all told, and three of those were on business. He was thankful in one way that it hadn’t happened in the summer season.
Now there were only the outlying holiday cottages to be checked. Three Land-Rovers were already out working the south side of the island, which had quite a few croft holiday conversions tucked into the warm sheltered little bays and inlets that faced across to the mountainous mainland. Two other constables were using their own cars.
This afternoon he intended to check out the isolated crofts in the rugged north side of the island. That would be the extent of his investigations. Already a murder team had been assembled and was on its way from the regional crime squad in Glasgow. He looked at his watch. Another three hours and the ferry would be leaving the mainland, so they should be in Inverdee late tonight or early tomorrow morning.
Inskip wearily pulled himself to his feet and lifted bis hat off the desk where he had dropped it when they had called back to the station for a quick cup of coffee and a piece of cake.
Out in the main office, Robertson stood waiting, outside coat already on, but sti
ll working, signing papers on his desk.
Inskip gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
“Right, Hamish, let’s get the show on the road.”
They went downstairs and out the back way to the long- wheel base police Land-Rover.
Inskip settled himself into the passenger seat and consulted his clip board of names and addresses as Robertson fired up the engine and did a ‘U’ turn on the gravel courtyard and came down past the side of the weather-beaten, stone police station.
Hundreds of miles to the north, out in the restless ocean wastes, giant waves began to build, urged on by storm force eleven winds roaring southwards towards Scotland, as a severe depression near Iceland tracked north east.
The winds swept down from the Arctic, snow filled and preceded by a maelstrom of ice-particles lifted hundreds of feet into the air from the freezing spray that was being ripped from the tops of the huge waves.
Ice began to build relentlessly on the decks and superstructure of trawlers forced to keep heading helplessly into the wind that was shrieking in their radio antennae. •
As Inskip and Robertson drove out north of Inverdee, past the golf club and on and up over a twisting road that soon degenerated into nothing more than a cart track, they were unaware of the furious giant that was careering towards them, travelling sixty miles in the same time it took them to move under three miles along their tortuous route.
* * *
Doris McVee looked with distaste at the impressions her boss had given her to cast. There was something strange about them. She opened the tin of plaster of Paris that stood on the bench, and scooped up the white powder inside, sprinkling it on to the water in the mixing bowl.
When she was satisfied she gave it a stir, then sat waiting for it to firm. She looked at the impressions again, and gave a shiver of distaste. There were three, all misshapen lumps of pink, stained with brown on the inner surface. She recognized that as altered blood. You sometimes got it from infected gums or a tooth socket where there had been a recent extraction. But never as much as these showed. She couldn’t figure them out at all, and Ian Dunlop had evaded all questions about them.
She stirred the plaster again, and finding its consistency just right, turned on the small electric vibrating pad. Holding the impression on it she poured in the white creamy mix, watching it work into all the nooks and crannies of the detailed surface.
Satisfied with the first one, she did the same for the other two, and then left them to set, turning off the light in the small windowless room that served as the laboratory to the surgery.
The first croft Inskip and Robertson checked was empty. They peered in through the tiny windows and could see only vague outlines of furniture in the semi-darkness within. Everything looked neat, tidy, and untouched. There was no sign of a car and the door was firmly locked.
Inskip consulted his list.
“Belongs to a Doctor Crawford from Greenock.”
Robertson took another look through a window and then gave a shrug.
“No sign of recent occupation.”
The wind suddenly swirled around them, causing Inskip’s coat to flap on his chest. He pulled it together and buttoned it up securely.
“Let’s press on. The weather’s not looking so good.”
They got back into the Land-Rover, Inskip bracing his feet against the utility dashboard as the vehicle lurched and bounced over the pot-holed surface.
He rapped at his list on the clip-board with his knuckle.
“I suggest we do the one at Raigsmore Strand next.”
The road flirted with the loch shore. At one stage Inskip looked out of his window across to Inverdee which slowly pulled away behind them. He frowned when he looked at the sea.
“Lot of white horses out there. Those Divisional people are going to have a rough time.”
Robertson’s craggy features showed a trace of amusement.
“Breath of fresh air will do those city types the world of good.”
The road turned away inland, leaving the coast to rise precipitously to form the misty Heads of Flein. They topped a steep climb that had forced Robertson to drop a gear, and before them lay the curving beach of Raigsmore Strand.
“Jesus, look at that sky!”
Even as Robertson swore. Inskip was already taking in the giant blue-black clouds that seemed to be growing even as he watched, swirling and reaching forward like smoke until half the sky was covered in the towering mountains of the coming storm.
He shook his head.
“I think we may have to skip the others for now. That looks like snow and the last thing I want is to be stuck out here—especially with what we’ve got on.”
They reached a fork, and took the left one which plunged straight down towards the white-washed croft standing in the shelter of a mound of beach stones that reached as high as the roof.
Both men tensed at the same time. A car stood outside, and the front door was swinging wildly in the wind.
“I don’t like the look of that.” Robertson growled the words. Inskip lowered his feet to the floor.
“Neither do I.”
He checked his list.
“Belongs to one Sheila Anderson.”
Sleet, razor sharp, struck the windscreen like a handful of thrown gravel.
Forty miles away the British Rail Steamer, Chieftan, green hulled and white decked, nestled against the quay, loading for the trip to Inverdee.
A few passengers were making the journey, but at this time of the year the cargo consisted mostly of livestock, machinery spare parts, bulk food, and beers, wines and spirits.
But in the small bar, six men were already into their second whiskies. They had arrived on the train from Glasgow that was scheduled to bring people to and from the ferry.
The six plain-clothed policemen, headed by a Detective Chief Superintendent, were happy about the assignment. Each in fact was a volunteer, eager to get away from routine, and the wife, for a few days. That was all the time most of them considered would be necessary to crack the job. Four of them had their fishing tackle in their luggage. The boat was due away in another half an hour.
As they took their re-filled glasses, one of them staggered a little as he raised it to his lips, causing a lot of bantering from the others as he splashed his collar. He protested, proclaiming his soberness.
“It was the bloody boat shifting.”
The others laughed again.
“But we’re not moving yet, Jimmy,” said a thick-set, sandy-haired man, slapping him on the shoulder.
“And we’re two miles from the open sea,” added another grinning burly detective sergeant.
“I don’t care—the boat swayed.”
He was still being teased when the Chieftan, under the influence of the irregular, long swells coming up the loch, moved uneasily again at her moorings.
“Looks like we’re in for a rough crossing,” remarked the Chief Superintendent miserably.
A sudden lash of hail on the surgery window made the patient, already apprehensive, jump just as Dunlop was injecting his gum. Somewhere a door banged, cutting off a rush of air which had blown papers off Doris’s desk. She gave a squeak and pursued them across the surgery floor.
In the chemist’s shop. Fiona Patterson had already been forced to switch on the strong strip lighting in her dispensary, though it was over three quarters of an hour to dusk. But the gloom, yellow and murky, made it impossible to see the graduations on her measuring beaker.
Inskip found he was breathing heavily, his heart thumping in his rib-cage. Robertson’s massive figure in front of him was reassuring as they moved to the doorway, his spine tingling at what might confront them.
Robertson gave a shout.
“Hello. Anybody there?”
The door swung violently forward into him. He stopped it with a regulation-gloved hand, and peered into the room, taking a step inwards.
“Hello, anyone...”
He broke off and gave a gru
nt.
“This is it, sir.”
They moved into the wrecked room, the overturned table and smashed chairs forming strange shapes in the gloom. The wind moaned in the roof.
Inskip pushed past Robertson and picked up a chair to move it aside. He dropped it as though it was hot.
“Quick, a light in here.”
Sergeant Robertson pulled out a torch and flicked it on. The pool of light swung around and descended on Inskip’s upturned palm.
It was covered in blood.
He swallowed. “I think we’ve found where it happened.”
The wind rose to a shriek.
8
The Chieftan got under way so slowly at first that the party in the bar didn’t realize it until she was well out in the middle of the loch, and somebody noticed the receding lights of the town..
There was a ragged cheer which petered out as the ship began to gently rise and fall. By the time she cleared the North Light and reached open sea, the ferry was already rolling steadily.
But this was only the fringe of the storm, as the Captain, a man of forty years’ experience in the dangerous waters of the north west coast of Scotland, knew only too well.
His face, green in the light from the radar scanner, frowned in concentration. He reckoned that at the moment the storm was centred somewhere to the north of the islands. It presented him with a dilemma.
Would his arrival at Inverdee coincide with the height of the storm? Because if it did, then he would never be able to get into the small harbour, and either have to stand-off in difficult water until it abated, or return to the Mainland. Both alternatives were not attractive to say the least.
He lifted his cap and scratched at his forehead. It helped him decide. Resolutely he pulled it back on and turned to his Number One. .
“Never mind the passengers, we’ll go on. Make as much speed as you can without shaking her to bits in this sea.”
Dr Mackay busied himself in the pathological laboratory attached to the hospital. Several microscope slides lying to his right proclaimed his industry. Now as he added yet another, he decided he had enough for his purpose. He carefully cleared the bottles of chemicals and unused slides away, before taking the prepared specimens across to the microscope on another bench.
The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi) Page 4