Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  ‘No holiday small talk then?’

  ‘No holiday.’

  ‘Aye, you’re back a wee bit sooner than I’d expected. And no postcard.’

  ‘It’s in the mail.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ George laughed.

  ‘So what’s Grant Bell been up to?’

  ‘The Bellboy? I haven’t seen much of him really. He came into the office, took everything I had and pissed off with it.’

  ‘Typical. ‘

  ‘See all that stuff in the paper today?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘It was mine, all of it. And the wee bastard didn’t even buy me a drink.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘I turn my back for a day and he’s straight in like a ferret down a rabbit hole.’

  ‘Who is this Grant Bell?’ Amber asked.

  ‘A wee shite,’ George replied, ‘Pardon the French.’

  The barmaid scowled as she served up their drinks.

  ‘Sorry, lass,’ George added.

  ‘Do you have any idea who the dead man is?’ Jim continued.

  ‘His name is Jack McPhee. He was a welder. Married, with one child. A daughter, I think.’

  ‘Any link to Bennet?’

  George sipped his beer and shook his head.

  ‘But he died at the yard, just days after Billy Reid was found swimming with the fishes there.’

  George nodded. ‘And Eddie’s no idea why.’

  ‘I don’t envy that man his job,’ Amber said.

  ‘Five dead bodies in the space of a week,’ George sniffed. ‘And no clear motive.’

  ‘Maybe this one has got nothing to do with the others,’ Jim suggested.

  ‘Seems a bit strange, though, doesn’t it?’ George had emptied another glass.

  Jim looked at the clock behind the bar. 2.30pm. ‘I’ve got to make a call.’

  He left them and wandered over to the payphone in the corner of the room. He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and keyed in the number. It took a moment to connect and then the number rang out. After a minute the line opened.

  ‘Jim!’ It was Jenny.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘And the kids.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘You’re still in Majorca?’

  ‘Yeap. We decided to stay on for a few days. Debbie’s pretty upset.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘How’s Ron?’ she whispered. Debbie was obviously not far from the phone.

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Are you at home?’

  Jim paused. ‘No. I’m back up north.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Working?’

  ‘Aye,’ Jim admitted. ‘Something came up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘End of the week. Debbie said it would be okay to stay on. Besides, the kids are enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Give me a call and I’ll pick you up at the airport.’

  ‘How? Your mobile’s still here.’

  ‘George’s number is programmed in. Leave a message with him.’

  ‘Okay. Jim...?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘I will.’

  He replaced the handset and scrunched the paper back into his pocket.

  ‘Everything okay?’ George asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Jim smiled.

  ‘So when’s she coming home?’

  ‘End of the week.’

  Amber smiled. ‘That gives us plenty of time.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Plenty of time to get the story.’

  He picked up his glass and drained the contents. ‘I guess we’d better find somewhere to stay.’ He caught the barmaid’s eye. ‘Have you got any rooms?’

  ‘Just the one?’

  Jim glanced at Amber, thought of Jenny. ‘Two.’

  After supper the trio piled into the Mazda and drove round the coast to Kishorn. It was still light when the car crunched into the gravel by the main gate.

  Donnie Fraser lurched out of his Portakabin.

  ‘No more bodies today, I’m afraid, mate,’ he chuckled as he staggered over to the car.

  ‘Try again tomorrow. You might have better luck.’

  ‘Very droll,’ George whispered from the backseat.

  Jim breathed in trails of whisky vapour as Fraser poked his head through the car window. ‘Can we get a look?’

  Fraser wobbled on his feet and turned towards the gate. ‘I don’t see why not. Come on in.’

  He fumbled with the padlock for a few seconds before wrenching off the chain. ‘There’s no’ much to see, mind. Apart from a big fucking grave.’

  They walked out over the huge flat slabs of crumbling concrete, weeds growing up through the joins between each giant section. There were large squares lined with cracked bricks where sheds once stood. Jim skirted out to the edge and peered down into the dark water as it lapped against the weed-covered timber baulks holding the piers up.

  He remembered the brochures in George’s office, the aerial photos showing oil rigs and cargo boats tethered here. Now there was nothing, just an eerie silence interrupted only by the sea gently licking the land. It sounded a little bit like a slavering dog crunching on a biscuit, Jim thought.

  He jogged back to join Amber and George. They were standing on the edge of the dry dock. It wasn’t like any other dock Jim had seen. He’d been down to the docks in Dundee, usually when someone, either a child or a drunk, had fallen in and drowned. They were proper docks, square and made of stone. Neat edges with flats bits round each side. This was more like one of those flooded quarries where old cars and washing machines go to die.

  ‘Anything?’ George asked, flicking midges away with his hand.

  ‘No. What about you?’

  George shook his head. ‘It’s just a big hole in the ground.’

  Jim turned to Donnie Fraser. ‘Where did the guy die?’

  The old man pointed to a part-built aluminium shed.

  ‘Over there. It was a bit of a surprise really.’

  ‘How so?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Well, they’re really tough on the old health and safety. You have to be in the industry now.’

  Jim turned to George. ‘What do we know about Jack McPhee?’

  George pulled a small spiral-bound notebook out of the inside pocket of his overcoat and flipped forward a few pages. ‘Just what I told you before.’

  ‘No shady past?’

  ‘So clean he would pass the Daz doorstep challenge.’

  ‘There must be something.’

  ‘What about the greenies?’ Jim mused. ‘They don’t want the yard to open.’

  ‘Picking off the workforce one by one is a bit extreme, even for them. ‘

  ‘It would do the job, though. Scare people away. Where are the protestors?’

  George pointed inland to a cluster of tents and caravans perched on the hillside above, just the other side of the high perimeter fence.

  ‘We’ll drop by there tomorrow.’

  Amber was peering down into the dock. ‘Is there no way of emptying it?’

  George answered her question. ‘The pumping equipment was all dismantled when the yard closed.’

  ‘So why didn’t they just fill it in?’

  ‘I suppose they hoped it would be used again.’ Fraser interrupted. ‘When they re-open, they won’t need this. They just tie the rigs up out there and do the maintenance there.’

  He gazed over the open waters of Loch Kishorn.

  ‘It would save Inspector Macdonald a job if they had filled it in,’ Amber added.

  ‘Aye, and I’d be tucked up with a whisky in my favourite bar,’ George muttered.

  The light was beginning to fade. Jim could hear Amber shiver. She’d wrapped her arms around her chest.

  ‘Cold?’ he enquired.

  ‘Just a bit,’ she whispered.

  He handed her his jacket. ‘I guess it’s tim
e to go.’

  *****

  Chapter 12

  George was looking pretty chuffed with himself when Jim came down for breakfast. He had already ordered, but that wasn’t the reason.

  ‘You look like a Highlander who’s won himself a lifetime’s supply of free whisky,’ Jim observed as he took his seat.

  ‘Not quite as good as that.’ He pushed a package across the table. ‘This is for you. First class from Majorca.’

  Jim ripped open the padded envelope and his mobile telephone slipped out. A postcard showing a sandy beach packed with sun worshippers closely followed it. He flipped it over and read the short message.

  ‘Thought this might help. Jenny X. PS: Kids are having a great time!’

  Jim smiled as he switched on the handset and laid it to rest by his serviette-wrapped knife and fork. ‘But you’re not beaming like a lottery winner just because my phone arrived in the post.’

  ‘While you and your young lady were snoring away I’ve been working.’

  Jim scowled. The reference to Amber irked. ‘Wonders will never cease.’

  ‘The deaths won’t stop the yard re-opening.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I managed to trace the Canadian moneyman behind the new company. I put a call in to his office and he’s not having second thoughts. Of course, he was very sorry to hear about everything that has happened, but he’s got his next million to earn. He’ll co-operate with any investigations but as far as he’s concerned it’s a good deal and he’s in no hurry to pass it up. It should be business as usual over the next few days.’

  ‘If the greenies were behind McPhee’s death it hasn’t worked.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘People aren’t exactly going to be flocking here to get a job.’

  ‘Not a good track record, is it?’

  ‘Two bodies and a third employee stabbed in his bed.’

  Fried breakfasts were plonked down on the table.

  George unwrapped his cutlery. ‘Where’s Amber this morning? Having a lie in?’

  ‘I chapped her door but there was no answer. I think she must be out running again.’

  ‘Maybe she’s recovering from a hard night.’ George winked.

  ‘Keep your innuendo to yourself. We have separate rooms.’

  ‘So you haven’t shagged her?’

  ‘And I won’t be. So drop it.’

  ‘Good to hear it mate. You’ve a good woman in Jenny.’

  Jim nodded and they tucked in.

  *****

  The ‘Keep Oil out of Kishorn’ camp was clumped up against the back fence of the yard. Jim parked the Mazda by the main gate and they hiked round to the cluster of tents adorned with placards and banners. The usual messages: ‘Oil Pollutes’, ‘Rigs Wreck’ and ‘Mess Up Your Own Backyard’. The fence had clearly been breached on a number of occasions. The mesh was dotted with makeshift repairs and an extra couple of rungs of barbed wire had been added. A handful of people sat round an open fire, a blackened pot steaming away above the centre of the flames.

  They turned as Jim and George approached. A man dressed in a knee-length brown waxed jacket stood up and took a step towards them.

  ‘Not a very environmentally friendly motor you’ve got there.’ He sounded friendly enough, but Jim didn’t like the look of a scruffy German Shepherd raising itself up on its hind legs behind him.

  ‘It runs on unleaded. ‘

  The man flicked back a lock of greasy black hair so he could see them with both eyes. He must have been in his early 30s but the untamed beard added at least 10 years to his appearance.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a quick word?’

  ‘You’re not polis.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘We’re not polis.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Press,’ Jim said. ‘We’re doing a piece for The Guardian on the environmental impact of the yard re-opening.’

  It was a straight lie, but he knew the measure of these people; Guardian readers every one. How could they resist an appearance in their broadsheet bible?

  The man smiled through his dark facial foliage and put a hand to his dog’s collar.

  ‘Come on over. He’s harmless enough.’

  Jim’s heart settled into a more sustainable rhythm. He walked up and shook the man’s hand. It was unpleasantly cold and greasy.

  ‘My name’s Jim Buchan.’

  ‘I’m Simon. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Aye, go on,’ George added.

  Minds at rest, the others had returned their attention to the fire. A woman lifted the kettle and filled two orange plastic beakers with tea. She handed them up.

  ‘We haven’t got any milk.’

  ‘Sugar?’ George asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Simon asked.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘As long as it takes. ‘

  ‘Until the yard closes?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘We’ll stay here until it does.’

  George chipped in, irritation creeping into his voice: ‘What’s the problem, mate?’

  ‘The problem, mate, is that oil yards bring pollution.’ Simon looked out over the water. ‘Park an oil rig there and say goodbye to all the wildlife in the loch. Oil, heavy metals, chemicals, you name it, they’ll pump it into the water. They’ve ruined the North Sea and the Gulf of Mexico. Now they’re starting on the North Atlantic fields. It has happened in hundreds of other places and it’ll happen here unless we stop it.’

  ‘But there are controls, government controls, to protect the environment,’ Jim pointed out.

  Simon laughed out loud. ‘No one pays any attention to them. It’s all about money, Mr Buchan, pounds and dollars, not the marine environment. Cash is the bottom line.

  ‘So what can you do?’

  ‘We can make it as difficult as possible for them. Make them think twice before they start desecrating beautiful places like this. Too much has been destroyed already to let it happen again. Just look at the countryside here. It’s beautiful, unspoiled.’

  ‘And how do you stop it?’

  ‘We get in their way. When the lorries come down, we lie down in front of them. When the rigs try to get in, we block them. We’ve got a couple of inflatable boats stashed away for when the time comes.’

  ‘Dangerous stuff.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And have you had any success here?’

  ‘We managed to block a couple of lorries bringing equipment down. We made them turn around.’

  Jim peered through the fence, into the yard where a gentle hum of activity filled the air.

  ‘It seems pretty much business as usual,’ he pointed out.

  ‘For now,’ Simon conceded.

  ‘How far do you go?’ George asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Where do you draw the line?’

  Jim noticed Simon’s grip loosen on the dog’s collar.

  ‘We don’t break the law, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes we bend it a little.’

  ‘But surely you’re risking your own lives,’ Jim added.

  ‘We think it’s a price worth paying.’

  ‘And what about other people’s lives?’ George asked.

  ‘What other people?’

  ‘The guys who drive the lorries, the ones you lie down in front of.’

  ‘There’s no risk to them. ‘

  George pressed on: ‘What about the scaffolders, like the guy who died the other night?’

  Simon’s eyebrows narrowed. He lowered his voice. ‘I don’t like your line of questioning. ‘