Paths of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Rhona nodded her agreement and followed him as he entered the Ring and headed right. A little higher now and more exposed, she could feel the full force of the west wind that churned the surfaces of both lochs.

  The forensic tent had been anchored down as much as possible. Despite this, it billowed in and out, snapping its desire to be free. The hum of a small generator indicated the presence of arc lights.

  ‘The R2S team are at the station, preparing the forensic material for transit. So you’re on your own.’

  Erling glanced westwards where a blanket of grey-black cloud hung in waiting. ‘According to the weather forecast we have a couple of hours maximum before that lot reaches us,’ DI Flett told her as he held back the tent flap. Rhona raised her mask, checked her hair was tucked under her hood and entered.

  15

  She stood for a moment, partially blinded by the arc lights’ blaze. Shutting her eyes, she focussed initially on the smell. However long you worked with the dead, the scent of death always hit with the same power. Pervasive, encompassing, it invaded your clothes and your senses. Shielded from the wind, the interior of the tent was almost balmy. Perfect conditions for decomposition, which was underway.

  Rhona studied the layout of the body before approach, recalling Magnus’s brief description as she did so. Unlike Magnus, she had viewed the body on Cathkin Braes and her immediate impression was of similarity. Premeditated murder was thought out and planned, the method and the delivery. A random act of violence was chaotic, surprising, often followed by panic, resulting in attempts to hide the body, or by simply running away. Whoever killed this girl had neither panicked in the aftermath nor immediately made a run for it. Care had been taken to display the killer’s handiwork, to indicate his ownership of the result.

  Rhona moved closer and hunkered down beside the body. Rigor mortis, or the temporary rigidity of the muscles after death, had begun, visible in the face, jaw and neck muscles, extending into the arms and trunk. Pressed sideways to the ground, hypostasis had darkened the lower half as gravity drew the blood downwards. As a rough guideline, the state of the body suggested she’d died where she lay sometime during the night.

  Rhona set to work, the moan of the wind and the hum of the generator fading into the background. She was determined not to check the time, nor worry that DI Flett would announce their imminent departure. She would concentrate only on the woman who lay before her.

  The face was young and make-up free. Her eyes were open and unmarked by petechiae. A decision had been made not to remove the clothes and bag them to preserve evidence. Rhona wondered if that had been wise, but understood that pressure of time had dictated the decision. The stone had been extracted from her mouth and doubtless was now stored in the evidence room back in Kirkwall police station.

  Rhona bent close to the face and sniffed, catching the sweet, musty smell of cannabis. She sampled the mouth, finding no evidence of semen, then the hands. The fingernails were dirty, as though the victim had been digging recently or had clawed at the earth in her death throes. The idea of poison presented itself as a possible mode of death. Or perhaps a drug overdose? But why lay out the body in such a manner, unless those present at the time had also been high?

  She was sampling the clothes when DI Flett reappeared.

  ‘I’m sorry, we need to remove the body now.’

  Rhona stood up, suddenly registering how high the wind had become. A squall of rain hit the roof as two stretcher-bearers entered and began to bag the body, turning it to expose the underside.

  Rhona halted them before they could zip up the bag, using the time to take some photographs and further samples from the clothing. Minutes later they were carrying it out and struggling down the path to a waiting ambulance.

  ‘Can I work the ground under the body before you dismantle the tent?’

  ‘The tent might remove itself from over your head soon,’ DI Flett warned.

  ‘I’ll take that chance,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Ten minutes, then we need to take down the arc lights, before they get damaged.’

  Rhona got down on her knees again. The grass below the body was flattened, but not bloodstained. She took a sequence of photographs, knowing this was one spot R2S could not have reached. There were two noticeable indentations on the flattened grass. The dirty marks on the front of the victim’s jeans suggested she had been kneeling here, prior to her death.

  Rhona spotted something in the grass. She extracted the end of the roll-up with tweezers and bagged it. As she rose to her feet, DI Flett appeared with a couple of officers to dismantle and remove the lights.

  ‘Okay?’

  Rhona acquiesced, lifted her forensic case and followed him out.

  The sky was a seething cauldron of cloud, the long summer day darkened by it. Droplets of rain met her face as she followed DI Flett down the path towards the waiting vehicles. She squeezed through the gate, just as the rain came on in earnest. The downpour caused a flurried retreat to the waiting cars that lined the road. The grey Loch of Harray beat against its narrow shoreline. The summer solstice had brought its promised storm.

  Rhona got into DI Flett’s car, still suited, and began to disrobe with difficulty.

  ‘If you hang on a minute, I’ll run you to the Standing Stones Hotel. You can get rid of the suit there.’

  Rhona nodded and, having freed her hands, feet and head at least, gave up the struggle. DI Flett turned the car with some difficulty on the narrow strip of tarmac and set off in a southerly direction.

  Although Rhona had spent a weekend in Orkney with Magnus, she had no real sense of the layout of the island. She was aware that Stromness was on the western side, Kirkwall on the east and the large island of Hoy to the south. The roads that wove round the coast and across the main island, serving the fertile farms and hamlets, were unfamiliar to her. A few minutes later DI Flett turned left and drove a short distance along a busy main road, to enter the car park of a reasonably sized hotel.

  The squall was still at its peak as they made their way to the front door, DI Flett carrying the bags. Once inside reception, he stripped off his forensic suit while she did the same.

  Now she could observe the detective in the flesh, Rhona realized why she had thought at first he might be Magnus. Same height and build, first impressions again suggested Norse blood. The thought made her check her mobile, only to discover a message from the other Viking suggesting they meet at the Standing Stones Hotel when she’d finished on site.

  ‘I have to go,’ DI Flett said. ‘They’ll feed and water you here.’

  ‘I suppose there’s not much chance of getting back to Glasgow?’

  ‘Tomorrow, maybe. This should blow itself out by then.’

  As soon as he’d left, Rhona rang the bell on reception. A young woman answered and promised food in the lounge, but no chance of a room.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’re booked out with tourists this time of year. I could ring round, see if I can find space anywhere, but since all these policemen have been shipped in to deal with the murder …’

  ‘You can stay with me,’ a male voice said.

  The young woman’s eyes lit up as she viewed Magnus over Rhona’s shoulder. Rhona was reminded of Chrissy’s facial expression when she looked on Professor Pirie.

  Rhona braced herself and turned.

  They hadn’t met or spoken since the Reborn case, in which Magnus’s profiling ability had played a substantial part. McNab, then a detective sergeant, had treated his boss’s decision to involve a forensic psychologist with antagonism and suspicion, which had only worsened when the two men had met. Nothing had changed since then. Now that DI Wilson was on extended leave, because of his wife Margaret’s illness, the newly appointed McNab could chose to use Magnus’s undoubted skills – or not. Rhona suspected the latter would be the case.

  ‘Magnus.’ She smiled and saw the return smile in his eyes.

  ‘You’ve been to the Ring?’ he said.

  ‘I have,
and managed some time there before the wind took over.’

  ‘Shall we get a drink and talk?’ He led her through to the bar. ‘First a whisky, then some food?’

  She nodded and took a seat, already questioning the wisdom of taking up Magnus’s offer of staying with him at Houton Bay. Magnus and she had history. She had history with McNab too, but he was less liable to take it seriously. Magnus analysed everything and everyone. Useful when profiling a murderer, less comfortable in matters of the heart.

  He was back, setting two measures of whisky and a small jug of water on the table. They each added a little water, swirled the whisky round the glass and breathed in the scent.

  ‘Peat and heather,’ Rhona said. ‘The peat on Orkney is quite unique,’ she quoted Magnus from a previous whisky encounter. ‘It has very little wood content. Because of the wind, the heather is deep-rooted and resilient. Highland Park’s aromas reflect where it was made.’

  He smiled. ‘You remembered.’

  ‘A connoisseur once told me I have a good nose,’ she reminded him. She took a mouthful, happier now that they had established contact again, if a little awkwardly. Her relief was short-lived.

  ‘I thought we might eat at the house,’ Magnus suggested. ‘I can muster fresh scallops and home brew, or white wine if you prefer?’

  Rhona met his eye. She did want to talk to him about the victim in the Ring of Brodgar and she needed somewhere to stay, and most definitely a shower. If she could smell death on her clothes, hair and skin, Magnus’s keen nose undoubtedly could.

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded and watched his eyes light up.

  On the way to Houton, Magnus turned on the radio. Above the wind and rain they listened to BBC Scotland’s broadcast on the suspicious death at a prominent Neolithic site in Orkney. Glasgow’s murder victim was referred to as possibly gang related.

  The wind had reached gale force when they drew up outside the grey stone house. Rhona’s last visit had also been in summer. Then she had sailed down Scapa Flow in Magnus’s boat on mirror-like water. Not today. White-crested waves broke over the nearby jetty and swept round the stone plinth on which the house stood.

  He parked close to the front door and they made a dash for it. Once inside the thick stone walls, the wind descended to a whisper.

  Magnus handed her the bags. ‘You know where to find your room?’ He indicated the narrow staircase. ‘And the bathroom? I’ll fetch in some home brew.’

  The scent of the sea permeated the house. Rhona breathed it in and remembered. Stopping at a window in the upstairs corridor, she looked out on a stormy Scapa Flow, the towering shadow of Hoy behind. She knew a squall like this was common in Orkney whatever the season. Chances were tomorrow would be flat calm and she could head back to Glasgow. The postmortem on the Orkney victim would likely take place in Inverness or Aberdeen. She wondered whether she should attend.

  She heard the back door bang and watched as Magnus made a dive for the home-brew shed to emerge with a couple of bottles. She would have to be careful, his home brew was sweet but strong.

  She stripped off in the bathroom and stuffed her clothes into a plastic bag, knotting the top. Stepping under the hot shower, she soaked her hair and looked about for shampoo. She lathered it on, then set about soaping her body.

  Dressed in fresh clothes, and feeling a lot better, she headed downstairs to be greeted by the scent of garlic and ginger frying in the kitchen. Rhona stood for a moment watching Magnus’s tall figure at work. A keen cook, he was completely absorbed and unaware of her presence. Then he caught her scent and turned.

  ‘Supermarket brand shampoo,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘I like it,’ Rhona said.

  ‘A starter?’ He pointed to a plate of olive-oil-soaked croutons topped with fresh basil and chopped tomato.

  Rhona selected one and popped it in her mouth, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. It tasted delicious.

  ‘Home brew or wine?’

  ‘Home brew.’

  Magnus seemed pleased by her request. He opened the fridge and extracted a bottle and tipped the cloudy liquid into a glass.

  ‘This year’s. See what you think.’

  A mouthful of the golden liquid brought a sudden rush of memory of her previous visit, all of it pleasant.

  ‘Very good,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve lit the fire in the dining room. I know it’s June, but it’s behaving like November. Take the starter with you.’

  Rhona settled by the fire, and glanced around the room. It looked exactly the way she remembered, although with a few new driftwood carvings added to Magnus’s collection.

  She found herself at ease in these surroundings. Despite the wildness of the weather which beat at the window, in here tranquillity reigned. She suddenly remembered what or who was missing and called through to the kitchen.

  ‘Do you still have Olaf?’ Olaf was a large grey tomcat who caught his own fish, making him an easy house guest when he chose to stay.

  Magnus appeared with the bottle to top up her glass. ‘He still deigns to visit now and again. Although I fear he’s found a girlfriend in a new house further along the shore and is being kept busy.’

  They ate the delicate and delicious scallops in companionable silence at the dining table, with the patter of rain on the window. Afterwards they took a softer seat near the fire, wine glasses in hand, and Rhona raised the subject of her visit.

  ‘Tell me what you think,’ she urged Magnus.

  He considered her request for a moment. ‘Whoever killed her had thought it through. The impaled hands. Their careful placing. The marked stone in her mouth.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘There was no evidence of sexual activity. Soil marks on her jeans suggest she had been kneeling prior to her death. I also found a roll-up under the body.’

  Magnus nodded. ‘I could smell cannabis. What about the Cathkin Braes victim?’

  ‘No evidence of sexual activity. A young male, similarly laid out, but with the hands chopped off and displayed on the stones. And he had a pebble in his mouth with the number five scratched on it.’ Rhona observed Magnus’s surprised reaction.

  ‘I’d heard about the pebble, but the hands …’ He looked perplexed. ‘A copycat killing?’

  ‘The full details on the Cathkin Braes murder haven’t been released to the press yet.’

  Magnus absorbed the significance of this.

  ‘When was the body discovered?’ he said.

  ‘Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘What about the postmortem?’

  ‘Inconclusive. McNab thinks it was drugs related. There was a report of a stash of cocaine nearby.’

  ‘Drugs are everywhere. Orkney, Shetland, the Western Isles.’

  Magnus was right. Drug cartels operated throughout Scotland, its mainland and islands. Orkney and Shetland, with their oil money, were ripe pickings for dealers.

  ‘There’s a strategy meeting tomorrow,’ Magnus said. ‘Would it be useful for you to come along?’

  ‘I’ll check with DI McNab first and decide in the morning.’

  Magnus looked surprised. ‘McNab’s been promoted?’

  ‘Party was at the weekend,’ Rhona said. ‘He’s still recovering. From the shock and the alcohol.’

  ‘McNab’s instinct and intuition are first class,’ Magnus said swiftly. ‘He’ll make a good inspector.’

  Both were lost in thought for a moment, Rhona conscious of Magnus’s proximity, the quiet power of his presence. He kept his glance averted, staring at the fire with an intensity that unnerved her.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’m a bit tired.’ She rose. ‘Thanks for the meal. The food was delicious, as always.’ She knew she sounded stiff and formal, but the glowing fire, the beer followed by wine, were lowering her defences.

  If Magnus was disappointed at her imminent departure for bed, he covered it well.

  By the time she reached her room, Rhona already regretted her brusque withdrawal. She liked Magnus, found his company
entertaining, and at times enticing. Maybe too enticing.

  She admonished herself as she brought up McNab’s number and listened to it ring out.

  Cursing, McNab exited the bed. He found his shirt soon enough, but his trousers eluded him. A sudden image of Iona unbuttoning his fly reminded him where they were. He skirted the bed, where she lay sleeping, and found them on the floor next to her.

  He grabbed the mobile from the back pocket and checked the screen. Expecting the police station, he saw Rhona’s name instead. He hesitated for a split second before answering. Keeping his voice low, he headed for the sitting room.

  ‘Dr MacLeod. You’re up late.’ He closed the door quietly behind him.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Let’s say you got me out of bed.’

  ‘Then my apologies to your companion,’ she said, sounding less fazed than he’d hoped by his remark.

  ‘Who says I have a companion?’

  ‘My guess is you’re standing stark naked in the sitting room, with the door closed,’ she laughed. ‘You only answered because it might have been the station.’

  ‘I only answered because it was you. What’s up?’

  ‘The Orkney murder looks a lot like the Glasgow one. The body was laid out in a similar fashion, a stone in her mouth with the number four on it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In this instance, the victim is a young woman and her hands were impaled, not chopped off.’

  ‘You’re suggesting a connection?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t believe in coincidence and,’ she paused for a moment, ‘neither did Bill.’

  McNab gritted his teeth. If she was going to cast DI Wilson up at him at every opportunity …

  When he didn’t immediately reply, Rhona continued. ‘Have you ever found a murder victim with a stone in their mouth, with a number scratched on it?’

  ‘No,’ he conceded.

  ‘Now we have two in the space of two days.’

  ‘You need to stop telling me how to do my job, Dr MacLeod,’ he said more sharply than intended.