Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Just then something caught her eye. Rhona picked up the yellow slip of paper, recognizing it as a Post-it. On it was the name Rick Grimes. Having spotted one discarded notelet, she now located another three, all with names on them, she thought, of fictional characters.

  The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui she knew as one of the local legends of the Cairngorms.

  It appeared the four friends had been playing a game to pass the night away and – she spotted a leather-bound hipflask – perhaps toasting the New Year before going to sleep.

  Never to wake up?

  At that moment an alternative explanation presented itself. One that seemed scarcely credible although in any other scenario would have to be considered.

  Each of the three had a self-inflating pillow under their heads. The fourth pillow lay alongside, its owner missing somewhere on the hillside. Like hypothermia, suffocation could be extremely subtle, sometimes without any convincing features at all. It should however show signs of asphyxia. There were no obvious marks on the faces, no bruising or scratches, no discoloration around the nose, which might indicate pressure to stop the flow of oxygen.

  Bearing in mind that any death on the mountain was regarded as a crime scene until proved otherwise, Rhona performed the same tasks on the bodies and surrounding area she would normally carry out at a suspicious death, paying special attention to the nose and mouth area. It was in the female’s mouth she discovered the gravel. Fine particles lodged in the back of the throat.

  How had the gravel found its way into her mouth?

  Had the circumstances in the cave been different, displaying obvious evidence of the disorientation of three people with hypothermia, she could imagine one or more of them exhibiting strange behaviour.

  Might she have eaten snow to cool down and the snow contained gravel?

  The surrounding walls were made up of layered stones, the spaces between them packed with snow. Snowflakes had been constantly drifting in through crevices and the doorway as she’d worked. A handful would have been easy to come by, even inside the cave.

  And snow packed into a mouth and nose could stop someone breathing.

  Anyone who had dealt with avalanche victims knew that.

  The thought took root and developed. The snow would melt, leaving only the residual gravel. With that in mind, Rhona took care to swab the back of the males’ throats as well.

  She then concentrated on the fourth pillow. If that, instead of snow, had been used to block the airways, trace evidence would indicate it.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Charlie’s face peered at her from the narrow crevice entrance.

  ‘Almost finished.’

  ‘Any further thoughts?’

  ‘A few, but I’d rather wait for the PM. Will you be involved in that?’ she said, aware that there were always two pathologists present.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll make a point of being there.’

  ‘No luck with finding the fourth member of the group?’ Rhona asked.

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘So no one’s left to tell the tale?’

  ‘It’s beginning to look that way. And we have a media presence,’ he added grimly.

  ‘How?’ Rhona said in disbelief.

  ‘Overhead. A press helicopter. Apparently the story of a downed plane on frozen Loch A’an and four dead bodies is a scoop.’

  Rhona understood the frustration in his voice. The truth of tragedies on the mountain was often replaced by sensationalist reporting. Bad for both the family members of the deceased and for the members of the team, who always tried to be as honest as possible, while protecting the innocent.

  ‘How did they find out?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Once a call-out happens, a statement has to be made. And not everyone in police headquarters is above selling an interest story to the press.’

  Crawling out of the cave minutes later, Rhona spotted the helicopter hovering above them with a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings, which only a deterioration in the weather could prevent.

  ‘Heavy snow’s on the way, so if you’re okay with us moving the remains, we should leave now.’

  Even as Charlie said this, Rhona spotted the threatening bank of grey on the horizon.

  ‘I’ll walk out with the stretchers,’ Charlie said. ‘You need to catch a ride on the chopper before the weather grounds it.’

  ‘What about the missing girl?’

  Charlie’s face clouded over. ‘I wouldn’t be being honest if I didn’t tell you that if she’s out in the open, she’s likely dead already.’

  19

  McNab looked to the window where another shower was tossing large flakes to melt against the glass. When he’d arrived at the station, he’d expected to find the Norwegian detective with the boss. His trip to the safe house had taken more than an hour, and during the intervening time it seemed his future had been sealed.

  Through the black cloud currently descending on his brain, he heard the boss’s words.

  ‘The Norwegian police believe that both cocaine and girls are being trafficked via Norway en route to the UK. The latest haul of cocaine off the coast of Aberdeen may have been part of that.’

  ‘We have no reason to believe that’s the case, sir. I’ve been hard on Brodie’s tail since Orkney. He has no connections in Aberdeen.’

  DI Wilson ignored the riposte. ‘You will work with Police Inspector Olsen. Give him all the help and information you can, Sergeant.’

  McNab remained silent and unconvinced. His own investigation which had led to the Delta Club pointed at the drug entering Scotland by sea via the remote west coast, and the conversation with Ursula suggested the women from last night may have arrived in the UK legally, although coerced into prostitution afterwards.

  But not Amena Tamar, a small internal voice reminded him.

  ‘Our priority is to find Brodie and the girl, sir.’

  ‘Inspector Olsen may be able to help you do that.’ Perhaps noting McNab’s belligerent look, he added, ‘This is as much a diplomatic mission between Norway and Scotland, Sergeant, as a joint investigation.’

  And there it was. Police Scotland was under orders from the Scottish government to work with KRIPOS, which quickly brought another thought.

  ‘The men detained last night, sir. Were any of them Norwegian?’

  By the boss’s expression, McNab suspected he might be right.

  ‘Inspector Olsen is currently going through the men’s details. I suggest you join him.’

  And with that McNab was dismissed.

  On exit he headed for the coffee machine, signalling to DS Janice Clark that it would be good if she came with him. He and Janice went back a long way, since her early days as a detective constable where he’d tried to lord it over her in his elevated position as DS. Then she’d been promoted, deservedly so, just as he, having climbed the ladder to DI, had very swiftly slid back down the snake. Now they were equals. McNab found that worked better, for him at least.

  ‘You okay?’ she said, a pucker between her brows. ‘I heard you got shot … again,’ she added, as though it was his fault.

  ‘A scratch.’ He shook his head in dismissal. ‘Have you met the Norwegian bloke?’

  ‘I have,’ Janice said with a smile. ‘He’s charming and he speaks perfect English.’

  McNab made a sound which might have been mistaken for a growl. At this Janice raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Do you have a list of the men we picked up last night?’

  ‘Inspector Olsen’s going through them now. You could join him.’

  This, McNab thought, is beginning to resemble a forced marriage, where I am the reluctant wife, about to be fucked. ‘I’d rather look at them alone, first.’

  There was a pause as Janice considered his attitude. One that she was more than familiar with.

  ‘Your pal in the Tech department is running background checks,’ she finally offered.

  Entering the Tech department was somethi
ng McNab did only if it couldn’t be avoided. Being surrounded by computer screens manned by what seemed ridiculously young men (and women on occasion) made him feel old, and worse, stupid. This was despite the fact that normal policing was now predominantly high-tech. In fact you didn’t get more high-tech than the new Police Scotland headquarters at Gartcosh, with the most advanced forensic facilities in Europe.

  True, McNab’s recent encounter with policing outside the digital world, on a northern Scottish island where there had been no CCTV, an intermittent mobile signal and internet access as rare as his love for Old Firm games, had proved that his own policing methods did require digital input, however much he’d prefer that not to be the case.

  That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  It was the hum that freaked him. All those buzzing machines sounded to him like acute tinnitus. McNab searched the room for his only recognized ally. An impossibly young man who resembled an owl. How the hell had his mother known that when she’d decided on his name?

  He’s here.

  McNab felt a surge of relief he didn’t want to acknowledge as he marched towards his saviour.

  ‘DS McNab!’ The big eyes relinquished a screen filled, to McNab’s understanding at least, with gobbledegook.

  ‘Ollie. Good to see you.’

  ‘You too, Sergeant.’ Ollie waited, knowing McNab didn’t visit him here unless under duress. Eventually he prompted, ‘What can I do to help you, Sergeant?’

  ‘The Delta raid. You’re doing background checks on the participants?’

  ‘I am. Want a look?’ When McNab nodded, he added, ‘Pull up a chair.’

  Fleetingly remembered images of the tangle of naked bodies in that room sprang back into life. The scene had been ludicrous enough to cause sniggering among his team as the laser lights of the guns played on bare flesh and thrusting buttocks. For the most part the female bodies had been out of sight, covered as they had been by the men. McNab didn’t think he would recognize any of the female faces, except that of the frightened little Amena, but he was wrong. As the collage of photographs appeared, he immediately spotted Ursula.

  ‘That one.’ McNab pointed at the screen.

  Ollie brought up her details. ‘Ursula Gorecki. From Kraków. Eighteen years old. A student nurse. She’s not on any police database I’ve checked so far.’

  So she had, on the surface at any rate, been telling the truth.

  ‘And the missing girl?’

  ‘Nothing on her at all.’

  The remaining two women had yet to have their identities confirmed, so McNab now moved on to the men.

  Six faces stared out at him. All, he estimated, were in their thirties or forties.

  ‘Now it gets interesting,’ Ollie said. ‘That one.’ He pointed to the first photograph. The man had short, well-groomed fair hair and enough growth to be called a beard. Ollie clicked on the thumbnail image. When the details were revealed, Ollie read them out.

  ‘Jakob Svindal and Tobias Hansen work for Statoil and are based in Stavanger, Norway. The third Norwegian, Petter Lund, also works for Statoil but is based in Aberdeen.’

  ‘And the other three fuckers?’

  ‘James McVitie, an accountant from Bishopbriggs, Thomas Bellevue, a solicitor from Newton Mearns, and,’ here Ollie paused, ‘Blair Watson, a law advisor to the Scottish government.’

  ‘Jesus, that won’t go down well in parliament.’

  Ollie brought up the three photographs side by side. Last night McNab had had the fleeting impression he may have recognized one of the male faces in the melee. Now, he knew, he’d been right. He pointed to the one in the middle.

  ‘Him,’ he said, trying not to recall the heavy wobbling mound of naked flesh that had been attached to that head.

  ‘The accountant?’

  ‘So that’s his job now …’ McNab smiled. ‘And here’s me thinking he was still in the money-laundering business.’

  ‘He doesn’t appear on the police database.’

  ‘He’s never been charged. Yet.’ McNab paused. ‘You have a recording of the orgy?’

  Ollie looked surprised and a little disappointed, which suggested he’d been planning that revelation himself. ‘How did you know there was one?’

  ‘There were cameras everywhere and a big digital screen. That was what Brodie was glued to when we arrived.’

  ‘You want to take a look?’

  ‘The injured girl’s thirteen years old. Anyone caught fucking her on camera can be done for having sex with a minor.’

  ‘Then we have someone, Sergeant,’ Ollie said with a smile.

  20

  It had taken him four hours to locate a suitable spot and dig the snow hole. Instinct had told him not to desert the field. His consignment was safe, at least until an eventual thaw. The girl on the hill had been problematic, but had she lived she would have told her friends about him. With both her and the others dispensed with, no one could possibly know that the plane had held more than just its pilot. Except of course for the pilot himself, which was no longer a possibility.

  As usual, he’d had the sense to carry a basic survival pack with him, something which had proved useful on more than just this occasion. Unpacking his gear, he’d set up camp, estimating that he had the means to survive here for three days at least. Enough time for the mountain rescue team to remove the bodies from the cave and either give up on the girl or find her body and remove it too.

  Then the plan could be resumed.

  Unpacking the little stove, he lit it and put some supper on to heat.

  Once the rescue team moves on, I might have another look, just to make sure.

  Sitting in his burrow, he’d heard the muffled sound of a chopper and assumed it had brought in part of the search team. Dead bodies, he knew, weren’t transported out that way, which meant four bodies, maybe five, he thought with a frisson of pleasure, would have to be carried out by stretcher. That meant upwards of ten members of the team absent from the field, which cut down the number left to search for the girl’s remains. Then the persistent and nagging question surfaced yet again to trouble him.

  What if she isn’t dead?

  He immediately consoled himself with the thought that were she alive, which was highly unlikely, she’d barely seen him anyway. At this point his hand rose instinctively to his cheek. The gouge left by her nails had crusted over. Without a mirror he had no way of telling how obvious it was.

  But such a scratch could be easily explained, especially in this environment.

  He turned his attention to the contents of the pot, now simmering, the aroma of which was reminding him how hungry he was. He ate straight from the pan, taking care to do so slowly, aware he would have to ration himself in case he needed to stay around for a while.

  As he wiped the pot clean with snow, he heard the beat of blades again. Crawling along the entrance tunnel, he looked skywards. This time the chopper wasn’t the red and white of the rescue service, but black. Jutting from the open door was a telephoto lens.

  So the newsmen were on to it. Was it the downed plane that interested them? Or the bodies in the cave?

  21

  McNab left the station with a jaunty step. He’d decided not to immediately seek out Inspector Olsen, despite the boss’s orders. Armed with the same information the Norwegian policeman had, McNab was inclined to pursue his own path regarding the characters on the clusterfuck list, although as far as he was concerned the main priority had to be to locate Brodie and the girl. In respect of that, he’d received a rather promising text message from an old friend, who on occasion had supplied him with useful information.

  Davey Stevenson, McNab sometimes mused, was the man he would have liked to become himself, had he not entered the police force. In fact even now, on occasion, he wished he’d followed in his school pal’s footsteps. If so, he might have owned a string of betting shops, have a big house overlooking a nice Glasgow park and be invited to social events on both sides of the Glasgow divide.
Jesus, Davey was even known to grace tables in Edinburgh’s New Town. For a Glasgow wide boy, that was a definite sign you’d made it into the upper echelons of Scottish society, in the central belt at least.

  And Davey had bagged the looker they’d both hankered after at school. Mary Grant. From some wee highland village, she’d appeared in their fourth year of secondary school. McNab had been immediately stricken. She’d been cooler, but occasionally accommodating. McNab smiled at the memory.

  Christ, I had the hots for her.

  She’d eventually ditched him of course. Once she’d seen sense, and got to know Davey better. They’d got hitched while McNab was at Tulliallan police college, trying to become a police officer, showing off his knife skills to the better-educated recruits as a way to compensate for his own inadequacies.

  As far as he knew, Davey and Mary were still together. Envy cut through McNab, but only briefly. They were well suited, and they had a common project: to get rich and enjoy life … together.

  The lovely Mary would never have settled for a sad bastard DS living in a room-and-kitchen flat.

  McNab checked the text again on the way to the car. Davey, ever mindful of prying eyes, hadn’t made his reasons for a meeting plain, but McNab knew the man’s humour and his intention.

  Davey’s betting shops weren’t his only income stream. McNab was no longer certain how many businesses his old pal owned, but knew they included a health club, two bar restaurants and a posh hairdressing salon, which was definitely Mary’s responsibility. McNab, despite his own lowly status, was secretly rather proud of his mate. He’d rather Davey owned half of Glasgow than some posh out-of-town bastards.

  Davey had no need to tell him where they’d meet. It was always the same location; the hangout from their shared past. An old-fashioned boozer that neither Davey nor any other company had decided was worth a makeover. In truth, it didn’t need it. It had wood panelling, brass finishings, a majestic mirror and a rail to put your foot on as you supped your chosen poison.