Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘But she didn’t die?’

  ‘Oh no. They think she’ll be able to tell them what happened when she comes round.’ She paused. ‘Then they’ll have to tell her that her boyfriend and the other couple are dead. How awful is that?’

  ‘Awful,’ he chimed in.

  As he quickly ate, he determined to exit the valley as swiftly as possible. By the atmosphere in Macdui’s, it was obvious that, like all small communities, nothing and nobody went past them, including strangers like himself. The question was whether he should head for Inverness to finish the job. And that all depended on whether she might recognize him.

  He drank the remainder of his coffee. No loose ends. There was little chance that she could identify him, and he would take a risk by disposing of her in the hospital. If she should die back home in Glasgow, then no one would link her demise to what had happened on the mountain.

  Checking his mobile, he discovered that the next train south, albeit with a change in Perth, would place him in the city by late afternoon. He had almost settled on catching it when a further thought occurred.

  He gestured Annieska over with a smile. The climbing party would likely have a vehicle, still in the vicinity. And the mountain rescue people would know where it was.

  30

  Glasgow, 2 January

  McNab braced himself for the onslaught. DS Janice Clark had a tongue that could cut paper, when she chose to use it. She also had an ability to remind him of a disappointed parent. In his case, there was only one. His mother. And a look from her had usually been enough.

  To his surprise, the room with the coffee machine was empty. McNab decided he would help himself to a double espresso then make a quick getaway, before DS Clark turned up. Then he could say, in a pious fashion, that he’d been there at the allotted time, but she hadn’t.

  His plan was thwarted as he waited for the machine to dispense his second shot. When the door opened, expecting Janice, and with his opening salvo prepared, he found himself instead facing the Norwegian detective.

  The bitch set me up.

  By the expression on Olsen’s face, McNab briefly thought that he’d voiced his thoughts out loud. Then the officer was moving towards him with his hand outstretched.

  Jesus, he wants to shake hands.

  Nonplussed, McNab feigned pain in his injured arm and nodded his greeting instead. ‘Inspector Olsen.’

  ‘Can we talk, Detective Sergeant?’

  As McNab considered his response, the Norwegian added, ‘I’ve okayed it with DI Wilson this time.’

  The conciliatory tone caught McNab off guard. Their first meeting had been bristly, caused as much by Olsen’s manner as his own. But if this was to be a joint investigation …

  ‘Okay,’ he nodded.

  ‘Somewhere private?’ Olsen added.

  ‘There’s no privacy here, except in a cell or an interview room.’

  ‘Either would do.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ McNab finished his espresso and tossed the empty cup in the bin.

  Olsen watched his Scottish counterpart’s expression slowly move from distrust to curiosity. He’s suspicious of me. A necessary requirement for a detective. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent.

  They were seated across an interview desk, but on this occasion the tape wasn’t running. With no view of the outside world, the room, Olsen thought, might have been in any western police headquarters, including Stavanger.

  ‘I spoke with Amena only briefly,’ McNab told him. ‘She’d been injured in the exodus from the orgy, her face, ribs, shoulder. The doctor who dealt with her in A&E said she’d also been roughly treated sexually over a sustained period of time.’ A shadow crossed McNab’s face. ‘We established she came from Syria and that her handler, known as Stefan, spoke Norwegian.’

  ‘Did she indicate that she’d been in Norway?’

  ‘No. And she only understood a little Norwegian, according to the doctor who spoke to her.’ McNab hesitated, his face troubled. ‘She’s thirteen years old, and we have footage of at least one man raping her. A Norwegian national.’

  Olsen met his challenging look. ‘My investigation suggests that refugee minors like Amena Tamar are being trafficked from Norway to Scotland.’

  ‘Via Aberdeen?’ The Scottish detective sounded wary.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Olsen waited, sensing a reluctant response from McNab might be forthcoming. He was right.

  ‘One of my sources suggests Amena may be en route to Aberdeen with Neil Brodie, the Delta Club’s owner,’ McNab said. ‘If she’s still alive.’

  Olsen’s heart lifted, then fell again, as he realized what that might mean.

  ‘What is it?’ McNab said.

  ‘I think they will keep her alive,’ Olsen assured him. ‘Until …’ He hesitated, unsure whether this was the point at which he should reveal the next horror.

  ‘Until what?’ McNab demanded.

  When he told him, DS McNab’s expression was, Olsen suspected, much like his own when this information had been revealed to him. He went on swiftly, not waiting for the angry vocal reaction which would undoubtedly follow. ‘If the minor becomes difficult, or a danger to the operation …’

  McNab’s face was a tumult of emotions through which anger blazed. ‘Where the fuck does this happen?’

  ‘We suspect on board a ship currently lying somewhere between Scotland and Norway.’

  McNab swallowed hard. He’d expected to talk cocaine shipments, which is what Operation Delta had been all about. The discovery of trafficked women and a young girl at the Delta Club hadn’t been anticipated. Nor the Norwegian connection. For a moment he wished he was back there, prior to the raid, as ignorant of what lay ahead as he had been then. Glancing at Olsen, he found the inspector’s countenance to be much as he imagined his own.

  So that was to be little Amena’s fate.

  31

  Rhona paused in her delivery as a ripple of response ran round the room.

  The strategy meeting had been running for a little under half an hour, during which she’d outlined the Cairngorm Mountain Rescue team’s response to the report of the downed plane and the discovery of the crash site. The image of the crippled plane festooned with icicles as thick as a man’s arm had brought a surprised reaction from the assembled officers, much like her own had been when she’d first viewed it.

  Olsen had listened closely to her report, in particular the result of the cocaine wipe of the hold, although she’d noted that the Norwegian inspector hadn’t appeared particularly surprised by that discovery.

  Now Rhona came to the images she’d recorded of the dead pilot in situ.

  This was the first time a casualty had been displayed on the screen. A scene of death, regardless of how often it happened, always had an impact on an audience. In this case the startling juxtaposition of fresh blood on virgin snow, plus the frozen nature of the body heightened this reaction. Rhona explained about the severe conditions which had produced such a result.

  A couple of related questions followed, regarding the thickness of the ice and whether there was a possibility that a cocaine cargo might have been hidden beneath it. Something Rhona had considered at the time.

  ‘The ice is at least a yard thick in the centre, or so I was assured as the helicopter landed,’ she added, her expression at this point causing a ripple of laughter. ‘Breaking through is possible. We broke through a thick film of ice on the cockpit of the plane with an axe. But there are numerous and easier places ashore to hide a cargo, provided you pinpoint the location, and bear in mind that the next snowfall could vastly change the landscape.’

  Rhona continued, ‘The PM as you know was delayed for the body to be brought to Glasgow. However, I did have a chance to examine it in the mortuary prior to its departure.’

  She brought up the images she’d taken of the body markings. At this point she asked Inspector Olsen for his thoughts on the tattoos.

  ‘The inscription is Norwegian and means “without
fear”,’ Olsen confirmed. ‘Although the Viking tattoos are universally popular.’ He came to the front now, summoned by DI Wilson.

  Taking his place beside Bill, Olsen listened quietly to his introduction, a small smile playing the corner of his mouth as though he thought it too complimentary. Bill explained that they were working with KRIPOS on this case and that the Delta raid, they believed, had thrown up connections between what Inspector Olsen was about to say and their own investigation into cocaine shipments entering Scotland.

  Rhona glanced along the row at McNab, whose demeanour made her wonder whether he resented having his project hijacked by outside forces. When he turned, sensing her gaze, Rhona silently messaged him that they needed to talk. He gave a vague nod, then refocused his attention on Olsen.

  Something’s up, Rhona thought. Something I don’t know about yet.

  ‘The plane,’ Olsen was saying, ‘is a Robin DR400/180 which took off, we believe, from a private airstrip near Stavanger. Stavanger to Aberdeen is approximately 312 miles and that particular aircraft has a range of 683 miles. We have no idea if it was in fact destined for Aberdeen or elsewhere. The bad weather is likely to have sent it off course.’

  He continued, ‘It’s a four-seater model, with a gross capacity of 2,425 pounds. Dr MacLeod’s discovery that it had housed cocaine in its hold may mean it had already delivered its cargo and was on its return journey when it came down on Loch A’an. Alternatively, the cargo may have been removed and hidden somewhere in the vicinity after the crash landing.’

  At this point he looked to Rhona for a response.

  ‘The deceased lay some hundred yards from the plane in the direction of the western head of the loch,’ she said. ‘There was no indication that he’d reached the shoreline in any direction, and a thorough search of the area for other survivors didn’t produce luggage or cargo.’

  ‘So, you don’t think there was any?’ Olsen asked.

  Rhona hesitated. How to put this?

  ‘We’re assuming the deceased was the pilot,’ she said, ‘but that can’t be confirmed until we match his blood to that found on the instrument panel.’ Pausing here, she added, ‘Assuming he was the one flying the plane, I don’t think, given his injuries and the severity of the weather, he could have carried a cargo any distance.’

  Olsen contemplated her answer for a moment.

  ‘Was there anything at the scene that gave you reason to believe there may have been someone else on the plane?’ he asked.

  There was, but how could she explain why she thought so?

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Olsen was studying her intently. ‘Yet you suspect it?’

  Now would be the time to say something about Isla’s possible or imagined attacker, but she would have to qualify it with details of the girl’s delirium. Rhona decided to hold back on that, for the moment.

  ‘I think there may have been,’ she conceded.

  Olsen’s sharp blue gaze flared. Rhona wasn’t sure if it was because she’d failed to commit, or because he admired the fact that she hadn’t.

  McNab had mysteriously disappeared before they could have their conversation, and Bill had been called away as soon as the three of them had entered his office. He’d apologized to Inspector Olsen, and had thrown Rhona a look that had asked her to stick around.

  In truth, Rhona couldn’t deny Bill Wilson, her mentor for many years, anything, so she’d smiled in agreement, despite the fact she’d been keen to get back to her lab and the forensic evidence she’d brought with her from Cairngorm.

  Rhona poured the inspector a coffee from the tray, and indicated he should take Bill’s favourite swivel seat, which had survived a number of office refurbishments. ‘It girns a bit,’ she warned him. ‘DI Wilson refuses to oil it. I’m not sure why.’

  Olsen immediately tried it out. ‘Girn. A good Scots word that my wife Marita used. Often when referring to the sounds I made,’ he smiled.

  ‘You’re married to a Scot?’ Rhona said with interest.

  ‘Was,’ he corrected her. ‘My wife died in an accident two years ago.’

  His reply killed the jokey response Rhona had been planning.

  Perhaps sensing this, Olsen apologized. ‘I shouldn’t have sprung that on you. I’m still getting used to saying those words out loud.’

  A short silence followed, before Rhona asked, ‘Where was your wife from?’

  ‘Gartocharn, near Loch Lomond,’ he said. ‘Although there’s no family there now. She was an only child,’ he explained. ‘So,’ he changed the subject, ‘I hear you’ve been to Stavanger?’

  ‘I have,’ Rhona told him. ‘I attended a forensic conference there a couple of years back.’

  ‘Where you met Harald Hjerngaard, our forensic specialist?’

  Rhona smiled at the memory of Harald and the time they’d spent together. ‘He and I drank a few beers together in a place by the harbour called Sørensens?’

  Olsen nodded. ‘With a fine view across the bay to the World War Two ship with the red cross symbol.’

  ‘I remember. It looked like something out of a Hollywood movie.’

  ‘Probably because it’s featured in a few,’ Olsen told her.

  ‘There was a tattoo convention on that weekend. Harald and I were tempted to visit, after the beer-drinking session. Luckily we didn’t,’ she laughed. ‘Otherwise I’d have more than a memory and a few photos to remind me of my trip.’

  ‘You might have ended up with a Viking tattoo or a Norwegian slogan like our mysterious pilot,’ Olsen said.

  Rhona acknowledged the inspector’s skilful return to what he really wanted to discuss. ‘I had the impression in the meeting that you believe someone else was on the plane,’ she said. ‘And you were keen for me to back that up.’

  ‘But you didn’t. Or couldn’t?’ Olsen offered, by way of encouragement.

  Rhona had been hoping news from Charlie would clarify things before she admitted this, but there had been nothing so far from Inverness. She decided to tell him what little there was, anyway.

  ‘The casualty was all in white,’ she said. ‘It made him difficult to spot in the terrain.’

  ‘And this is important how?’

  ‘The girl we rescued from the ice cave said a man in white pushed her off the hill.’ Seeing Olsen’s interest aroused, she qualified her statement. ‘However, the girl did show signs of delirium. When she comes round, she may have a totally different explanation for her fall.’

  ‘She said someone tried to kill her?’ Olsen said.

  ‘She was confused and afraid. She even mentioned Am Fear Liath Mòr, the local legend of the Big Grey Man who haunts the mountain.’

  ‘You didn’t take her seriously?’

  ‘I extracted skin and blood samples from under her nails,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Which might have come from an attacker?’

  ‘Or her dead boyfriend,’ she countered. ‘He had scratches on his chest.’

  Olsen’s expression suggested he was unaware of this further death, so Rhona explained about the three young climbers at the Shelter Stone, whose bodies she’d examined. ‘It was a busy night for the Cairngorm rescue team.’

  A shadow crossed Olsen’s face. ‘The winter mountains claim their victims in Norway, too,’ he said. ‘How far was this Shelter Stone from the crash site?’

  ‘A twenty-minute walk, on a decent day,’ Rhona told him.

  ‘And these climbers, how did they die?’

  ‘Most likely exposure. The temperature dropped below minus fifteen and the Shelter Stone is barely a cave, just a big boulder sat on top of other rocks. The postmortems of all four deaths will take place later today.’

  ‘I’d like to be there,’ Olsen said.

  Just then, Rhona’s mobile rang. Seeing McNab’s name on the screen, she stepped out of earshot to answer.

  ‘I thought you should know that Ruth Abernethy just called from Inverness MIT. Isla Crawford was interviewed prior to her discharge,’ McNab said. �
�There was no mention of an assailant. She said she went out to the toilet in the middle of the storm, lost her footing and fell, ending up in the snow cave.’

  ‘So no Am Fear Liath Mòr, then?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Is that like uisge-beatha?’ McNab came back at her.

  Rhona laughed. ‘You drink whisky better than you pronounce it.’

  ‘Not any more,’ McNab reminded her of his current sobriety. ‘Are you with the Viking?’ he added cautiously.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Then we’ll talk later,’ McNab said before ringing off.

  ‘That was Detective McNab,’ she told Olsen. ‘Isla Crawford has given Inverness police a statement. It looks like she simply fell that night. So no bogeyman.’

  ‘Or killer?’ Olsen’s look suggested he thought otherwise.

  32

  The dark-blue van with the climbing logo sat in the Coire Cas car park, just as Annieska had said. Her concern for Isla Crawford and how she would feel about retrieving the vehicle minus her companions, had told him all he needed to know.

  ‘Her friends are all dead. It’s terrible. Kyle says it just highlights how dangerous it is up there, even for experienced climbers.’

  ‘The reports say they died of cold?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Yeah, although Kyle thinks it odd that she survived in an ice cave, with a burn running through it, so close to a sheer drop.’

  He’d made suitably sympathetic noises at that point about the strange vagaries of the human condition, paid his bill and left. The car he’d hired had brought him back up the hill, disgorging him in front of the Day Lodge.

  Sitting in the cafe now, surrounded by chatting skiers and the noisy crunch of ski boots on the wet floor, he could see the van in its parked position, yards away. According to TV reports, the girl, whom he now knew as Isla Crawford, had been discharged from hospital in Inverness earlier today, after giving a statement to the police. What had been said in that statement, he had no idea, although the tone of the TV report suggested the death of the climbers had been just another mountain tragedy. Common at this time of year.

  Should the postmortem decide otherwise …

  The best outcome would be to silence the girl permanently, then make for the landing site at Feshiebridge as in the prior arrangement, before the pilot had lost control of the plane.