Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘They’ve got some food and hot drinks for us below,’ Harald said.

  ‘Any chance I can pick up mobile messages or make a call while I’m here?’ Rhona asked.

  Harald assured her she could. ‘Planning to locate your detective sergeant?’

  ‘Hoping to.’

  From worrying about the delay involved in a fuel stop, Rhona was now glad of it, as they were marshalled through the driving sleet and wind that whipped at the deck, and down below into the sudden warmth and relative silence.

  Rhona headed for the toilets first, passing some men on the way, who were surprised to find a woman wandering about. Rhona didn’t take the time to enlighten them as to why she was there, but left them with their puzzle.

  Her mobile, obviously logging a signal, was busy downloading. Rhona ran an eye over the texts first, but found nothing more from Ollie. There was one from Chrissy expressing an equal concern as to McNab’s whereabouts, and a request to be contacted as soon as possible.

  When she did so, Rhona found herself extraordinarily glad to hear Chrissy’s voice, although it was anything but crystal clear.

  ‘On an oil rig,’ she answered Chrissy’s demand to know where the hell she was. ‘The SAR helicopter’s refuelling.’

  Chrissy sprang into action with her own news. ‘Ellie went by McNab’s place last night,’ she told Rhona, ‘worried he wasn’t answering his phone. She found the door of his flat lying open, but no sign of McNab, although the ladder to the roof was pulled down.’ Chrissy rushed on, ‘His neighbours reported noise in the close after midnight.’

  None of this was what Rhona wanted to hear.

  ‘Bill’s instigated a full-scale search for him.’ Chrissy’s voice cut out briefly at this point.

  ‘You still there?’ Rhona asked. The tone of the return ‘yes’, indicated just how worried her assistant was. ‘You know McNab,’ Rhona said, as much for her own benefit as Chrissy’s. ‘It’s not the first time he’s made off like this.’

  ‘Nothing’s gone right since that raid on the Delta Club.’

  Rhona couldn’t argue with that statement. ‘Does Bill know about the Stevenson connection with Brodie?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t help,’ Chrissy told her. ‘They can’t find Davey either.’

  ‘And Mary?’

  ‘Still in intensive care.’

  God, it was a mess, and getting messier. Rhona was in the corridor now, and Harald, obviously looking for her, waved her towards an open doorway.

  ‘Food’s here, although we’ll have to be quick. We’re heading off in fifteen.’ Once settled at a table with a filled roll and a strong cup of coffee, he asked about McNab.

  Rhona told him what little she knew, and he had some news for her. ‘The Solstice’s only an hour away.’

  ‘And they still don’t know we’re planning a visit?’

  ‘We’ll use a story of a distress call nearby, and ask to land with a casualty and make use of their hospital facilities. In this weather, they can’t refuse.’

  As they made their way towards the helicopter, it was clear that the giant swell which surrounded the fixed installation was only increasing. Cresting waves broke against its legs, the resultant spray almost obscuring the rig, bar the burning flare. The small supply boat was having an even worse time, bobbing about like a cork.

  ‘How could anyone survive on a wee boat like that?’ Rhona said.

  ‘The crew will have already evacuated to the rig,’ Harald told her.

  Once back in the chopper, Harald reminded Rhona that if the wind speed got too high, even the NH-90 would be grounded. ‘It doesn’t happen often,’ he said.

  ‘And if it does?’

  ‘We abandon the mission and find a place, any place, to land and ride out the storm.’

  Rhona didn’t ask how high is too high, suspecting from her earlier experience on Cairngorm that the wind might be fast approaching that speed now.

  73

  They’d successfully negotiated the corridor outside the cabin without incident. Had they encountered anyone, Isla might well have passed unremarked, or be taken for a young male crew member, if there were any on board.

  McNab was more concerned about his own appearance. The beaten, bruised face shouted ‘problem’ and there was no concealing that. He had no idea who knew about his imprisonment below, and wasn’t keen to find out. His main concern at the moment was to find a place for Isla to hide, so that he might execute his plan.

  For he now had a plan.

  This time as they’d moved through the boat, McNab had taken more interest in his surroundings. By his estimation, this was a sizeable tug, not unlike the one used to smuggle cocaine from Turkey to Scotland, via a trip across the Atlantic to South America. It was battling the North Sea, and having some difficulty, but it was still making progress and heading somewhere. At a guess, he decided, there could probably be six crew members, plus cologne guy, Brodie and maybe Isla’s Iceman.

  And one of me.

  Not great odds, McNab had to admit, but all he needed to do was get a message out to Ollie, to anyone, that they were on this boat. That was the first idea.

  The other was more risky. If the ship got into trouble in these high seas, then the captain would call for help. Of course in the interim between the call and help arriving, they could quietly dispose of any unwanted baggage. Like himself, and Isla.

  And, McNab thought, they would have no scruples in doing so.

  But if they couldn’t find their passengers …

  McNab’s stomach was considering a second revolt. The pitching of the boat had become more extreme, listing heavily from side to side. Any movie he’d ever watched that involved a computer-generated storm at sea had definitely not prepared him for this. A glance at Isla showed she was faring better. No green tinges, no drawn expression that suggested she was concentrating really hard on not being sick.

  ‘Okay?’ he checked.

  ‘I don’t get seasick, if that’s what you mean?’ She gave him a faint smile.

  ‘It shows then?’ McNab mustered himself. If Isla could even attempt a smile after what she’d just been through … ‘Right. You stay here. I’m going to vomit somewhere else.’

  He’d located a hiding place to the rear of the tug. It was a tiny store of some sort, but empty at present, with just enough room for the two of them, although McNab hadn’t been planning to stay long. He’d a feeling that once the tug reached its destination, their chances of escape would only diminish. The storm offered some kind of cover for his attempt to alert the authorities to their position, which he planned to take.

  When he’d told Isla what he had in mind, she’d looked dubious.

  ‘I could come with you and distract them.’

  McNab had seen by her expression that it was a genuine offer. And a courageous one, after what she’d had to submit to with the men she might have to face.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll be back and we’ll sit it out until we’re rescued.’

  It sounded so simple when he’d said it like that.

  She’d seemed to acquiesce then, slipping back into the darkness, drawing her knees up, hugging them with her hands.

  McNab had left her there, hoping that even if he didn’t return, help might come for Isla at least.

  Once the detective had gone, Isla checked her pocket. She’d removed the fragment from the broken mirror when he’d ordered her into the toilet. An ice axe or a crampon would have been more her weapon of choice, but since neither was available, she’d extracted a sizeable piece of glass, wrapped it in toilet paper and slipped it in the pocket of the trousers.

  She’d spent a great deal of time during her incarceration imagining just what punishment the spikes on a crampon might do to the Iceman’s face, or even better, his prick and balls. She was now altering those images to incorporate the slither of glass and focusing more on an artery.

  Both her work as a mountaineering instructor and her own recreational pursuits in the
hills involved survival techniques, and a knowledge of first aid. Isla knew how to try to save a life, and how to take one. She’d already decided that she was unlikely to be set free, despite the detective’s good intentions. What she could do was take revenge for her friends.

  Abandoning the hiding place the detective had so carefully chosen for her, Isla now retraced her steps towards her prison. Through the small portholes, it was obvious that the seas were still enormous, whipped to a frenzy by the storm. She thought of McNab’s hope that rescuers might reach them – a coastguard vessel or a Search and Rescue helicopter. It was obvious he wasn’t aware that when winds reached this strength, helicopters were grounded. As for a boat reaching them in these seas, even if McNab did manage to raise the alarm …

  As the boat suddenly encountered a deep trough, Isla was thrown to the floor, the breath knocked out of her. Trying to rise again, she spotted a figure at the end of the corridor. The young man, holding on to the walls for traction against the swell, regarded her with a wild expression.

  Isla had no idea if he was crew, or whether he’d been aware that she was aboard. His current expression could suggest he was regarding her as an escaped prisoner, or else he’d discovered a stowaway. The garbled shout that followed didn’t help because it wasn’t in English.

  As he came quickly towards her, the boat gave the most violent pitch to date. The size and power of the wave they’d encountered sent water rushing into the corridor to take the feet from under her. Trying to rise again on her injured ankle, as she slammed down again Isla realized that her plan might come to nought. That she wouldn’t kill the Iceman. That in all likelihood she would drown on this boat.

  The boy was now beside her. She registered his youth, the dark good looks and the concern in his eyes. He was attempting to lift her. Isla resisted at first, her body heavy, then she found herself helping him. No longer a dead weight, she was drawn to her feet, her arm placed over his shoulder.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Tarik, a prisoner like you.’

  74

  ‘There she is,’ Harald said, ‘the Solstice.’

  The replenishment at sea vessel was lit up like a landing strip. Although bigger than Rhona had envisaged, even she was taking a pounding by the waves, whipped up by a wind Harald estimated as ten on the Beaufort scale. There was always a lag between an increasing wind and subsequent high seas. Judging by the giant seas below, it seemed that lag was over.

  There had been much discussion in the cockpit over the last fifteen minutes, all in Norwegian. The four-man crew consisting of captain and co-pilot, winchman and radar operator were conversing calmly, but there was no doubt, as Harald explained, that the high wind speeds were demanding that they set the chopper down and soon.

  This part of the North Sea wasn’t as crowded with rigs and accompanying vessels as other sections, so catching up with the Solstice had become a priority.

  And they’d done it, although Rhona couldn’t imagine how they might set down on that pitching deck. At least when she’d landed on the tiny airstrip on the Orkney island of Sanday, the field hadn’t been lurching about like the surface below them now.

  The call had already been put through to the Solstice requesting to land. Olsen threw Rhona an encouraging look as they waited for a response. It was inconceivable that they wouldn’t be permitted to set down, but in conditions like these, they would need all the help they could get to do so safely.

  A voice replied now, and after a rapid exchange of instructions, the chopper began its move towards a hover position above the rolling ship. Rhona could barely make out the deck below as the constant waves breaking against the Solstice threw up a continuous wall of white spray. It was, she thought, like being back in the blizzard.

  As the pilot battled to keep the chopper in position, the winchman began to lower a cable.

  ‘They’ll attach the messenger cable to a tethering cable which will help guide us down,’ Harald explained. ‘Once we’re on board, they’ll secure the chopper and move it into the hangar.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’ Rhona said in awe.

  ‘A few times,’ Harald assured her. ‘Seas weren’t quite so wild though.’

  Rhona kept her gaze fixed on the pilot. Despite the tension in the chopper, it was obvious that those in charge knew exactly what they were doing and she could only hope the ground crew had the same level of expertise.

  She barely felt the feet touch the surface before they were flung left as the wind caught the chopper side on. Buckled in, Rhona was briefly crushed against the reassuring bulk of Harald, who steadied her as the chopper was secured. The noise of the rotor blades and engine now quenched, the scream of the wind had become even more pronounced.

  ‘You’re liable to be blown away, so stay between Alvis and me when we get out,’ Harald ordered.

  He was right. Emerging head down, Rhona felt the wind try to take her feet from under her, before Harald and Alvis each grabbed an arm and began hustling her across the waterlogged deck towards the light of an open door. Even as a gust tried to pull her upwards, the crest of a wave topped the deck, sending swirling water to drag her towards the railing. As the wash threatened to upend her, Rhona found herself lifted by the men and carried to safety.

  Once inside, the door was clanged shut by a crew member and secured behind them, and they stood in the sudden but welcome internal silence of the ship.

  ‘What about our forensic equipment?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Once the helicopter’s been secured in the hangar, we’ll fetch it out,’ Alvis told her.

  The crew member indicated they should follow him, which proved, if not quite as difficult as their walk from the chopper, not easy either, as the ship continued to pitch and roll. The man never spoke to them, despite Olsen trying to engage him in conversation in English, then Norwegian, and a couple of other languages. None worked until the final one, which Rhona thought might be Arabic. The man started at that and turned to stare at Olsen, but whatever it was Olsen had said, there was still no response.

  The ship they gradually moved through wasn’t luxurious, but it was definitely lived in and by quite a few people. Rhona was conscious of activity going on, figures moving about and voices, male and definitely not speaking English.

  Harald said nothing en route. The helicopter crew they’d left behind to secure their aircraft and retrieve their luggage, so it was only the investigating team of herself, Olsen and Harald who were being escorted, Rhona assumed, to meet the ship’s captain.

  The crew member eventually halted and, opening a door, ushered them inside, saying ‘Wait here, please’ in Norwegian, as translated by Harald.

  Once they were all three inside the room, which was furnished with some tables and chairs, the crew member left. Olsen waited until the door swung shut behind them, then checked that it hadn’t been secured. It hadn’t.

  ‘They don’t know why we’re here?’ Harald immediately said.

  ‘They think the weather forced us down.’

  ‘So, they have no idea we’re police officers?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Olsen said. ‘The coastguard know where we are. If we can find anything to raise our suspicions, we’ll make this official.’

  75

  McNab’s stomach hadn’t given up on its revolt. Only once before had he endured such a level of nausea. On that occasion, it’d been caused by a morphine drip after he’d been shot. Gradually the relief from the pain of his injury had been replaced by a need to vomit, frequently, which had only been relieved by the administration of an anti-nausea drug given intravenously.

  On this ship, under these conditions, there was no morphine for his beaten and sore body, nor anything to end the nausea.

  Mind over matter, McNab told himself as he sat in a dark corner, his back against the wall, his stomach in turmoil.

  I will never set foot on a boat again, he vowed. Not even a bloody rowing boat in Victoria Park. As for now, maybe if he was sick over th
e enemy, that might distract them enough for him to put the knife in … literally.

  That thought, once visited, began to entice McNab.

  If he could vomit to order.

  McNab held grimly on to the step handrail as the tug rose to meet the latest wave, then waited as it plunged into the trough that followed. It was, he decided, like being on the big dipper, without the fun or the excited screams. A briefly overheard conversation from a couple of passing crew members had steered him in this direction. Not far from Isla’s cabin, although up one level, he suspected the bastard he sought might be in one of the rooms in this corridor.

  From the sarcastic comments uttered in what he took to be Aberdonian voices, it appeared the bold Brodie was laid out in his bunk, suffering from seasickness. And he apparently wasn’t the only one, which was probably why the alarm hadn’t been raised over the missing Isla, or himself.

  Thus he was now within spitting distance of the man who’d shot him, crushed Mary’s skull with his four-by-four, and been happy to video a child like Amena being raped.

  At the orgy and the subsequent chase, he and Brodie hadn’t met eye to eye. Whatever happened now, they would do that at least. McNab allowed himself a smile. If Isla stayed put, this might all work out. Eliminate the top player and the gang might fall apart.

  Assuming Brodie was the top player.

  Perhaps the Iceman Isla talked about was the pinnacle, or even his visitor who’d smelled of cologne. McNab decided not to argue with himself over the relative value of his enemies. For him, Brodie was the man. It was personal, just as the Iceman was personal to Isla.

  Then again, justice might only be served if all three met their end.

  Justice is for the courts to decide.

  At this thought a wave slammed against the porthole, reminding McNab that out here there was no justice, because humans, their failings, wishes, loves and hates, counted for nothing. The weather decided all.

  Thinking about Amena had reminded McNab that he’d failed to find her, let alone rescue her. He would have to accept that the little Syrian girl was more than likely dead. Brodie would have snatched her from the hospital to make sure she told the police nothing. After that, why keep her alive?