The Killing Tide

by Lin Anderson

  The hens she’d secured in the stall next to the door came hurrying towards her, squawking their excitement at the food Ava now scattered. She would have to rebuild the hen house, of course, but in the meantime they could stay here, since the kye would shortly be released to graze on the new grass.

  At that moment her mobile rang.

  ‘Ava Clouston?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Orcadian newspaper here. We wondered if you would be interested in covering a story for us? A Russian cargo ship has foundered off Yesnaby. It’s believed to be a ghost ship, probably abandoned mid-Atlantic. The coastguard and police are on site already. Is that something you’d be interested in?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ava said, her heart lifting. ‘Do we know the ship’s name?’

  ‘The MV Orlova.’

  5

  Rhona rose with the dawn, having had little to no sleep.

  After setting up the coffee machine, she headed for the kitchen window to view the damage. In the neighbouring convent garden, she was pleased to see the statue of the Virgin Mary still upright, although the well-kept lawn that normally surrounded her had now been replaced by a moat. As for her own back garden, it looked as though a giant had decided to trample all over it, while scattering branches from the surrounding trees.

  Taking her coffee through to the sitting-room window, she found much the same level of destruction below in Kelvingrove Park. Broken branches littered the grass and pathways, while those that hadn’t come down had been stripped of their spring leaves.

  Only the Gothic towers of Glasgow University on the neighbouring hill and the red sandstone Kelvingrove Art Gallery below looked unmarked by the storm.

  Glasgow was battered but unbroken, just as she’d suggested it would be to Magnus. She only hoped that Orkney had managed the same.

  Showered and dressed, Rhona made her way downstairs. Despite both front and back doors to the stairwell being shut, the wind had still managed to infiltrate enough to deposit a layer of wet leaves and dirt from the street outside.

  Opening the heavy front door was a job in itself, as the invading wind tried to wrestle it from her hands. Once outside, Rhona swiftly made her way down the wide staircase that led into the park.

  Here the shelter of the surrounding trees provided some cover, although folk heading for work against the wind were still struggling.

  Her last lap was the steep path that led up the hill to the university. As Rhona emerged from the trees, the wind caught her again, propelling her into the famous cloisters, where it now proceeded to batter her from various directions until she escaped into a quiet, sheltered, grassy quadrant where all was still.

  Reaching her lab, she found Chrissy already there.

  ‘My God. What. A. Night,’ Chrissy said, waving a welcome breakfast bag at Rhona. ‘Let’s get the coffee on and we can share experiences.’

  Minutes later, they were tucking into black pudding rolls and coffee, with Chrissy weaving her tale of lying alongside her young son, wee Michael, to protect him, in case the wind blew their roof off.

  ‘Mum had me up to high doh, telling me all about the great storm of sixty-eight when chimney pots crashed through the tenement roofs killing folk in their beds.’ She made an ‘oooh’ face. ‘I pointed out that I didn’t live in a tenement, but she reminded me that you do.’

  ‘The same thought did cross my mind, especially after the weather forecaster reminded us about that storm,’ Rhona said. ‘Was wee Michael frightened?’

  ‘He slept right through it, unlike his mother.’ Chrissy pulled a face. ‘I never used to be frightened of, well, anything. See what becoming a mum does to you?’

  At that point Rhona’s mobile rang. Noting DI Wilson’s name on the screen, she set it to loudspeaker.

  ‘Morning, Bill. You survived the storm, I take it?’

  ‘Spent most of the night waiting for the roof to take off. It didn’t, although some of the guttering came down. Hope I haven’t disturbed your breakfast?’

  ‘We’re almost done,’ Rhona said, although Chrissy was just about to take a big bite out of her second black pudding roll.

  ‘Good, because I need you both down at—’ He gave them an address in Govan. ‘A possible self-immolation in the early hours, helped on by the wind. D’you need a lift?’

  ‘We’ll bring the forensic van,’ Rhona said. ‘See you shortly.’

  ‘Self-immolation,’ repeated Chrissy, looking thoughtfully at her roll.

  Perhaps with the news of their impending task, a well-fired black pudding roll no longer seemed so appetizing, Rhona thought.

  She was wrong, of course.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ Chrissy said as she popped the roll back in its paper bag. ‘I’ll finish this on the way.’

  The locus was sheltered in part by the surrounding tenements. Despite this, the wind, though lessened, still swirled in gusts. Rhona stood for a moment taking in the location. The ground was dry. She recalled that the rain had ceased to beat at her bedroom window around midnight and the major sound after that had been the howling of the wind.

  Checking the forecast this morning, she’d seen the rain would return probably by lunchtime, when hopefully the SOCOs would have combed the locus.

  A tent, protecting the victim, had already been secured in a corner, a few metres from the back entrance.

  There was no garden here, just gravel and a line of bins against a fence. As soon as they’d emerged from the close, where metal treads had already been set out, the smell had hit them.

  ‘Why,’ Chrissy said, ‘does it always smell like fried chicken?’

  Rhona didn’t agree entirely, although everyone picked up the scent slightly differently. It was certainly easier to recognize the smell than to describe it, because charred flesh simply smelt like nothing else. In fact, it could be so thick and powerful that it was almost a taste.

  Those on the front line of fighting fires said you never really got the smell of burning flesh out of your nose entirely. No matter how long you lived.

  Rhona was inclined to agree.

  Aware that however strong the smell was out here, it would hit them like a wall when they entered the tent, Rhona checked with Chrissy that she was ready.

  Chrissy secured her mask and indicated that she was.

  Once inside, Rhona closed the flap. They would be pretty well undisturbed now, unless they chose otherwise. She could sense Chrissy’s concentration, knowing that first impressions of a scene were vital. Context was everything. Before them was the evidence of when and how the victim had died. It was up to them to find and secure that evidence.

  The body was covered in part by a singed blanket, which had been thrown over the victim to try to douse the flames. According to Bill, the good Samaritan was an elderly man in the nearby ground-floor flat, who’d been watching the storm play out via his living-room window. He said he’d spied a woman on fire and went out with the blanket. He managed to put out the flames, but couldn’t save her.

  The victim was lying on her right-hand side. Protruding from under the blanket was some singed hair and a portion of her legs and feet. She was barefoot and there was no sign of her shoes.

  As Rhona became more accustomed to the smell of burnt flesh, she’d already picked up another scent.

  Petrol.

  Using an accelerant was a common aspect of self-immolation. Petrol was best, although surgical spirit might also be used. Folk sometimes poured the liquid over their head, which wasn’t pleasant because it burned the eyes. If this had been the case, the face and the front of the hair would be badly scorched.

  Alternatively, they might pour it into their lap instead. In that case, the fire would be concentrated on the chest and stomach. Once lit, however, victims often changed their minds and tried to put it out. In such a scenario, the palms of the hands and underarms would be affected, but not the backs, which might mean they couldn’t retrieve fingerprints to help identify the victim.

  Rhona began ta
king her own series of photographs. Once a crime scene was disturbed they could never recreate it. So everything they captured now was important.

  ‘Ready?’ she said, when finished.

  On Chrissy’s nod, Rhona caught the corner of the blanket and slowly peeled it back, hearing Chrissy’s intake of breath as the victim was revealed.

  It was a youngish woman. What was left of her hair indicated it was light-coloured and of shoulder length. She was petite and slim, her shoe size, Rhona thought, a four or five.

  From the pattern of burning, it looked like the petrol had been poured over her head.

  Fire burned upwards and, in this case, it had had time to destroy much of her face. But the blanket had saved other parts of her body from deep burns, including the main torso and the thighs. Rhona checked out the hands, to find no burns to the palms.

  ‘So she didn’t try to put the fire out,’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Or she didn’t start it.’

  People often held the mistaken belief that fire would destroy everything. Including how someone had died. It didn’t. Just because it looked like a self-immolation didn’t mean it was one.

  Her clothing appeared to contain natural fibres, which had added another layer of protection to the skin. Natural fibres didn’t shrink or burn easily, whereas synthetics shrank and bits dropped off, damaging the skin beneath.

  ‘What’s that?’ Chrissy pointed at something protruding from below the body.

  Moving to hunker down there, Rhona carefully extracted the item, which turned out to be a handbag. It appeared unmarked, suggesting it was leather and not a plastic equivalent.

  Rhona opened it. ‘There’s a mobile.’ She took it out and switched it off, to protect it from online interference, and placed it in a Faraday bag.

  Next out was a wallet. It, too, was leather and, flipping it open, the plastic cards inside appeared undamaged.

  ‘Do we have a possible name?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Olivia Newton Richardson.’ Rhona dropped the wallet into another bag.

  ‘So no shoes, yet she brought her handbag?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘No jewellery, either,’ Rhona remarked.

  ‘What about tattoos?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Nothing visible as yet, and I don’t plan to remove the clothing here. We’ll wait until the PM.’

  ‘She liked nail varnish,’ Chrissy said. ‘Both hands and feet are painted. So why no jewellery? There’s a mark on the wrist, though. Both wrists, in fact.’

  Rhona checked for herself, then, without commenting, crouched for a closer look at the ankles.

  ‘What is it?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘I think these might be plastic cable tie marks,’ Rhona said. Which if true meant the victim had been bound hand and foot prior to being set on fire.

  6

  McNab had risen before his alarm went off. Not because he’d wanted to, but because his mobile had refused to be ignored. The boss had made no apologies regarding the early morning call. DI Wilson had just told him where to go and that his partner, DS Clark, would be outside his building in fifteen minutes.

  Sniffing his oxters, he’d decided a shower would be required, despite the scarcity of time afforded him. Sadly, breakfast wasn’t on the cards (mainly because the fridge was empty), although strong coffee was a possibility.

  Hurrying down the stairs, he’d emerged onto a street that looked like a football horde had stampeded down it, along with a wind that he could only describe as penetrating.

  Hence he was waiting, freshly bathed with coffee consumed, when Janice drew up alongside him.

  ‘You survived the storm, I see?’ Janice said as he climbed into the car.

  McNab adopted a blank look.

  ‘You slept through it!’

  ‘I’m a sound sleeper. Was it bad then?’ he said, feigning innocence.

  Janice gave a grunt that signified she wasn’t interested in pandering to McNab’s attempts at humour, then said, ‘You know where we’re headed?’

  ‘Govan. Somebody set themselves on fire in the back court.’

  Janice had shot him a look at that point. ‘I take it you’re okay with the smell of burnt flesh in the morning?’

  ‘I would be if I’d eaten,’ McNab tried. ‘On an empty stomach, maybe not so much.’

  ‘Tough luck, then,’ she retorted. ‘We’re not stopping.’

  McNab was almost glad of that when they eventually exited the vehicle outside the required address to be greeted by that exact smell.

  ‘It’s a lot worse, I hear, where Dr MacLeod’s working,’ Janice informed him.

  ‘Rhona’s here too?’ McNab said. ‘Do they suspect it wasn’t a suicide?’

  ‘Maybe they’re hoping she’ll decide that,’ Janice said in her inimitable fashion, chapping on a ground-floor door. ‘We’re to speak with the guy who called it in. A Mr Jimmy Donaldson.’

  The knock was followed by an extended silence. McNab was about to knock again when they heard shuffling footsteps, before a voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  McNab held his warrant card in front of the spyhole. ‘Detective Sergeant McNab and Detective Sergeant Clark. We’d like to talk to you about the fire, Mr Donaldson.’ After which they heard numerous locks and bolts being released.

  The door was slowly opened to finally allow them a view of Jimmy Donaldson. He was short, thin and elderly, although still sporting a full head of grey hair, tinged with ginger.

  ‘Aye, come away in then, detectives.’

  They followed him through a long narrow hall and into a room that looked out on the back court. Sitting on the window ledge was a big black cat, which immediately arched its back and hissed at them.

  ‘Shoo, Lucifer!’

  The old man flung his arms about, and eventually Lucifer decided to vacate his prize spot and exit, long tail standing rigidly upright.

  ‘Lucifer’s my protection. Woe betide anyone who manages to break in here. Lucifer would spring right at his face and claw his eyes out.’

  McNab believed him.

  ‘Sorry about the smell. I’ve got the windows shut tight. Oh, that poor lassie.’

  He looked so distressed at the memory of why they were here that Janice urged him to sit down.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as she helped him into a seat.

  Not for the first time, McNab thought it was handy having Janice around. Her glance now told him to say nothing until the old man gathered himself. McNab kept his mouth shut as requested.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a mug of tea, Mr Donaldson?’ Janice offered.

  ‘Call me Jimmy, hen. That’s kind, but I’m fine.’

  ‘D’you feel up to telling us what happened, Jimmy?’ McNab came in.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Aye, son. If you think it’ll help.’

  They waited as he took another look out of the window. McNab wondered if his thoughts had wandered off, but then he turned back to face them.

  ‘I sat up because of the wind. I remember the storm of sixty-eight. Folk killed in their beds when the tenement roofs fell in. So I stayed in here at that window.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘It was pitch black and blowing a hoolie. The noise of the wind swirling round the back court, screeching through the close. I pulled a blanket round me. The one I keep on the back of the sofa, for when I cannae afford to keep the electric fire on.’ He stopped to brush a tear away.

  ‘It’s okay, Jimmy, just take your time. DS McNab and I can wait.’

  Jimmy gave her a wan smile in thanks, then took a deep breath. ‘That’s when I saw her standing there, hair whipping her face. A second later, there was a whoosh and she was on fire. Jesus, the lassie was on fire. All those locks and bolts, then the bloody wind wouldn’t let me open the door to the back court. I eventually got to her, but by then she was on the ground with her head a mass of flames. I doused the fire, but it was too bloody late.’ He shook his head. ‘My dad used to talk about the Clydebank bombings during the war, the terrible smell of folk burning. He s
aid it never went away. I didn’t believe him.’

  McNab rose. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea, Jimmy. Sugar and milk?’

  ‘Aye, son. Do that. Two sugars. And have one yourselves.’

  McNab left the door open so he could hear anything that was said, filled the kettle and switched it on. The wee kitchen was tidy. Fresh milk in the fridge. A packet of Scottish Blend teabags. Even a jar of instant coffee. Better than his place, he noted.

  He swithered whether he should make tea or coffee for Janice, then decided tea would be more chummy. He settled for a double spoonful of instant black coffee for himself. In the kitchen the smell was weaker, but until they removed the body, it wouldn’t go away, and even then . . .

  He couldn’t see a tray anywhere, so he carried through the teas, then went back for his coffee. By the time he returned, Jimmy had a little more colour in his cheeks.

  ‘So, Jimmy, had you seen the lassie before last night?’ McNab said.

  ‘Naw, son. But then I don’t see the folk going up and down the stairs. I sit in here most of the time when I’m not in the kitchen. My bedroom’s at the front, but I keep the curtains shut in there.’

  ‘You don’t know any of your neighbours?’ Janice tried.

  ‘The flats up this close change hands a lot. Landlords ship folk in and out again, if they don’t pay. There aren’t any families. Kids used to play out the back all the time. Not any more.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else out there last night?’ McNab said. ‘Or hear anybody in the close?’

  ‘You couldn’t hear a damn thing, son, except for that screeching gale. Did you no hear it yersel?’

  ‘My colleague’s a sound sleeper,’ Janice said.

  Jimmy shook his head, apparently finding the idea that anyone could have slept through that racket unbelievable.

  At that point Lucifer strode back in and gave them both a menacing look before jumping up onto Jimmy’s knee. As the old man clapped him, the cat arched his back and purred, although he still held them in his evil gaze.