The Killing Tide

by Lin Anderson

  ‘We’d better be going.’ Janice nodded at McNab.

  They rose together.

  Janice took McNab’s mug. ‘I’ll rinse these through, Jimmy. We’ll maybe come back and see you again if that’s okay?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be fine,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ll have to get a new blanket,’ he added, as though he’d just thought of it. ‘This room doesn’t get much sunshine being at the back.’

  ‘I’ll bring you one,’ McNab found himself saying.

  ‘Thank you, son. That’s mighty good of you.’

  Janice gave him a big-eyed look as the door closed behind them.

  ‘What?’ McNab said. ‘We can’t bring the old boy a blanket? Plus we’ll need to speak to him again anyway. We haven’t got everything yet.’

  ‘True enough,’ Janice conceded.

  McNab indicated he planned to suit up and look in on Rhona. ‘Are you going to interview anyone else upstairs?’

  ‘A couple of uniforms are on it. I’m going to check. See if they’ve got anything.’

  Minutes later, suited and masked, McNab headed out. A couple of SOCOs were combing the rough ground that served as the back court. He checked with them first, but they had little to report, apart from a fair number of discarded cigarette ends. It looked like a no-smoking policy had been implemented in one or more of the rented flats.

  McNab’s announcement that he wished to come into the tent was initially met by silence, then a quiet acknowledgement from Chrissy.

  Outside the tent, the smell had been strong despite the still blustery nature of the wind. Once inside, the suffocating nature of the stench was almost overwhelming. McNab had seen and smelt the dead more often than he cared to think about, but this was special and, he could foresee, long-lasting.

  Chrissy nodded at him but said nothing, intent as she was on whatever Rhona was doing. McNab waited, aware that disturbing their concentration wouldn’t be welcomed.

  Eventually Rhona leaned back on her haunches and observed him.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Jimmy on the ground floor,’ McNab said. ‘He flung the blanket over her.’

  ‘He was brave,’ Chrissy said. ‘Getting close enough to do that.’

  ‘Any idea who she is?’ McNab tried.

  Rhona handed him the Faraday bag. ‘The mobile from the handbag that was under her body. I switched it off. Plus Chrissy has the bag with the wallet and cards in it.’

  ‘The credit card’s platinum,’ Chrissy said. ‘And we may have a partial from it.’

  McNab read the name out. ‘Olivia Newton Richardson.’ He looked at them. ‘The name and the platinum card don’t scream local at me. So how did she set herself alight?’

  ‘Petrol, probably over her head, judging by the burn pattern.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a petrol can and a lighter?’ McNab said. ‘Both of which should be in the vicinity if she did it to herself?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Chrissy said.

  ‘The SOCOs outside haven’t found them yet. Anything else?’

  Rhona nodded. ‘Her clothing is of good quality and mostly natural fibres. She was barefoot, yet had her handbag with her.’

  ‘She paints her nails, but didn’t have any jewellery,’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Also, if you come closer, you’ll see marks on her wrists and ankles,’ Rhona added.

  McNab crouched beside her for a closer look, trying to stifle his rising nausea.

  ‘She’s been bound,’ he said, recognizing the distinctive marks.

  ‘The fire didn’t destroy them, thanks to your good Samaritan and his blanket,’ Rhona said.

  McNab rose. If the victim had been bound before the fire, how did she get free? And where was she before she came out here?

  7

  Watching as the farm buildings disappeared from her rear-view mirror, Ava gave an audible sigh of relief. For the next few hours, at least, she could think of herself as a reporter again, and not as a big sister and pseudo-farmer.

  The wind had dropped in strength, but the sky, via her windscreen, was still a swift-moving collage of cloud, with intermittent flashes of blue and rays of sunshine.

  When she’d left to go to university in Aberdeen, it was the big skies of Orkney she’d missed most. That and the closeness of the ever-shifting sea.

  Eventually choosing London as her base, she’d sought a high-rise apartment so that she might be nearer to the sky. The constantly moving sea, however, could never be replaced. Even the Thames didn’t do that.

  Dougie hadn’t returned from the boathouse before she was ready to leave, so she’d left him a note taped to the fridge. Had she left it on the kitchen table, the likelihood was he would never have noticed. The fridge, however, was always a go-to location for her teenage brother.

  What if I wasn’t here to fill the fridge?

  Ava chastised herself for that thought. Dougie was pretty self-sufficient. Probably more so than she had been at his age. He wouldn’t starve without her, that was for sure.

  Being early in the tourist season, the road past the Loch of Stenness was currently devoid of the buses that ferried folk from the giant cruise liners that docked just outside Kirkwall to the key tourist sights of Orkney mainland. The loch itself was still choppy and white-tipped, despite its sheltered location.

  Turning onto the Yesnaby road, she spotted the police and rescue vehicles parked up ahead. The neighbouring farm she knew belonged to Geordie Findlater, a friend of her father’s, who’d apparently reported the foundering ship to the coastguard.

  According to the phone call from The Orcadian, Geordie had crawled to the edge of the cliffs in high winds to take a photograph. Knowing Geordie, that didn’t surprise her.

  As she drew up alongside the other vehicles, Ava spotted another face she recognized. Of course Erling would be in charge of this, she thought. Surprisingly, he was now an inspector, when back in their teenage days in school together, he’d stated that he had no intention of remaining on Orkney. As for joining the police? His teenage self would have laughed at such a suggestion.

  We don’t always end up where we thought we would, she mused as she approached him.

  Spotting her, Erling finished his mobile conversation. ‘You’re here. Great. That was the coastguard. They’re going to try and bring a couple of divers round to take a look below the waterline and check the hull.’

  ‘You’re worried about the fuel tanks?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s not going to be easy, but the sooner we know whether we’re facing an oil spill or not, the better. We’re also hoping to get a couple of guys on board to take a look inside.’

  ‘So approaching on both fronts?’

  Erling nodded.

  The onshore wind was brisk as they got near to the cliff edge, but nothing like what Geordie must have faced the previous night. They were close enough now for Ava to get her first clear view of the stranded ship. She could just make out the name: MV Orlova, which sounded Russian.

  As the search and rescue boat came into view, rising and falling in the swell, they also heard the unmistakable beat of the approaching coastguard helicopter. Despite being only an observer and not a participant, Ava’s heartbeat rose in both excitement and fear.

  This was what being on the job again felt like, and she was grateful for it.

  Erling stood a little away from her, his back to the wind, listening on the radio, she presumed to the rescue teams, above and below.

  Ava watched as two divers positioned themselves on the edge of the boat before dropping backwards into the swell. A keen swimmer, but with very little diving experience, and only in warm Mediterranean waters, Ava could only imagine what falling into that dark choppiness felt like.

  As they’d walked to the cliff face, Erling had revealed that one of the divers was his partner, Rory. ‘He’s an experienced oil rig diver, so this is no more difficult than that, or so he assures me.’

  Despite his upbeat words, there was no doubt in Ava’s mind that Erling was concerned
for him.

  The hovering helicopter hung above the Orlova now, and they watched as the first man began his swaying descent. To Ava, it seemed most of those on the clifftop were collectively holding their breath as he drew closer to the pitching deck. Then he was down and giving those on the shore the thumbs up, and the detached cable was rising again.

  ‘One down, one more to go,’ Erling said, grim concentration on his face.

  The second guy was close behind. He had the added advantage of someone on the deck to steady his arrival. Once he too was down, Erling’s radio crackled into life. He listened carefully before giving the go-ahead to whatever plan they’d decided on, and within seconds the two men had disappeared down into the bowels of the ship.

  Now came the waiting.

  Ava decided to go back to her car and dictate what she had so far into her mobile. A food van had arrived in the car park and was serving coffee. She joined the queue, exchanging a few words with folk, then carried her coffee back to the car. Once inside, she called Dougie. His mobile rang out for a while and she expected it to go to voicemail, but before it did, he answered.

  ‘Did you get my note?’ Ava said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not sure when I’ll be back.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Will you see to the kye? We could maybe let them out into the fields when I get back.’

  He muttered what Ava thought was an affirmative. Realizing she wasn’t going to get any more from him than that, she said her goodbyes.

  Her heaviness of heart came back as she cut the call. What the hell was she going to do about Dougie and the farm? Sit around in Orkney waiting for the next ship to go aground for something interesting to report on? Or was it the Dounby Show next? She felt guilty at such a thought, which belittled her fellow reporters who chose not to traipse round the world looking for trouble spots.

  ‘Fuck it!’ she said, and not under her breath, as she began to record what had happened up to now.

  Once she had the key points noted, she decided to try to find out what she could about the origins of the MV Orlova, which turned out to be more interesting than she’d first thought. So much so that she didn’t notice that the helicopter was landing on the clifftop.

  Eventually the noise of its descent made her abandon her internet research, and she headed across to find Erling apparently about to be transferred to the ship.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ava said, noting his serious expression. ‘Is it the hull?’

  ‘The hull looks sound, according to the divers.’

  ‘Are there folk aboard?’ Ava tried.

  ‘As far as we know there are no survivors.’ Erling looked decidedly grim.

  As he headed for the helicopter, Ava caught sight of Geordie Findlater and went to see if he knew any more.

  He did. ‘Word is there are bodies aboard, lass. How many, I don’t know.’

  8

  Rhona could hear the SOCOs moving about outside, but here in the tent all was still.

  She continued to write up her notes, determined to miss nothing. Soon they would take the victim to the mortuary for further examination and this exact scene could never be reconstructed in its entirety again.

  The smell was still there, of course. It would linger in her nostrils for who knew how long. But here and now, the body’s smell wasn’t important. She thought only of the victim hidden within it. The how and the why of her being here in such circumstances, and what evidence they might capture which would help them tell the victim’s story.

  What had been retrieved so far suggested that Olivia, if that was indeed her name, had not chosen this end willingly, rather that someone or something had driven her to it.

  The incessant tugging at the tent by the wind had ended. Now it was only the softly insistent patter of rain on the roof. Rhona quietly thanked whatever deity had allowed the back court to be properly searched before the rain had taken over from the wind.

  At that point she heard Chrissy’s voice and the tent flap being pulled back.

  ‘You’d better come and see this.’

  Rhona followed her assistant into the close and up the stairwell. All the doors they passed on the way remained closed, although she suspected that whatever was happening out here was being closely followed by the occupants of the other flats.

  The left-most door on the top landing stood open, and by its state it was obvious it had been forced. Rhona could hear McNab’s voice coming from inside. She followed Chrissy in, moving carefully from tread to metal tread, the presence of which already declared it to be a possible crime scene.

  Rhona mentally prepared herself for what might come next. At the far end of the narrow hallway stood a still-suited and masked McNab guarding an open doorway. At her approach he stepped to one side to allow her entrance.

  It was a bedroom and the smell of petrol came, she suspected, predominantly from the stained and rumpled bedding. The mattress sat in a metal frame, the top and bottom of which gave ample opportunity for attaching a captive’s wrists and ankles via cable ties.

  Chrissy confirmed this by holding up a clear evidence bag with the apparent remains of the ties inside.

  ‘Any sign of the petrol can?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Not in here, or anywhere else in or outside the building.’

  ‘So how did she get free?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Some ties have ragged edges, and look’ – Chrissy pointed to one of the metal uprights where traces of the plastic had lodged – ‘it looks as though she may have managed to rub herself free and made her way outside?’

  Rhona ran her eyes over the room again. To one side of the bed lay a pair of high heels which looked like the victim’s shoe size. ‘Did you find any underwear?’ She had decided not to remove the outer clothes before the autopsy, for fear of disturbing evidence on the charred body.

  ‘A black lacy thong,’ McNab said. ‘It’s been bagged.’

  The picture being painted by everything they’d already discovered in the room wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all Rhona.

  ‘I’ll get a team in here and see what else we can find,’ Chrissy said, ‘while you finish up in the tent.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ McNab said, indicating he was heading back to the station with DS Clark to report their findings to DI Wilson. ‘I’ll maybe catch up with you both later.’

  The usual routine was for the team to meet up after work at the jazz club near the university where Sean played. The wind-down club as Sean occasionally called it.

  Rhona gave a non-committal nod, her brain still full of what she was looking at.

  Not so Chrissy. ‘I’ll definitely be heading there after all this,’ she declared. ‘With or without Dr MacLeod.’ She gave one of her grins which declared that fun might be had, even in the midst of adversity.

  When McNab had departed, Chrissy said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Likely the same as you,’ Rhona said. ‘She was held in here, probably against her will . . .’

  ‘But not necessarily,’ Chrissy added. ‘Not initially anyway. We’ve seen the result of rough but consensual sex before.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘But being doused in petrol hasn’t been a feature.’

  ‘Candle wax, yes. Petrol, no.’

  ‘Will you deal with this while I finish with the body? I’ll check back once the mortuary van’s been.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  Back now in the tent, Rhona resumed her place beside the body and continued to make her notes, this time regarding what had been discovered in the top-floor flat and how it might relate to what had happened here.

  It did appear, as Chrissy had suggested, that the victim had managed to break free, or else her captor had freed her. Whichever way it’d happened, she’d come down here, already doused in petrol, barefoot, and in the midst of the storm.

  Perhaps she’d believed she’d escaped and that was why she had her handbag with her? Alternatively, her attacker had wished it to app
ear that way.

  When the mortuary van finally arrived, Rhona said a silent goodbye. Emerging from the tent, she stood to one side as the body bag was carried out on its stretcher. At that point she noticed the figure of an elderly man at a ground-level window, a large black cat in his arms. Both were avidly watching the proceedings.

  That, she realized, must be the good Samaritan who had tried to save the girl’s life.

  If only the wind hadn’t been so strong that night. If only he had got out here sooner with the blanket.

  Rhona could only imagine what was going through his mind as he watched them carry the girl away, although, she thought, it might be both of those things. What she did know was that none of his thoughts were of any comfort to him.

  Heading into the close, she met Chrissy on her way down the stairs.

  ‘The SOCOs are going over the rest of the flat. The evidence from the bedroom is already in the van. Shall we head for the lab?’

  The sky on the way back was an ominous grey, the wind now noticeable by its absence. Glasgow had been busily cleaning up the effects of Storm Birka, the flying litter and broken glass swept up and the waste bins returned to their rightful places.

  Chrissy, always the talker, was noticeably quiet, which suited Rhona for the moment. Having departed the locus, it was obvious they had brought the smell with them as a reminder. It permeated the van and she could taste it on her lips.

  By the studied look on her face, Chrissy was suffering from it too.

  Watching the rain stream down the windscreen, Rhona was already imagining herself standing under the shower, the spray beating her head, her mouth turned upwards to be rinsed. That alone wouldn’t be enough to kill the smell that had invaded every part of her body, but it would help.

  9

  The ship, the MV Orlova, was boarded today by Inspector Erling Flett, along with two of the coastguard search and rescue team. As this was happening, two experienced divers, familiar with North Sea conditions, examined the hull of the stranded ship.