None but the Dead (31 page)

McNab revisited that night in the pub when he’d almost met a watery grave. It had been Derek Muir who’d brought him here to Rhona. He owed the man that at least.

Drawing up in front of the cottage, he noted that only the porch light was on. He’d expected Rhona to be home by now. Either she wasn’t or else she’d decided to have an early
night.

He sat for a minute with the engine running, hoping if the latter were true, the sound of his arrival might rouse her. When that patently wasn’t the case, he made a decision and got
out.

His knock brought no response, so he checked below the stone to find the key was no longer there. Either she
was
inside or she’d taken the key with her. As a last resort, McNab
headed round to the rear of the building in search of the elusive mobile signal.

The schoolhouse had been in darkness as she’d approached, yet Mike Jones’s pickup stood outside. Rhona imagined him switching off the lights every time he spotted a
car on the distant road, whether they were destined to turn his way or not at the crossroads.

And she couldn’t blame him for that.

He’d come to Sanday thinking to start a new life and instead had walked into a nightmare, not this time of his own making. His past, which clearly haunted him by his blurted confession in
the pub, had become even more untenable here, where there was nowhere to hide.

Then a thought occurred.

If Mike Jones was so obsessed with watching the road for possible visitors, was there a chance he’d spotted Sam’s jeep going past on its way to Cata Sand?

Rhona drew up behind Jones’s car and doused the engine.

The wind had picked up, whipping at her body as she stood awaiting a response to her knock on the front door. When one didn’t materialize, she checked and found it locked. Aware he rarely
used it as an entrance, leading as it did through the part of the building still being renovated, she decided to head round the back.

The outside light sprang on as she turned the corner of the building, illuminating the mound of broken tar and earth from the excavation. Her pinned tarp was gone, of course. As she’d
removed it, she’d advised Mike to put plyboard over the gaping hole until the digger came back to fill it in. He’d said he would, but by the looks of things, the hole hadn’t been
refilled yet.

Or Hugh Clouston, having discovered Mike’s secret, had refused to come back and do the job
.

Which, she thought, was a possibility. Whether proved innocent or not of any wrongdoing with Inga Sinclair, Mike Jones – his past misdemeanours now common knowledge – was unlikely to
remain on Sanday.

From her own island experience, she knew that the background of incomers to remote parts of Scotland was rarely more colourful than those who’d been born and bred there. But people,
whether town or country dwellers, shared a particular aversion to the thought that their children were in danger from a paedophile, and once branded as such . . .

The outside light, on a timer, went out. Rhona moved, hoping the sensor would spring it on again. When it didn’t immediately do so, she switched on her torch. There were no lights on in
this section of the building and no smoke coming from the chimney, which was in itself unusual.

Rhona approached the back door and was surprised to find it standing partly open. Perturbed now, she pushed the door wide and called out.

‘Mike, are you there? It’s Rhona MacLeod.’

Her call entered the building and was swallowed by the shadows.

In all her visits to the schoolhouse, she’d never encountered such a feeling of emptiness. Now on high alert, she stepped inside, to find the air in the big room chilly, confirming that
the stove had burned too low or gone out.

That wouldn’t happen. Not if he was here
.

As Rhona called out a second time, she caught a scent she immediately recognized. The older the blood, the sweeter it smelt. This smell wasn’t old. Some people couldn’t smell blood
at all; others might smell a bottle cap’s worth of blood in a large room. Sensitivity depended on the person. Magnus, with his hyperosmia, might have found a myriad ways to describe blood
deposits, both human and animal. Rhona, on the other hand, knew only that this blood had been spilt recently.

Swinging her beam around the room, she sought its source. When she couldn’t find it, she located the nearest light switch and, covering her hand with her sleeve, turned it on.

The room burst into light, blinding her for a moment.

Now frantic to find the source of the smell, she surveyed the dishevelled room, aware that in all likelihood this was a crime scene, and if she entered without kitting up, she would be
contaminating the locus.

Yet Mike Jones might still be alive, if I can locate his body
.

Minutes later she’d established that the scent of blood that had drawn her inside had come from a struggle, and not directly from a body itself. In fact, the scattered trail led from the
centre of the room back to the door she’d entered by.

Wherever Mike Jones was bleeding, it wasn’t in here.

Rhona retreated, checking the step to find more blood splatters on the concrete and the lower part of the door. Her exit, picked up by the sensor, fired up the outside light and it sprang on
again, its circle terminating just short of the mound of earth and broken tar.

Directing her beam at the immediate area around the back step, she established two sets of prints in the disturbed soil, the larger she assumed to be Mike’s. The footprints moved on,
Mike’s leading, the other following. Keeping to one side of these, she followed their path, which led beyond what looked like a scuffle, towards the excavation site.

Her heart upping its pace, Rhona followed, already knowing where Mike’s flight had led.

Her beam eventually found him, face down in the open grave he had so feared. It looked as though he’d fallen into it by accident. His legs, too long to fit, were spread awkwardly up the
side nearest the door.

Like a raggedy doll
, she thought.

In the light of her torch, blood had streamed from the area of his ear, explaining the trail that had led her there.

Rhona crouched and reached down, seeking a pulse, yet knowing that in a neck that lay at such an angle, she was unlikely to find one.

He poured the strong coffee into a flask, ignoring the desire to add a tot of whisky, and headed back to the tent. The wind had been kind to them, allowing Rhona to process the
scene under shelter, but there was no guarantee it would stay that way for much longer. The darkness had eventually been broken by moonlight, but daylight was still some way off.

Whatever had happened to Mike Jones had begun in the bedroom. That had been evident from the state of the place.

As Rhona had processed the body, McNab had worked the schoolhouse. Waiting for forensic help from wherever they might send it had seemed like a non-starter. He’d managed enough crime
scenes to know what was required, but still found himself checking with Rhona to be certain he’d thought of everything.

As he walked back along the track to the sound of the sea and the eerie cry of an owl, he found himself desperate to be back among sandstone walls, noisy polluting traffic and the sound of
Glasgow voices.

The longer we stay, the worse it gets
.

Their arrival had been the catalyst for all that had followed. Their poking about in the past had unleashed a darkness that had set neighbour upon neighbour and destroyed the tranquillity of the
island.

Fuck it! People do bad things everywhere
.

McNab composed himself and, throwing the flap open, entered the tent, brandishing the flask.

‘Coffee?’

The eyes Rhona turned on him were tired, but there was a resolve there he recognized. Often that same resolve had played against his wishes, both personal and professional.

She carefully laid her notes aside and accepted the cup he poured for her.

‘I told Sean I would be back yesterday, or maybe the day before. I’ve lost track,’ she admitted.

‘You should call him,’ McNab said.

She met his eye. ‘Have you called Freya?’

He shook his head, then voiced something he’d been avoiding. ‘It’s not going to work. With Freya,’ he added.

‘Can I ask why?’

He could have said,
because I’d rather be with you
, but didn’t. ‘Because she’s clever and young and she makes me feel old and sad.’

She looked distressed by his attempt at an upbeat admission. ‘That’s not good.’

‘No,’ he acknowledged, ‘it isn’t.’ Deciding he didn’t like where the conversation was headed, he quickly changed the subject. ‘How did the paedo
die?’

‘His neck’s broken. Probably when he went into the grave.’

‘And the head injury?’

‘It’s bloody round the ear, but superficially it doesn’t appear severe enough to kill him.’

‘Was he murdered?’

‘There are fingermarks on his back which suggest he was probably pushed into the grave.’

‘Would you be able to match the marks to hands?’

‘Possibly.’ Her voice faltered, as though the well of determination had just run dry.

‘Go and get some sleep,’ he ordered. ‘It’s my turn to stay with the body.’

‘The ambulance is coming?’

‘At daybreak. And the police helicopter.’

‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘Will you stay with him until they come?’

He noted she didn’t say ‘it’ but ‘him’. That, he realized, summed up Rhona MacLeod.

‘I will,’ he promised.

‘Then I’ll grab some sleep.’

She left then, and it was McNab’s turn to commune with the dead.

The ambulance arrived as dawn streaked the sky. This time the doctor didn’t accompany it. Mike Jones’s body was to be directly transferred to the helicopter waiting
at the airfield, then taken south.

Watching the helicopter rise in a flurry of noise and wind, McNab wondered if he could have done more to prevent the latest death. He’d accused Jones of terrible things. Some true, some
unproven. Yet still they were back in a world where a child was missing and two of the suspects in her disappearance were already dead.

Something was happening on Cata Sand. Something that involved pickup trucks and piles of wood. DI Flett instructed McNab to pull up next to the brickie hut.

‘Bonfire night,’ he told them. ‘It’s a tradition on Sanday to have the fire on the sands.’

McNab opened his mouth, no doubt to emit some sarcastic remark, then thought better of it. Something had happened between McNab and Erling. Something positive. And it was plain to Rhona that
McNab was trying to maintain the mood.

Having deposited a load of wood, a jeep recognizable as the Ranger’s was heading their way from the beach. Rhona now understood Erling’s reason for stopping. None of them had seen
Derek Muir since Chrissy’s revelation and the discovery of Mike Jones’s body. Erling, she suspected, having recognized the vehicle, was about to address that.

As the jeep climbed from the beach, Erling got out of the car and walked towards it.

From where they were sitting, the interchange between the two men appeared cordial. Once or twice the Ranger glanced at their car, but whatever Erling was saying didn’t appear to worry him
unduly.

Moments later Erling was back, but they had to wait until they were on the main road before he revealed what had been said.

‘I told him we’re planning a mass DNA sampling and asked him to help spread the word.’

‘How did he react?’ Rhona asked.

‘As always. Interested and helpful.’

McNab came in. ‘What about Mike Jones?’

‘He was obviously upset about that. Said he’d called in on Jones yesterday.’

‘Why?’ McNab demanded.

‘He was worried by the pub incident and wanted to check that Jones was okay.’

That sounds like Derek
, Rhona thought. ‘Did he say at what time?’

‘Around five.’

‘Did he have wind of someone heading Jones’s way?’ McNab asked.

‘No.’

McNab made a sound that suggested disbelief. ‘How close is Muir’s place to the schoolhouse?’

‘He lives on the headland at Lopness. The house is only really visible from the bay.’

Before McNab could respond, a pickup stacked high with wood came bombing towards them. Erling told McNab to draw into the next passing place and let it have the road, which didn’t please
McNab one bit, but gained him a raised salute in thanks from the driver.

‘It’s better if we keep the locals on side,’ Erling said in response to McNab’s disgruntled expression.

McNab caught Rhona’s eye via the mirror. ‘I intend interviewing Muir about the Glasgow connection later today.’

Rhona immediately intervened. ‘Is that wise? I thought we planned to run the DNA check first?’

Erling came in next, surprising her by his response. ‘I agree with Sergeant McNab. Let’s see what Derek Muir has to say about his visit to Glasgow.’

McNab’s head shot round. ‘You know he was definitely there?’

‘I heard back from Kirkwall airport this morning. They confirmed that Derek Muir flew to Glasgow three days before you discovered the body of Jamie Drever, and returned the day before the
body was discovered,’ Erling said.

Rhona heard McNab’s expletive, which wasn’t remarked upon by his superior officer.

‘You’re okay with me interviewing him, sir?’

‘You’re MIT. I’m just the local contact, Detective Sergeant.’

Silence fell as they travelled the remaining few kilometres to the community centre. McNab’s jawline was set, his eyes fixed on the road. Thankfully they didn’t meet another car.
Rhona couldn’t imagine McNab giving way a second time, even on the orders of a superior officer.

Rhona had taken up residence in one of the back rooms normally used for meetings. The additional manpower Erling had brought with him on the dawn helicopter meant her help
wasn’t required to take either prints or mouth swabs, which left her free to do other things.

She’d told Chrissy she would head back today regardless of whether they’d found Inga or not. That, of course, was before they’d discovered Mike Jones’s body, but having
processed that particular crime scene, she was free to leave the island and return to Glasgow and her lab.