None but the Dead (42 page)

They supped coffee for a bit, before she said, ‘Inga says she’s taking you to see her den?’

McNab nodded.

So that was the excuse Inga had given for his visit.

The girl was sent to feed the cats, prior to their outing. McNab declined an invitation to accompany her, explaining that most cats didn’t like him.

Once the door had shut behind her daughter, Claire said swiftly, ‘DI Flett interviewed me this morning. I told him everything that happened last night.’ Her expression indicated she
had no desire to do that again. ‘I know I have you to thank for finding Inga. I can’t tell you how grateful I am . . .’

If she’d been about to say more, she was cut short by Inga’s voice calling for McNab from outside.

They left the car where it was and Inga led the way. Once out of view of the kitchen window, she veered towards the schoolhouse. McNab followed on behind, knowing that what he was about to do
had no rational explanation.

Yet he planned to do it anyway.

They crossed the intervening fields. In one a large flock of geese had settled and didn’t take off despite their approach.

‘When Nele’s dad comes back from building the bonfire, he’ll fire his gun at them,’ Inga informed him.

Recalling Rognvald Skea’s expression in the car, McNab was glad he wouldn’t be around when that happened.

The schoolhouse, he decided, had already assumed an air of abandonment. Maybe it was because there was no smoke coming from the chimney. Three large cats paced around an empty dish set at the
door of an outhouse. Inga promptly extracted a bag of dried food from her pocket and tipped it into the dish, and the cats fell upon it.

When they reached the back door, McNab discovered that the grave had been filled in, the marks of the digger tyres obvious.

So Hugh Clouston had returned after all.

He’d thought, when they reached the schoolhouse to discover it locked, Inga would accept that her plan wasn’t possible, but he was wrong.

She immediately checked below a few nearby stones before eventually waving a key at him.

‘Everyone keeps a spare key nearby, even Mr Jones.’

Stepping inside the big room with its arched ceiling, McNab felt the sense of abandonment even more strongly. The air was cold and, he realized, all the warmth generated by the stove had been
lost from the stones.

Inga stood in the centre of the room, her small figure very still.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Can you hear them?’

McNab listened, despite himself. Playing along. If this made the girl happy, he was willing to do it.

When she asked him a second time, he had to admit he heard nothing. It seemed to him that Sanday, since the wind had ceased, had become as silent as the grave.

Inga smiled as though she held a secret that he was yet to share.

He followed her to the bedroom, where the covered easel still stood. At this point, McNab did feel uneasy. He had no wish to look again on the drawing that had, he thought, brought about Mike
Jones’s death.

But Inga had no qualms about pulling up the sheet.

It’s extraordinary. How Jones had fashioned this without seeing the child.

Inga seemed pleased. ‘She looks exactly like me,’ she said. ‘Which is why we have to put the flower back.’

It was the story she’d told him, as he’d carried her from the cave. How she’d seen the girl, heard her singing, on the beach and among the ruins of the camp.

Mr Flett knew it was a warning. He told Mr Jones to put it back. But he didn’t.

The flower still sat on the kitchen table in its clear plastic bag.

McNab found himself uncomfortable with the thought of picking it up. Inga had no such qualms. ‘I’m not sure who she was, but I think she was trying to help me, and Ola.’

He brought the ladder, and climbing into the loft, McNab switched on the light. All was as it had been the last time he’d been up there, when Mike Jones had called to him from the hall not
to touch the other flowers.

He’d been blasé then, but not now.

They eased their way between the beams. On either side, neatly spaced out, the flowers lay in their little graves of ash. When they reached the empty one, Inga indicated that McNab should be the
one to do the deed.

McNab tipped the flower into the palm of his hand and placed it carefully back in place.

Seconds followed while Inga studied its return, her face serious and content at the same time.

Fanciful ideas, he thought, but what’s the harm, if it makes the child happy?

He imagined what Rhona’s response would be when she found out.

Now you’re the one going soft
, he heard.

There was no wind outside, yet it seemed to McNab that the eaves began to sing as though played by it.

The whining sound changed and became a voice. A child’s high-pitched rhythmic chant. A playground song?

McNab felt Inga’s hand creep into his, and she smiled up at him.

‘See. She’s happy now.’

Leaving the Sinclair house, McNab, rather than turning onto the road south, headed for the beach. Gazing out over the flat calm surface of the water, it was difficult to
believe he was on the same island, or even the same planet, as the previous evening.

There was no doubt in his mind that the knife Rhona had found here did belong to Joe Millar. It was the part of the story that took Millar from the Sinclair place to the Ranger’s section
of beach to steal his boat, dropping the knife in the process, that didn’t ring true.

If he had run for the beach in that weather, then what was behind him must have been pretty damn scary.

His final remark about Millar possibly being chased had fallen on deaf ears. DI Flett had swiftly brought the meeting to a close by assuring McNab they were searching both on land and at sea for
Millar. Then he’d thanked him and Rhona for their help.

They’d been summarily dismissed.

It was what he wanted, and yet?

McNab didn’t like things not to fit. He didn’t like questions that had no answer.

If Millar was dead, drowned off this island, then that was justice of a kind, he reminded himself.

McNab went back to the car. One more run along that road, past the wreck of the German destroyer, past the cows and that bloody mortuary, and
thank Christ
, this would be over.

‘So you decided to come?’ Rhona said, glancing down at the wellie boots provided by Tor.

‘I’m here for the food,’ McNab told her. ‘Tor said he wasn’t cooking at the hotel tonight, because all the grub was here.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of it,’ Rhona said, eyeing up the loaded trestle tables.

The edge of the sands were lined with cars, and others constantly arriving. It looked like the entire island was planning on turning out. A suitable distance away on the sands stood the
community fire engine.

‘Some items of Millar’s outer clothing have been found on the rocks near the holed boat,’ Rhona told him. ‘The news came in when you were away.’

‘So they’ve decided he drowned?’

‘It looks likely.’

McNab shrugged, as though resigned to the fact he was no longer involved.

‘Are you going to tell me where you went this afternoon?’ she said.

‘No.’

Rhona let it pass. She had ways of getting McNab to talk when she wanted him to.

Dusk already falling, it looked as though the decision had been made to light the fire. Four torches were in the process of being ignited. Rhona recognized the men holding them as the fathers of
Inga’s friends. Each man clasped his child’s hand in his own. Next to Inga and her mother stood the Ranger. Derek Muir glanced in their direction, then bending down, said something to
the girl, who came running over to McNab.

‘Will you carry my torch?’ she said.

Surprised by the offer, it appeared McNab might refuse, so Rhona pushed him forward and said, ‘Of course he will.’

Now in the limelight, McNab tried to look willing, although Rhona suspected there was a great deal of silent cursing going on beneath that fixed smile.

She laughed, enjoying his discomfort.

The four men spread out round the base of the bonfire, Inga and McNab closest to Rhona.

Stepping forward together, they lit the wood near the base. A moment of silence as the crowd waited for the kindling to ignite, then a whoosh as it caught, and sparks and flames flew up into the
air to a combined cheer.

Her eyes now drawn to the guy at the top, Rhona noted he was dressed in oilskins, similar to the ones worn by Joe Millar that night in the pub, and a sou’wester. Rhona wondered if it was
symbolic.

Magnus had arrived, with Erling and another man Rhona didn’t recognize.

Seeking her out, Erling introduced him simply as Rory, although it seemed to Rhona that there was something being left unsaid. When the two men went to check out the food, Magnus told her that
Rory and Erling were an item.

Rhona smiled. ‘That’s a quaint way of putting it.’

‘Well, I don’t think they’ve reached the partner stage yet.’

McNab had returned, his job done. He acknowledged Magnus, then declared his need to eat.

Rhona followed the two men towards the heavily laden table, partly because she was hungry, but also because she was keen to observe the interchange, if any, between McNab and Erling.

It would be good if the hatchets were buried before McNab left Orkney. Erling, she was sure, would be open to that. McNab possibly not so much.

The moment didn’t turn out as she expected.

Although the bonfire lit up the sky, visibility was poor outside the fire circle, despite the storm lanterns deposited on the tables. During the brief introduction, Rhona’s first
impression of Rory had been of a tall well-built bloke of Scouse origin. If she’d been asked to describe his face in detail, she would have found the task difficult. His laugh was definitely
distinctive though.

It seemed the laugh had brought the presence of the two men to McNab’s attention.

Spotting Erling first, he hesitated. Then his eyes found Rory. The two men were having a conversation which had an intimate look, as though the surrounding crowds weren’t there at all.

McNab’s reaction, she judged at first to be disapproving. What of, Rhona wasn’t sure.

He swiftly selected some food and deserted the table, heading for one of the barrels of beer. Lifting a plastic glass, he began to fill it.

Perplexed, Rhona joined him. ‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Who’s the guy with the DI?’

‘His first name’s Rory. I didn’t catch a surname. According to Magnus they’re a recent item.’ Reading his expression, she added, ‘Why?’

McNab shook his head. ‘No reason. Are you drinking?’

‘Since we’re being driven back in the post bus, yes. But not beer. I’ll have white wine instead.’

He filled a glass from one of the open bottles and handed it to her.

‘To going home,’ he offered.

‘To home.’

The view from the tiny island hopper windows was restrictive, but impressive nonetheless. McNab had shown no interest in a window seat, and was now staring straight ahead of
him, at the back of the pilot’s head.

The weather had remained settled enough for both the plane and the police launch to make the trip. Magnus had opted to accompany Erling, Rory and Derek Muir on the ferry crossing, leaving
herself and McNab to the perils of the tiny plane.

As it rose, buzzing like a giant bluebottle into a clear blue sky, Rhona was rewarded with a view of Cata Sand and the burnt-out remnants of the bonfire.

After his toast to home the previous night, McNab had eaten a plate of food, then declared his intention to leave the party. Rhona had chosen to stay on a little longer. Watching the spectacle
of the fireworks, enjoying seeing Inga and Claire so happy.

She wondered what Claire had told her daughter regarding her father’s visit. What story she’d spun to excuse her cuts and bruises. From the short period of time Rhona had spent with
the girl, both in the cave and in the car on the way back, she’d come to the conclusion that Inga was well aware her father was bad news, although like all children in such circumstances,
held out the hope that he might change.

McNab had been morose when he’d departed last night, and just as morose when he’d been picked up this morning. Rhona had hoped she might draw him on the reason for his mood during
their journey south, but even the hour spent waiting at Kirkwall for their plane to Glasgow hadn’t produced a conversation.

He’d deliberately, she thought, closed his eyes and feigned sleep on the main flight south, even going to the trouble of sitting in the line of single seats, rather than share a double
with her.

Whatever it was, he didn’t want to talk to her about it.

When Rhona suggested they share a taxi from the airport, he’d pointed out how silly that would be since they didn’t live near one another.

At that, he’d wished her farewell.

McNab gave the driver his address and sat back in the seat, relieved at last to be alone and away from Rhona’s questioning glance. Had she asked him outright, he might
have told her, but the longer he’d remained silent, the more difficult it had become.

Besides, he could be wrong.

On entering the city, he made a decision, leaned forward and asked to get out here instead.

‘Something up, mate?’

McNab shook his head. He could have said he didn’t fancy going home to an empty flat, or that his girlfriend had dumped him and he needed to drown his sorrows. He did neither. Just paid
up, grabbed his bag and got out.

Standing for a moment in the busy thoroughfare, he breathed in the noise and smell of the city. A bus rumbled past. A girl nearby, dressed to the nines, gave her boyfriend a piece of her
mind.

Home sweet home.

McNab slung his bag over his shoulder.

On entering the bar, he ordered a double and sat himself in a corner. He took out his mobile and, bringing up the photograph he’d taken at the bonfire, fired it off to Ollie in the Tech
department, adding a text message that said, ‘Can you check this guy out against records.’