None but the Dead (6 page)

‘So we might need space?’

‘An MIT, a major investigation team, would appear.’

Derek nodded. ‘We’ve been here before.’

That was true.

There were a lot of words left unsaid in the Ranger’s remark. The community of Sanday had been shaken by a previous murder committed on the island by, it had to be said, incomer on
incomer. Yet it had brought the eyes of the world on this small island and had turned the eyes of the islanders on one another.

The arriving ferry was discharging its cargo and vehicles, the array of which signified the diversity of island life.

‘I’ll contact you once I know when to expect the forensic team,’ Erling said. ‘Can Mike Jones be trusted to leave the grave untouched?’ Erling was aware that had
the find been on the mainland, the site would already be cordoned off and a policeman on duty.

‘I’ll check in on him, but I assume you’ll send an officer tomorrow?’

Erling said he would. There was a chap from Sanday working at the police station in Kirkwall. If he sent him, he could perhaps find accommodation with his family. He would also no doubt gather
information more readily than a stranger. On the other hand, his loyalty might lie with his kith and kin, should it become a murder enquiry.

Ninety minutes of choppy crossing later, Erling was disembarking at Kirkwall harbour. Dark now, although only just late afternoon, the wind was driving rain across the frontage of the Kirkwall
Hotel, where a few disconsolate oil workers stood around the door, smoking and wondering when they would get back to Flotta, or wherever else they were working.

Erling had a sudden image of the tarpaulin, and wondered if the six stones he’d loaded it down with would be sufficient. Even the shallow stretch of water that lay beyond the harbour was
frothing in anger. Erling took shelter at the back of the Ayre Hotel and rang the old schoolhouse number.

‘Mr Jones? DI Flett here. I hope to have a forensic team out to your place sometime tomorrow depending on the weather. Can you do your best to keep that tarpaulin secure until
then?’

‘It’s wild here, but I’ll try.’

‘Thanks. I’ll call you when I have word of their arrival.’

Erling rang off, dipped his head and stepped back out into the wind. The street ahead of him was empty, anyone with any sense staying inside. He began to wonder if Rory had made it back from
Flotta. Depending on the time of day, the crossing might take between eighty minutes and an hour and a half. In bad weather it could take longer – if the ferry had ventured forth at all.

Erling remembered hitching a lift on a fishing boat to Flotta when a teenager. Stuck in the wheelhouse with the captain, who seemed unconcerned by the giant waves breaking over the boat, Erling
had thought his end was nigh and that he was bound for a watery grave. Tight-lipped, both to control his fear and his heaving stomach, he’d realized in that moment that he wasn’t
invincible and that death courted everyone, including his teenage self.

When they’d finally docked, the captain had drawn him to one side and told him, ‘It wasn’t your turn today, son, and it wasn’t mine, but that doesn’t mean it
won’t be your turn tomorrow.’ He’d laughed then.
Probably because of the look on my face
, Erling thought.

The police station loomed into view. Once he set things in motion for tomorrow, he would pick up his car and head for home, hoping Rory was already there. He could call and check, of course, but
that felt like tempting fate.

The Orphir road was quiet. No one followed him out of town and he met only the headlights of a couple of cars heading into Kirkwall. On his left Scapa Flow was barely visible
on the odd occasion that the moon escaped from behind the scuttling clouds. The darkest part of the year was approaching when an endless night would swallow most of the day. Nevertheless, the sky
was rarely covered by a grey blanket the way it was in the southern cities. An Orkney sky was vast and varied, with sharp shafts of sunlight competing with fast-moving dark clouds. Locals said if
you couldn’t see Hoy then it was raining. If you could see Hoy then it was about to rain.

Passing Houton Bay on his left, Erling noted that the ferry was sitting at the jetty, which either meant it had made it back from Flotta or alternatively it hadn’t gone across earlier.
Erling noted too that the lights weren’t on in Magnus’s house, which didn’t surprise him. Usually if Magnus planned to be back on the island, he would contact Erling and let him
know.

Turning right onto the Scorradale road, he passed the old primary school and the building opposite which had once been home to the local shop, selling everything from wellie boots to bere
bannocks.

Had he been heading into town, topping the hill he climbed now would have afforded what Erling regarded as the best view on mainland Orkney. When his grandmother had left him the croft house in
her will, Erling had rejoiced in the fact that he would take in this view across Scapa Flow to Hoy from the highpoint of the island every morning on his way to work.

As he neared the white-painted croft house nestled below the road on the left-hand side, Erling noted with a rush of pleasure the light on in the single tiny window that faced the road.

Then again, maybe I left it on this morning?

He drew into the narrow parking space. As he headed down the flagstone steps, the wind trying to prevent his descent, he could see now that there was more than one light on in the cottage,
signifying that Rory had indeed made it back.

Opening the door that led from the porch into the flag-stoned kitchen, Erling was greeted by a delicious smell of cooking. Rory stood facing the range, stirring a pot. The radio was on, giving
out the Orkney news, which Rory was listening to intently.

Erling stood for a moment taking in this domestic scene and deciding he liked it.

As he was about to announce his arrival, Rory’s mobile rang. Checking the screen, he immediately answered.

‘Hey there.’

The soft tenor of Rory’s voice halted Erling’s greeting in his throat and made him step back into the porch. He found himself both suspicious and guilty at the same time, which
seemed ridiculous.

He’d only known Rory for two months, and most of that time they’d spent apart. They weren’t a couple, just an occasional item. Both free to go their own way. Even as Erling
told himself that, he knew it wasn’t true. It may have remained unspoken, but that hadn’t been the arrangement. At least not for him.

Retreating outside, Erling took refuge in the homebrew shed, selecting a couple of bottles of beer to take back in with him. This time when he opened the door, the radio was off.

‘I thought I heard the car a while back,’ Rory said with a smile.

Erling brandished the bottles. ‘I was in the shed. Good smells,’ he indicated the pot. To cover his discomfort, he immediately set about opening a bottle and pouring the golden
liquid into two glasses. ‘God, it’s wild out there.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Rory said. ‘The ferry was pitching like a roller coaster.’ He accepted the glass Erling handed him, put it down on the surface and drew
Erling towards him.

‘We have half an hour before the meal’s ready.’

Mike eased his way along the support between the rafters. Above him the wind whistled, skimming the roof, puffs of it catching his face as it found its way below the slates. He
was reminded of when he’d first arrived and had stayed in a caravan parked on site as he’d worked on the main room to make it watertight.

On the Ranger’s first visit, Derek had warned Mike to build a wall round the caravan to stop the wind getting underneath.

‘And weigh her down with rope and blocks.’

Mike had thought the man was exaggerating to make him feel, as an incomer, he knew nothing of the place he’d chosen to come and live. He’d been wrong, as he’d swiftly found
out. At midsummer the wind could be as strong as at midwinter. Waking to the scream of it round the caravan, he’d finally taken refuge in the partly restored building, preferring stone walls
round him, even if rain was coming through the roof.

It had been the dampness on the ceiling that had sent him up here in the first place. Checking the state of the loft, he’d found the layer of peat ash, and the flowers.

Which was why he was back.

His mobile in his right hand, Mike positioned himself to take a photograph. Even now, he recognized this one as quite different from the flower that still sat in its plastic bag on the kitchen
table. He was no gardener, but to his mind this one resembled a budding rose. He took a selection of photographs, then began to crawl towards the next one.

The wind had dropped, or maybe it had only paused for breath.

And in that moment of stillness he heard it again. The sound of children’s voices.

Mike froze, straining to hear, feeling if he moved at all the sound would cease.

For a moment he thought he heard a girl’s voice now separate from the others and she was singing. A rhyme perhaps? A playground rhyme?

When he’d first come to the island, he’d listened intently to the locals talking to one another, only half understanding what was being said. Despite his incomprehension, he loved
the musical sound of the voices, the cadences, the rhythms.

He’d purchased
Sanday Voices – An Oral History
from the heritage centre. Along with the small book came a CD which he’d played over and over again because he took
pleasure in both the stories and the voices themselves.

Is that what was happening to him now?

Was he replaying those voices in the head? Matching them to the wind?

The other thought returned. The one he didn’t like to contemplate.

What if removing the flower from the attic had been a mistake?

What if he had disturbed the soul of a child? A girl?

He began slithering backwards, keen now to get out of the loft. When he reached the trapdoor, he dropped down, his feet searching for the rungs of the ladder. A trick of the light seemed to him
to pick up the row of flowers, six each side of the central plank like a path leading between tiny graves.

Then the light snapped off and all was darkness.

Later, having cooked and eaten his evening meal, Mike downloaded the photographs he’d taken in the loft. The second flower, he realized, was smaller than the first. Did
the size of the flower have anything to do with the age of the child?

He went to view his original painting again and found himself imagining, if it did represent a child, what would he or she have looked like? Picking up his pad and charcoal, he began to
draw.

A heart-shaped face, wide questioning blue eyes, a small nose, dark hair, cut straight at shoulder length. As he drew the mouth, he found himself giving it the hint of a smile.

He stood the drawing on the stand next to his painting of the flower. It had been a girl’s voice he’d imagined he’d heard singing. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what
the words had been, but couldn’t.

The metal flue on the stove rattled suddenly as a further gust of wind hit the chimney.

I’d better check the grave before I go to bed.

Mike had no wish to open the back door again. Nor to gaze on that tarpaulin, knowing what lay beneath, but he didn’t want the inspector to focus on him for any reason.

He opened the back door and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Immediately the sensor picked up his presence and switched on the outside light. Mike tried to focus in the sudden
glare.

The tarpaulin had shifted, he realized. One of the stones was missing, with a corner now flapping.

‘I should have checked sooner. The policeman won’t be happy,’ he said to himself.

As he tried to secure it again, he realized that the long bone now lay exposed on the broken tar. Swearing at both the wind and this discovery, he fetched it back and slipped it under the
tarpaulin, moving the stone back into place.

‘I can’t be blamed for the fucking wind,’ he muttered.

Shaken, he retreated indoors again.

The sooner they excavated and took the thing away, the better.

Tom the cat at her heels, Rhona walked around the flat, reclaiming her space. Sad to leave Skye, she found herself happy to be home again. Although it looked as though it was
going to be a short stay. Arrangements had already been put in place for the trip to Orkney tomorrow. According to DI Flett, there was to be a lull in the weather for forty-eight hours at least,
which would give her a window of opportunity to excavate. After that the situation was expected to deteriorate. A tent would probably be out of the question because a light wind Orkney style still
amounted to a gale elsewhere. The hours of daylight would be short. Excavating a grave was a painstaking business, but she and Chrissy worked well as a team and, if given a full two days, it might
be done.

Rhona called out for a pizza, then set to work unpacking from her Skye trip and repacking for the next one. In between times she called Mrs Harper one floor down, who kept Tom alive when Rhona
wasn’t there. Mrs Harper welcomed her home then immediately asked after Sean, who was even more of a favourite than the cat.

‘He’s playing in Paris for a week,’ Rhona explained.

‘I’ll feed Tom, no problem. How long will you be away this time?’

‘Hopefully a couple of days, depending on the weather.’

The pizza having arrived, Rhona settled down to eat.

The shriek of the alarm woke her at six. Having gone to bed at ten, in an effort to get a good night’s sleep, Rhona had still been awake at midnight. Sleep had come after
that but it had been an exhausting experience. Her entire dream time had consisted of trying to get to the excavation site with every possible obstacle preventing her. When she finally did arrive,
she’d lost both her equipment and Chrissy on the way.

Showering quickly, Rhona turned the final blast of water to cool to waken her properly. By 6.45 a.m. she was heading west alongside the Clyde towards the helipad where the Air Support helicopter
was based. Under a dark sky, the city appeared to slumber, its residents for the most part not yet ready to face the day. Overnight the wind had dropped, the rain had ceased and, Rhona thought, it
had got colder.