None but the Dead (7 page)

That’s all we need now – snow.

Chrissy had beaten her to it. Dressed in what looked like a cagoule for Arctic conditions, she peered out at Rhona from a fur-framed hood, an excited expression on her face.

‘Neil says we’re going to land on a beach,’ she informed Rhona.

Rhona’s first thought was that Chrissy had requested they land on a beach.

‘There’s a field right next to the site,’ she said.

Chrissy shrugged, defeated for the moment. ‘It was worth a try.’

‘Did you bring supplies of food?’ Rhona asked.

Chrissy patted her rucksack. ‘Enough for today, at least. I take it we have transport and a place to stay tonight?’

‘According to DI Flett, the resident Ranger is our transport and we have a place to stay.’

‘With meals?’ Chrissy checked.

‘It’s a self-catering cottage.’

Chrissy didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Who’s doing the cooking?’

‘You are.’

Ten minutes later, Glasgow dropped beneath them and Chrissy fell silent, registering that it was impossible even for her to be heard above the noise of the blades. As the sun rose, they headed
north, the snow-dusted mountainous landscape of the Highlands extending out on all sides. Then they were crossing the flat peatland of Caithness and Sutherland with its scattering of deserted
crofts and the ridges of abandoned peat banks.

After that came the Pentland Firth, the stretch of fast-moving tidal water between the Scottish mainland and the Orkney islands. Rhona had seen all this before. To her assistant, the sight of
the dark humpback of Hoy, the golden curve of Rackwick Bay and the wide waters of Scapa Flow were fascinating and new. Chrissy, sensing Rhona’s eyes on her, turned, grinned and gave her the
thumbs-up, indicating what McNab had feared – this was in fact a jolly and one he wasn’t party to.

As they flew over Scapa Flow, Rhona looked for Magnus’s house next to the jetty at Houton, pointing it out to Chrissy. The grey stones of Kirkwall appeared below them with the majestic
centrepiece of the red sandstone St Magnus Cathedral, then they were out over the harbour and heading north-east towards Sanday, passing the islands of Shapinsay, Stronsay and Eday on the way.

Seen from above, it was clear why Sanday was so named. It seemed that there was as much white sand to be seen as green fields, so Chrissy’s desire to alight on a beach could certainly have
been realized.

During the midnight hours she’d spent awake, Rhona had checked out the island in some detail. The location they were bound for lay in the remote northern part, where the World War Two
radar station had been housed, and home too to the famous black-and-white-striped Stevenson lighthouse. It was also some six miles from the nearest shop, something Rhona hadn’t mentioned to
Chrissy.

The helicopter was hovering now like a big noisy bluebottle deciding where to land. A long sandy bay was visible on the southern side, a similar beach to the north. After a moment or two, the
decision was made and they dropped steadily down, not on either of the beaches, but on the strip of grassland between.

As she climbed out of the helicopter, Rhona spotted a jeep parked a short distance away, a man standing either side of it. Then came a wave of recognition from the taller of the two and DI
Erling Flett came striding towards them.

On the short drive to the schoolhouse, Erling explained that their driver, Derek Muir, was the resident Ranger and would be their transport while they were on the island.

‘Derek knows everyone and everything about Sanday.’

At that point, Chrissy had brought up the subject of food.

‘My assistant has a formidable appetite, which isn’t diminished by digging up bodies,’ Rhona explained.

Derek had smiled at that. ‘I’ll make sure there’s plenty of provisions at the cottage,’ he promised. ‘And some Orkney ale.’

The schoolhouse stood alone, surrounded by grassland. Rhona could hear the sound of surf breaking, indicating how close it was to the sea.

The owner must have heard the jeep’s arrival or perhaps had been watching for it, because he opened the front door as they entered through the old school gates.

He was tall and lean, with a shock of sandy hair. Rhona’s first impression was that he was nervous about their visit, which was only to be expected. Finding a body buried in your garden
was a disquieting business. What could prove to be an interesting forensic task for her was more of a nightmare for him.

But it seemed there was something more than just the presence of the remains that was worrying him, as they discovered when he led them round the side of the building and through a further
gate.

‘There was a problem last night with the wind,’ he explained. ‘I came out to check around midnight and found the cover had broken free and the bone was outside. I put it back,
of course, and secured it again.’

Erling made some reassuring noises and thanked him, but that didn’t seem to ease his worry.

Now at the rear of the building, a mound covered by a tarpaulin was visible just yards from Mike Jones’s back door. When Erling indicated that he and Derek would lift off the cover, Rhona
stopped him.

‘It’s better if Chrissy and I get kitted up first, then we’ll take a look. I’ll come and speak to you once the site’s secure.’

Erling nodded, looking pleased that she’d taken charge.

Suited now, Rhona set up the time-lapse camera in the corner nearest the building where it couldn’t be knocked down, then covered it to protect it from the rain. One image would be taken
every ten minutes of excavation, then stitched together in an MP4 movie, which could be used in court if required.

Glancing at her watch, she estimated that they had maybe four good hours of daylight left, daylight being essential to see the soil layers. After which they would cover the grave with plastic
tarp and peg it down with archaeological arrows every few feet.

Ready now to remove the current cover, she sent Chrissy round the other side and they both set about getting rid of the stones. Lifting the sheet back, they got their first sight of the grave.
The single bone Mike had mentioned lay on the perimeter of the mound. The hole dug by the shovel was about three feet deep. On the opposite side Rhona could make out what might be a portion of
exposed ribcage. All of this was as Erling had described and evidenced by the photograph he’d taken on his mobile.

Bar one thing.

There was no skull now atop the mound of earth.

‘Where’s the skull?’ Chrissy said, echoing Rhona’s own thoughts.

Assuming it had been dislodged when the tarpaulin had broken free, they checked both the hole and the surrounding playground.

Ten minutes later they were convinced it was nowhere to be found.

‘Could someone have removed it?’ Chrissy suggested, mystified.

At that moment, Rhona could think of no other solution to the mystery. The skull had been here yesterday and was now gone. She took her first time-lapse video, then instructing Chrissy to lay
out an alphanumerical grid round the suspect area at 0.5m intervals for reference purposes, she went inside.

The three men were seated silently at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Mike Jones, she thought, looked no more at ease than he had been outside. Rhona wondered if the missing skull was the
reason for his discomfort.

‘The skull’s not there,’ she told Erling.

‘What?’

All three men were observing her with the same expression of mystification.

‘It was on top of the mound,’ Erling said. ‘You saw the photograph.’

‘It’s not now.’

‘Did it fall into the hole?’

‘No.’

At that point everyone looked at Mike Jones.

‘Mike?’ Erling said.

He looked back at them, aghast. ‘I didn’t remove it. It must have been blown away when the tarpaulin came loose.’

‘We’ve searched the area inside the fence. It’s not there,’ Rhona said.

Erling studied her expression. ‘You think someone deliberately removed it?’

‘Without another explanation, we have to consider that a possibility,’ Rhona said. ‘How many people know about the grave?’

Erling checked with Derek, who shrugged. ‘By now, most of the island I would think.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ Mike protested.

‘You didn’t have to. From the moment Hugh Clouston left here, the word was out,’ Derek said.

‘Who might take it?’ Erling said.

‘Kids, maybe?’ Rhona offered.

‘Kids?’ Mike looked taken aback by her suggestion.

‘Have you seen any kids hanging about the place?’ Erling asked.

It seemed to Rhona that Mike paled at the question. Erling noticed it too.

‘Do local children come round here?’ he asked.

Mike hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I thought I heard kids playing out here on a number of occasions, but I’ve never actually seen them.’

‘Who lives nearby?’ Erling asked Derek.

Derek rattled off a number of family names together with their offspring.

‘You check with the parents,’ Erling said, ‘see if you can find out if a skull has turned up. If we can’t locate it that way, I’ll have to start a proper
investigation.’

Rhona left them to their deliberations after checking that Derek would come back for them as soon as the light started to fade.

‘How far is the cottage from here?’ she asked.

‘A five-minute walk. I’ll pick up some provisions after I’ve checked about the skull, then come back for you. If you want to knock off earlier, just follow the track eastwards
from the gate.’

‘What about a key?’

‘It won’t be locked.’

Rhona didn’t express her surprise at this, having just spent the previous few days on Skye where many people didn’t lock their doors either.

Back outside, she found Chrissy taking surface soil samples and recording what little vegetation there was to be found in the tarred surface around the grave.

Putting aside the issue of the missing skull, they both got down to work.

McNab had made a point of observing the Air Support helicopter leaving its base by the Clyde, taking Rhona and Chrissy on what he had described as a jolly. Rising early from
his own bed, which Freya had not shared the previous night, he’d gone up onto the roof and watched for the distinctive yellow and black shape heading north. After which he’d done fifty
press-ups, had a shower, then cooked himself some breakfast.

His new regime, since he’d laid off the heavy drinking, had led to better health, although he acknowledged that at times the drinking had just been replaced by new but equally
obsessive-compulsive behaviour.

When his time was spent with Freya he could channel his energies into sex. When that wasn’t available, he had to expend them elsewhere. Normally work would help with his terrier-like
tendencies, but with no major case to concentrate on, he was, without a doubt, bored. True, there were always the run of the mill messes to clear up, but a major crime investigation gave him
something to really get his teeth into.

Even as he thought this, McNab poured another coffee and turned his attention to the subject of the old man, now lying in the mortuary awaiting his post-mortem, which was scheduled for this
morning. At least today, he had something in prospect to occupy his thoughts.

A thorough search of Jock Drever’s flat had produced nothing more than a picture of a life without ornament and, apart from the photographs and what Mrs Connelly had told him, very little
of the past. To live that length of time and not to have made any impact, or none to be seen, struck McNab as improbable as well as sad. Some of the bastards he’d locked up had affected
countless lives and destroyed many in the process by the time they’d reached their mid twenties.

We are what we do and where we’ve been.

What had Jock done and where had he been? McNab found himself keen to know, despite the fact that it might have no bearing on his death. He glanced at his watch.

Well, let’s see how he died, first.

Jock’s clothes lay spread out on a white butcher’s-paper surface to catch any transferable evidence such as fibres or hairs. The underwear soiled by death had been
bagged. Dr Sissons, dressed for the job in surgical pyjamas and plastic apron, his shower cap and goggles already in place, acknowledged McNab’s entry, his eyes glancing round as though
expecting more than just him.

‘No Dr MacLeod?’

‘Sanday,’ McNab said, ‘digging up a body.’

‘Recent?’ Sissons said, looking interested.

McNab shrugged, indicating he had no idea.

‘Okay, so now that you’re finally here, Detective Sergeant,’ Sissons said with special emphasis on
sergeant
, pointing up McNab’s demotion, ‘we’ll
begin.’

McNab had certainly been demoted, but he hadn’t been late to these proceedings, so it was definitely a wind-up on the part of the pathologist; McNab managed to successfully ignore it.

McNab didn’t like post-mortems although he’d attended many. He’d never grown used to the smell, the sight of folk’s innards lifted out and weighed. He didn’t like
the noise of drills through bone. He wasn’t fond of the sight of blood and the dissection of the human form like a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab.

It had always seemed to him that attending a scene of crime, however gory, could in no way compare to what he was about to witness. Yet it was worth it, if it told him the one thing he really
wanted to know. How the victim had died.

Jock Drever had been a tall man, well over six foot. Age didn’t seem to have shrunk him as it did most people. The body was sinewy and his build looked much the same as it had in the
photograph of his younger self taken on his wedding day. Lying naked, the rope marks on his shins and forearms appeared more prominent, or maybe the current state of decomposition had enhanced
them.

It had been hot in the room, which normally sped up the putrification process. McNab knew his basics. Green after two to three days, marbled and bloating after a week or more. Heat sped up the
process. Cold delayed it. Dryness mummified and maggots destroyed. Blowflies laid eggs in the mouth, nose and eyes, the groin and armpits if available. They normally hatched in twenty-four hours,
grew half an inch in length feeding on the corpse for twelve days.