Authors: Lin Anderson
Chrissy had caught a selection of flies for the bug man, which according to her could be fed anything to keep them alive for study, and extracted some maggots which she’d fed good Scottish
mince to. Others she’d blanched in boiling water and stored in vodka. Mince and vodka were trademarks of hers, inherited from Rhona.
Rigor mortis started around two hours after death. The rigid stage developed eight to twelve hours in, after which the fixed stage might be there for eighteen hours. After thirty-six to
forty-eight hours it had left the body in the same progression it had entered – small muscles were quickest to go either way, larger muscles longest.
Taking all these things into consideration, McNab had decided he thought Jock Drever had been dead for three days at least. What he was keener to know was how the old man had died. His own take
on the proceedings featured an intruder threatening the victim by tying him up, which had unfortunately resulted in his death. Realizing this, the intruder had removed the rope to cover their
tracks, and scarpered. The only part of the story that didn’t work for McNab was the fact that nothing had been stolen, not even the old man’s wallet. So what was the point of the
break-in?
It seemed Dr Sissons was about to offer his own scenario. He motioned to McNab that they should go next door, where they both de-gowned. By this time McNab was ready to burst a blood vessel.
Despite listening carefully to everything Sissons had said into the overhead microphone, he still had no idea why the old man had died.
‘Coffee, Sergeant?’ Sissons headed for the machine.
‘Double espresso.’
Sissons chose a straight black for himself and waited as they were served up, while McNab champed at the bit and tried not to say, ‘Well?’
Sissons took advantage of a nearby chair, sat down and began to sip his coffee in silence. McNab forced himself to drink his espresso and bite his tongue, hoping that by not asking outright, he
was pissing off the pathologist just as much as he was himself. Eventually his not-so-patient silence was rewarded.
‘As you heard from the recording, I believe the victim died in the chair where he was found.’ Sissons took another sip of coffee.
Christ, the man drank coffee as slowly as he thought.
McNab headed for the machine and got himself another double shot to avoid shouting, ‘Just tell me how the fuck he died.’
Eventually Sissons did.
‘If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say he probably died of dehydration. In people over fifty, the body’s thirst sensation reduces and continues diminishing with age. Many senior
citizens suffer symptoms of dehydration without even realizing it. In this case, were he tied up in an overheated room for an extended period of time . . .’
‘It would accelerate the process,’ McNab said.
Sissons nodded.
‘To try and establish dehydration as a factor we can test for urea in his blood – which would be high. We can also look for other electrolytes – sodium, potassium and chloride
in the vitreous fluid I took from his eye, although these change after death and are more difficult to interpret.’
McNab was picking up the message that determining exactly who or what was responsible for Jock’s death wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Were the bindings taken off after he died?’ he asked.
‘He’d been tied up, that we have established, but blisters in the periphery of skin marks can also be formed postmortem. We can’t say for definite that he was dead when the
bindings were removed.’
McNab absorbed this. ‘But if he was freed while still alive, wouldn’t he have sought help?’
‘Dehydration can cause hallucinations and confusion and by then he may have been too weak to move from that chair.’ Sissons met McNab’s look. ‘None of which conjures up a
pleasant thought,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re right. It doesn’t.’
‘Did he have a home help or any family member caring for him?’
‘Not as far as we’re aware.’
‘Unfortunately, abuse of the elderly isn’t uncommon. Even within the family.’ Sissons threw his paper cup into the bin. ‘A full report should be with you in a couple of
days, Sergeant, and I’ll pass the clothing on to forensics.’
McNab registered the bite of the wind as he exited the new Southern General Hospital and its £90-million state of the art mortuary and forensic facilities. Gone were the
days of the old red-brick mortuary next to the Crown Court in the Saltmarket where the victims of Scottish serial killers such as Bible John and Peter Manuel had had their post-mortems. McNab
regretted the old mortuary’s passing, but was still impressed by the move to what Glasgow folk had, in their inimitable manner, christened ‘The Death Star’, because of its
space-age design.
And at least you can park here
, he thought as he located his car in the mammoth car park. Once inside, he checked his mobile. There was a message from DI Wilson requesting his presence
and a text from Freya saying she was working on her thesis tonight and couldn’t see him. Nothing from Chrissy and Rhona. It seemed Sanday was proving more interesting than the case
they’d left behind.
McNab started up the engine, wondering why no message from Orkney was more disappointing than Freya’s rejection.
The vastness of an Orkney sky was what Rhona remembered most about her last trip here. On Skye the mountains dominated, controlling where light and shadow fell.
Here the sky is bigger than the land or the sea.
Walking home now along the rough track that led to the cottage, the heavens a mass of purple and red, deep blue and black, even Chrissy appeared momentarily silenced by the sight. Either that or
hunger and fatigue had taken over.
They had worked until the diminishing daylight no longer allowed them to distinguish the stratification of the soils. It had been a painstaking business. Working in from the grave cut,
recovering fill longitudinally in spits or small sections no more than five to ten centimetres deep per grid square, bagging the samples of soil, dating and timing them.
Taking scene images throughout every single action as well as the time-lapse video had been crucial. Procurator Fiscals and Senior Investigating Officers were now extremely precious about who
took what images during the recovery process of a body. Whereas in the past a specialist team from R2S might have been called in, now the 360-degree panel camera work was done by trained SOCOs and
the PolScot imaging unit made up the court presentations. Cost had become an important factor now there was a single force, and outsiders that they would have to pay for weren’t used unless
there were extenuating circumstances. Rhona had always made her own personal recording of the scene alongside R2S, so for her things hadn’t changed that much.
The weather had held, breezy but dry, as Erling had predicted. They’d worked continuously except for a short break, during which they’d made use of the schoolhouse toilet and
gratefully accepted Mike’s offer of coffee, which they’d had with the selection of sandwiches Chrissy had brought. Rhona had noted in the brief time they were with Mike that he seemed
more relaxed when Erling wasn’t about, although he was clearly worried about the missing skull.
‘Could an animal have removed it?’ he’d said as he served up the coffee.
‘Animals do disturb graves, but it’s normally the smaller bones that are taken,’ Rhona had explained. ‘The skull is heavy.’
‘So a human being took it?’
‘That’s the most likely explanation.’ She paused. ‘You mentioned you’ve heard children playing nearby?’
He looked perturbed by this. ‘Yes, but I’ve never seen them.’
‘Could their voices have carried from the beach?’
‘The dunes are in between, but I suppose that might have been what happened.’ He didn’t look convinced.
‘The old playground could be a draw,’ Rhona offered. ‘The surface is ideal for football and other ball games.’
‘Then why when I open the door is no one there?’
Rhona wondered if perhaps the local children were simply playing tricks on him. ‘Have you met your nearest neighbours?’
‘Not really, no.’ He tried a smile. ‘Everyone’s been friendly enough, it’s just I’ve been too busy with the renovations.’
Chrissy had said nothing during the interchange, but had plenty to say when they were back at work.
‘It’s like the
Wicker Man
,’ she’d announced as she’d picked up her trowel.
‘What?’
‘An incomer on a small Scottish island discovers Pagan cult and is sacrificed to their gods.’ Chrissy had paused for effect. ‘Hey, wasn’t the incomer a police officer
come to investigate the disappearance of a young woman?’ At this point Chrissy had given a knowing nod to the grave.
‘That puts us in the firing line,’ Rhona had reminded her, ‘not Mike.’
‘Oh my God.’ Chrissy had adopted a terrified look. ‘And we’re alone tonight in an isolated cottage. We should have brought McNab along to protect us.’
By close of day they’d processed approximately half the fill. Rhona had drawn the section that could be seen, taken notes on the compaction, the stratigraphy of the side
walls and some more soil samples, and dictated notes to Chrissy on the vegetation growth.
All being well, tomorrow would see the skeleton fully exposed.
They secured a plastic tarp over the area, and pegged it down.
With the disappearance of the skull, Rhona’s concern wasn’t for the wind to lift the tarp, but for a person to. It seemed that Erling had had the same thought, because shortly before
they’d finished for the day, a young police officer had arrived via Derek’s Land Rover and announced that he was on sentry duty for the night.
By his speech, Officer Tulloch was Orkney born and bred. He was also tall, handsome and immediately in Chrissy’s sights. Rhona would have felt sorry for the bloke had he not looked so
pleased by the attention. Chrissy had immediately extracted the fact that he was from Sanday, his family owned a farm a few miles distant and that there was a social evening in the local hotel a
few nights from now.
‘Will you still be around?’ he’d asked Chrissy.
‘It depends how long it takes to finish here.’
Rhona had forsaken their flirtatious conversation and sought out Derek.
‘I’ve delivered food to the cottage for you,’ he’d told her. ‘I can run you there now.’
‘It’s fine, we’ll walk,’ Rhona had indicated the animated conversation still going on nearby, ‘once Chrissy’s finished her interrogation of Officer Tulloch.
I’ve stored the equipment in Mike’s shed. Did you have any luck with the skull?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve done the groundwork. I think we’ll know soon if one of the local kids took it. What about the rest of the remains?’
‘We’ll reach them tomorrow.’
Derek had wished her goodnight at that point, promising to be back the following morning. Having removed her boiler suit, Rhona quickly put on her jacket against the cold.
‘You’re not outside overnight?’ she’d asked Officer Tulloch.
‘I’m in Mike’s kitchen with a clear view of the site.’
‘Don’t fall asleep,’ had been Chrissy’s final orders to him.
With the next turn in the track, their cottage came into view, the windows bright with light. Entering a small sitting room, the warmth from a solid-fuel stove hit them after
the short but cold walk from the deposition site.
Chrissy immediately made for the kitchen to check out the food. Minutes later she reappeared to inform Rhona that it would be curry tonight, the full works apparently, and it would be ready in
half an hour.
The cottage was all on one level. A small sitting room, tiny kitchen, a bathroom with a shower and two bedrooms. The back window of the sitting room gave them a view of a long sandy beach which
was a two-minute walk away. It was traditionally built like the cottage on Skye, with three-foot-thick walls, and Rhona suspected its last renovation had been at least fifty years before.
According to Derek, the owner lived on a farm in the west of Sanday and the cottage had been the original family croft house, used now for the family visits of those who no longer lived on the
island. Pictures on the walls suggested the history of the place. There was even one of the nearby schoolhouse when it had served as the local school. In black-and-white, it was a class photo taken
outside. Two rows of children, more boys than girls, a mix of ages and a woman teacher. No one was smiling.
Maybe they weren’t allowed to smile back then.
There were other framed scenes of the croft house before renovation, indicating that the bathroom had been an addition as had the porch and single bedroom. Further photographs looked as though
they’d been taken during wartime, with groups of construction workers, Home Guard members and smiling RAF personnel. The final image was of a beached First World War German destroyer with the
inscription
B98 Lopness Bay
. A large framed map of Sanday indicated where they were in the far north-eastern corner, just across a narrow causeway from Start Point with its famous
black-and-white-striped lighthouse.
Rhona checked her mobile to discover there was no signal, then called through to Chrissy that she was planning a shower. Chrissy indicated she would hop in after her and revealed that there was
Orkney ale, plus a bottle of Highland Park.
It seemed Derek had done them proud.
An hour later, hunger satisfied, the real ale tasted, Rhona said she was planning a walk along the beach. Erling had told her that she could pick up a signal towards the lighthouse.
‘I’ll head for the schoolhouse,’ Chrissy said. ‘Check for a signal there. I want to call Mum and check on wee Michael.’
Chrissy’s baby son was her pride and joy, although the relationship with his father, Nigerian medical student Sam Haruna, wasn’t going so well.
‘And make sure Officer Tulloch’s not fallen asleep on the job?’ Rhona suggested.
‘Well, we wouldn’t want to lose any more bones, would we?’
Bundled up against the cold, Rhona took her torch and headed out the back way.
The sky was clear of cloud, a crisp moon in evidence with an accompaniment of stars. To the north-east she could see the rotating beam of the lighthouse, like a bright eye in the velvety
darkness. She headed along a path towards the sound of the sea.